#that goes for smartphones too

[goatsorcery]

im so done with seeing articles about kids and screen time that doesnt mention parent behaviors even once. “kids are always on their phones” so are the parents! which the kids look to for how they should behave! ipad babies didn’t chose to only play on their ipads, thats what their parents gave them!

an anecdotal example: when i was a kid, all my parents would do in their minimal free time was watch tv and then they would be surprised when in my sister and i’s minimal free time we would also only watch tv/play video games. they scolded us for not reading books, but they never read books. they scolded us for not going outside but they never went outside.

“kids are always on their damn phones” my mom is in her 60s and opens up candy crush anytime she’s sitting — it isnt just the kids

[gender-euphowrya]

thing about my grandma is if i don't answer her calls like .4 seconds after my phone starts ringing she goes ''what if i was DYING and you DIDN'T ANSWER :(" but then the same grandma doesn't take her cellphone with her when she goes out

[muntitled]

𝘽𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣 & 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩

: ̗̀➛ Mattheo Riddle x Fem!reader | Brief!Harry Potter x fem!reader

: ̗̀➛ Summary: Jealousy makes the heart grow fonder.

: ̗̀➛ Warnings: Alcoholism, Dark!fic, Ravenclaw!reader, Bullying, Unrequited Love, Shy!reader, Toxic Relationship, Jealousy, Narcissism, Weaponizing!Harry (sorry boo), Fluff, A bit of Angst, Smut +18 (Minors DNI), DubCon, Semi Public sex, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Dom/Sub, CNC, humping, Spitting, Degradation, Dacryphillia, Choking, Gagging, Subspace, Slapping, Sadism, Breeding Kink

5k words

A/N: Hell truly is empty. I apologise in advance.

You have made peace with the incomparable fact, long ago, that if the muggle God existed - if he is known to shepard Muggles and Wizards alike, then he was far too busy to attend to you. There is just too much going on all at once. The wizarding world is caught in its archaic intolerance of Half-Bloods. On the mortal side, you were informed from your private tutoring with Professor McGonagall that their smartphones are threatening devolution.

“It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a wand, Lovie, so we can’t really fault them on that, can we?” 6 years into your schooling at Hogwarts and you would continue to shadow Professor McGonagall, hoping you might one day soar to her heights of academic prestige in the wizarding world. You needed to be a Professor as much as a mortal needs to breathe….

You cannot let him, of all people, ruin things. Your reputation is a fragile, flammable thing - and he is freaking Kerosene.

It's difficult to pinpoint when it started or how your sensibilities rushed away from you so swiftly. One moment you’re planting your textbook on the face of a wooden desk - the sound reaching the rafters in the highest peak of the deserted classroom…

“A Guide To Advanced Transfiguration.” Mattheo read the title aloud with a tedious uninterested drawl. “Seems a bit presumptuous to shove this down my throat so early on. Shouldn't we be starting from the beginning?"

You ignored him promptly, using the silence to arrange your colour coordinated stationery on your desk beside Riddle's,

“I had no idea," You began, brushing off your blue lined robes and flattening the invisible creases on your skirt, "-That the person residing under my tutelage would be a first year."

Riddle stabbed the inside of his mouth with his tongue, while his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Your face remained passive as you continued, "You are a sixth year, correct?” You asked with a snide tilt of the head before planting yourself on the desk beside him.

“You are a big boy capable of understanding big boy books,” Unbeknownst to you, your words managed to stir something foreign within Mattheo but he conceals it with his usual veneer of arrogance as he swings his head lazily in your direction.

"May we begin?" You asked, with your back straightened - inches away from his hand now hanging on your chair.

"In a bit…" he says, "Just..." his voice trails off as his eyes scan over your visage, likely assessing it like an unseen tapestry. The truth is, Riddle did not know you prior to being forced under your tutelage. His droopy brown eyes appeared even more so as he broke the distance between you two and studied you closer. A tense silence grew pregnant in the ancient classroom, and your resolve was beginning to slip. Only one thought inflated a puddle of anxiety in your stomach:

Could this be your first kiss? Is this what first kisses looked like? Could this be your very first brush of intimacy overall?

Your brain failed to rationalise and compartmentalise his attraction, but your heart pushed your head closer.

"Call me a big boy again..." He had whispered… which evidently led you here.

Your lesson had ended with your hand covered in his release and a breathless smirk painted across his face. "This goes without saying," he breathed out with a satisfied smirk, "But tell anyone about this, and you're dead."

Ever since that day, your tutoring has been but a veneer of something much more sinister. When you were thrusted into the light of day, Mattheo overlooked you as did lots of his Slytherin friends. Besides the occasional threat and vague insult, you mean nothing to him.

When you two are alone, however, as you are right now, he would enchant you into servitude, lightly pushing your head down while he kissed you silly until your knees were planted on the hardwood floor.

Mattheo briefly opens his eyes to peer down at you. It is then when you notice the fresh bruise dotting the side of his face, and his pillowy lips split by a small incursion. He had very clearly gotten into another fight..

“Your mouth feels so fucking good when you're not using it to be a smart ass,” His words illicit a bubble of heat inside you.

Despite all this, you are clearly aware of the fact that you should not be enjoying this at all. Not one bit. For starters, you can feel the old wooden floors digging into the meat of your knees and the crisp winter chill is unkind to your scantily dressed state. Your shirt is unbuttoned because Mattheo was like a moth to a fucking flame when it came to your ample breasts and his hand is buried tightly in your kinky curls, forcing his cock even further down your throat. The very bones of Hogwarts seem to be in vehement protest of your blatant whorishness.

3 silver chains hang from his neck as he plants his other hand against the wall behind you, blocking your kneeling frame between both him and cold, hard stone. You crane your neck back, keeping a half lidded gaze on the jewelry that drives you feral with lust. You are content imagining that perhaps, when he is getting ready in the slytherin common rooms, he wears the silver for you. A fanciful thought but one that consistently has your intestines weaving themselves into knots.

That, paired with his striking, jet black blazer, which is discarded somewhere in the abandoned classroom, has you keening and fighting to take even more of him into your mouth. Perhaps you were peacocking a little - flatting your tongue so his cock slid seamlessly to the back of your throat while you fought to ignore the pain blossoming on your scalp. He had turned you from an inexperienced nun to something you're not quite ready to examine yet.

"You're finally putting this head of yours to good use…" Despite his feigned arrogance you're utterly delighted knowing that only you can bring Mattheo to such an utterly restless state. He does not really know what to do with himself.

Not when you took so much of him, so well.

You clench your toes.

Feeling himself get too close, Mattheo eases his cock fully out of your mouth, languidly stroking himself but still assuming a firm grip on your scalp. He is operating on that very specific plain of narcissism that was special to Mattheo. He is aware of your presence, physically, but his words are spoken into the open air, like you are an inanimate object. A glorified toy.

"Are all Ravenclaws as compliant as you are?”

You bring a crisp white sleeve up to your lips, wiping away the excess drool as you remain kneeled in front of him, knowing he has yet to finish.

"If you ever think of finding out," your voice is hoarse, "this will be the last time I offer you any free study sessions."

"Is money all you seek?" He attempts to feign composure, continuing to languidly stroke his cock. "How utterly greedy. I thought- fuck… - I thought you were far more philosophical than that"

You watch hungrily as Mattheo bites on his pillowy bottom lip. He is prolonging the release, taking his time as he usually did... "If you plan on edging yourself in my mouth instead of actually finishing the job, I do have other commitments to attend to-"

He ignores you... his brows furrowing and smoothening at odd intervals as he continues to touch himself while studying you.

"We may not be studying… but I still intend to pass Transfiguration, hope you're aware." He punctuates his sentence with an breathless laugh- it blossoms across his usually stoic visage, raising his buttercup cheekbones towards his smiling eyes.

As he talks, you examine his scars and feel the slow essence of admiration seep into the pit of your stomach. An arguably pathetic feat, given that your feelings will not ever be reciprocated.

Brewing inside you is the need to take care of him. You knew the rest of the student body viewed Mattheo as a glorified parasite. Something that is only capable of thinking within the capacity of its own means. Something that takes, and takes, and occasionally jokes around, and takes. But how could he know anything different? You suspected that his home life was built on the foundation of survival, on needing to be the loudest, and proudest, and worst of them all.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The sharpness of his words slice through your thoughts, bringing you back to yourself. Mattheo's gaze is placed firmly on something down below. Throughout his mindless tirade, your hand had taken to rubbing soft, comforting circles against the leg of his pants, quite literally on its own accord. Mattheo is bent over, head tilted as he watches you questioningly. Seconds stretch to a minute, and your stomach sinks as time passes.

Eventually, he dismisses you. He shakes his head. "Whatever," He says, tilting your head back and lining your mouth with the head of his cock once more. His visage darkens into a cruel sadistic grin. "Tell me you want me to come in your mouth."

Almost instinctively, you do as he orders and like clockwork, you swallow his cum, wondering if he knew how deeply and truly your words actually were. There was a moment, perhaps imagined, in which his fingers gripping your hair, melted to the side of your soft, supple cheek. It stays there for longer than necessary, leaving bits and pieces of your composure scattered in its wake.

Mattheo soon straightens his posture, stuffing his flaccid cock back into his pants before making himself as presentable to the student body as they know him to be (which admittedly is not a lot) And before he turns to walk away, he leaves you stranded on a glacier with his ice cold words cutting deep into your beating heart.

"Tell anyone about this-"

"And I'm dead," You interject, "I know."

And with that, you pull your ruffled collar over your lint-free school jersey and check your reflection to assess the damage Mattheo and his iron grip might have left. You needn't wait for an extension on the conversation because your job here was done, (pun so malevolently intended).

As far as Mattheo is concerned, you are an easy conduit to release his frustrations through because your unpopularity makes you so incredibly inconspicuous. You blend into any given crowd at any given moment, your name seldom reaching the heights of ridicule among his group because you are so unforgettable… There had been no reason to point out your flaws, not because you did not have any, but because you were simply invisible.

It is particularly strange to have any social interaction beyond the bounds of group projects and class discussions… so Harry Potter gifting you even a sliver of attention had been violently unorthodox. So unorthodox, in fact, you failed to look up from the weathered pages of your novel when his gentle voice wafted in your direction during a rare free period in Study of Ancient Runes. Your professor has been summoned quite promptly by the headmaster and has yet to return. The class has been in a state of havoc ever since.

"I don't know if you're aware of this but…" A deep shadow over the pages alerted you to his presence, "They both die at the end."

It was incredibly rare that Potter, who sat at the desk directly in front of you, ever felt the need to strike up conversation that was not purely academic. Gryffindors made use of Ravenclaws as often as Slytherins.

So naturally, you peer curiously up at him…

"Sorry?"

"Y-Your book. It's a muggle book, isn't it? I haven't seen anything with a cover like that around here. It's refreshing. Everything in the wizarding world is ancient and leatherbound." He mumbles as his index finger slides into the collar of his red quidditch jersey. He finds himself suddenly overcome by a wave of embarrassment even though there was nothing at all to be embarrassed about… he turns his chair slightly in your direction, his eyes darting to the door and the empty teacher's seat before meeting yours once more.

"'They Both Die At The End." He says, pointing towards the title.

"Oh…" You affirm, rocking your head back and forth, "You were making a joke?"

"No," Harry snickers before waving a large hand in dismissal, "Evidently, the only thing I 'made' was a complete and utter fool of myself."

You're not sure when it happens but you feel the lower half of your face melting into what you suspect is a smile. You can feel your shoulders relaxing and your novel lowering imperceptibly.

"Work on your delivery next time and maybe we'll be getting somewhere."

"Is that how it is!?" Harry asked, pleasantly surprised by your banter, "- I could've sworn I had a shred of dignity before the start of this conversation. Now I'm not quite sure where that went."

Mattheo's feet pass over the threshold as soon as the sound of your laughter rushes past him. It is almost charming in its familiarity but incredibly curious in its rarity. He can't recall ever seeing you with your head thrown back while the instinctive sound of amusement races through your throat. He does not know he's staring until Draco shoves past him, to get to their own seats in the front of the class.

His eyes remain on you as he makes his way to his desk, hoping, perhaps, that you would turn your head infinitesimally, in acknowledgment of his presence.

You do nothing of the sort, and it not only fills him with a weird sort of dissatisfaction but it bubbles into full blown vexation when he realises who is capturing your attention so viscerally.

Mattheo has never prided himself on his patience or tolerance.

Overthinking is something he consistently lives without.

Most of his actions were spurred from things he felt in the now, and he was really fucking uncomfortable with what was happening now.

His glances at the front of the class before finding you once more in the very back corner of the class. He notices that Harry is stationed in front of you but the seat beside you is completely deserted.

Did you not have friends?

And more importantly; how did he never notice until now?

What if…

Perhaps if he…

"You didn't let me know we were having a picnic," The sound of a chair scraping against the tiles had both you and Harry rallying into silence. Mattheo appears at your side, pushing the chair against yours so he, too, sits facing Potter - who suddenly appears incredibly uneasy. Gone is the comfortable atmosphere cooked by easy and amicable conversation. Mattheo injecting himself into your little bubble created a suddenly charged and suffocating atmosphere. You cannot keep your wide eyes off Mattheo as he lowers himself to his chair beside you with his legs spread as he slouches down, like he always does.

"Don't stop on my accord," He exclaims, completely oblivious to the fact that your professor might walk in at any minute. "What were we talking about?" Your heart wrestles in your chest as you see him turn to address you. His slouching puts him a level lower than you, but it does nothing to lessen his intimidation.

"Maybe I should ask, Potter?" Mattheo turns his attention to the front, "What were you lot talking about?" There is not a trace of friendliness present in Riddle's tone. In fact, it's the very opposite. Your nerves, swelling with anxiety, only escalate into full-on panic when you feel him place a large hand on your skirt under the table.

Harry's voice is low and his eyes are trained on the floor, "Books-"

"Books!" Mattheo cuts him off with sarcastic fervour, "How utterly fascinating!" The hyperbolic wonder in his tone is utterly rude and unbecoming, but you look down at your desk in blatant anger. Refusing to be a part of whatever this is.

"And tell me, Potter, how many books have you read so far?"

It is then that Riddle's once stationary hand begins the faintest trace of movement. He begins slow and tame, his callouses barely registering on the soft fabric until his fingers prod the lining of your skirt…

Your breath hitches in your throat.

Never had Mattheo ever displayed a desire to touch you. Not in the way he made you touch him. It was made explicitly clear that only he would benefit from your secret rendezvous' and so you were left to deal with your aching cunt alone, with the image of the face he made when he came, still burned into your mind. It had never been about you.

"A couple,'' says Harry, fighting to show this bully that he was unaffected by his intimidation. If only he knew that with every advance Mattheo's palm made, you were slipping farther and farther away.

"A couple books?" Asks Riddle for clarity. He remains lax and languid on the inside, but the nature of his wandering hand underneath the desk tells a new story.

He finally slips under your skirt.

His palm connects with the softness of your thighs and he seems utterly pleased by it. His hand is immediately restless to explore how far you would let him go. Which isn't very far.

Not at all.

If he thought he could suddenly touch you after myriad occasions of using you like a discarded toy… he had another thing coming.

The tips of Mattheo's fingers make gradually increasing strokes along your thigh until his fingers prod the stretch marks on your inner thigh. It is there when you stop him, clenching your legs together, blocking his hand from any further movement.

Mattheo's voice is strained as he says, "And you like reading, Potter?"

Sensing something brewing between the two of you - your withdrawn, hazy gaze, staring directly through the desk and Mattheo's overabundance in questions, has Harry reeling backwards.

"I asked you a question, Harry."

"I like reading."

"Good! That's really good!" Quite suddenly, Riddle tilts the ends of his half-moon nails into your thigh. His nails bite into your skin, forcing them to weaken and unclamp. Before you're even able to think, his palm is cupping your cunt through your panties- forcing an indecent yelp from your throat which you quickly (and very badly) disguise as a cough.

Mattheo is utterly pleased while he continues mindlessly stroking your cunt. Not for the purpose of any glorious stimulation. His hand is just there to show you (and perhaps maybe himself) that he has access to the most private part of you.

That thought alone has an unforeseen and sudden wave of lust coursing through his veins and surging straight to his hardened cock. He thinks of all the things he could have done to you but failed to do. He thinks about how, up until this point, he had ever been satisfied with using your mouth alone, not when he was denying himself the softness of your pussy all along.

He felt angry with himself, for being so fucking stupid, he is angry at Potter for seeing whatever it is he saw in you, way before he did and, possibly most harrowing of all is the fact that he is angry with you. And he can't help but be angry at you. How easily you whore yourself out to any and every man. If this thing with Potter had gone far enough, would you replace him? Had you even fucked Potter before?

You bite down on your lower lip as your head bows even further into your book. The words blend into one another, and all you can feel is a rise in temperature and Mattheo's suddenly restless fingers, pressing rudely against your clit - for the sole purpose of ripping an orgasm out of you right then and there, at the very back of an unsupervised classroom, with Harry Potter still very much a part of the conversation.

"You've got so many books to read in your lifetime," Says Mattheo. He sits up slowly, likely spurred on by the dampness seeping through your panties. "Don't cut your long life short by trying to entertain other people's girlfriends, yeah?" Gone are any traces of feigned friendliness. "Fucking Mudblood,"

Your skin feels like you are bathing in magma and you hope Potter could not see the slight tremor in your hand as you gripped the sides of your book with more force than necessary.

Mattheo's words… they have you shifting forward and widening your legs minutely. You crave for nothing more than to roll your hips in tandem with the circles he's pressing against your clit.

"Understood?"

Your orgasm is dangerously close, with the promise of sheer, disgusting shame and embarrassment if he continues. You feel Harry give you one final curious look, perhaps pleading for an interjection of denial at some point but you've taken to bouncing your knee under the table, hoping the vibrations might create enough friction to aid Mattheo's hands. He is keeping you trapped in a space of wanting. So much so, that this almost feels like a punishment.

Once Harry is turned back around and facing the front of the class, Mattheo lowers his lips to your ears. The damp smell of firewhiskey floods your nostril and you realise that he is completely drunk. In the second lesson of the day.

However, you're so completely stimulated, even the warmth of his breath as you fight the urge to hump into his hand like a lost little puppy until you make a mess all over his hand.

"You're such a fucking slut, you know that?" Your book drops to your desk - muffled by the sounds of the classroom cacophony. "You like being humiliated like this?" He asks, almost in complete awe. It takes everything in you not to moan outright.

"Fuck," You whisper to yourself, blinking your eyes shut, warding off the need but to no avail. His fingers are long and limber, and they have you nearly cumming right there, in front of your entire fucking class. Had it not been for your Professor's haphazard arrival into the class, and the swift removal of Mattheo's fingers from between your legs… you might truly have become the slut he labelled you as.

Instead of moving to his designated seat, Riddle raises his hand for the professor… the very same hand that has previously been in between your legs.

"Yes, Mr Riddle?" Asks the Professor, his voice as lacklustre as his appearance.

"May we be excused? We were excused by Professor Slughorn to assist him in-"

"Fine, fine," Says the professor with a wave of dismissal before turning his attention to the rest of the class. "The rest of you, open your textbooks to page 56."

Riddle's hand is clamped around your forearm, already leading you swiftly out the door in a long and wide stride. Had it been any other teacher at all, they might have recognized this for what it so clearly was.

"Here," you have barely made it fully into the boy's bathroom before Mattheo is stuffing his fingers down your throat, making you gag and yelp at the sudden intrusion. "Tell me how good you taste." He doesn't even bother to make sure you're truly left alone in the bathroom before pushing your front against the bathroom sink.

"Is that good?" His voice is as sweet as honey as he forces his fingers deeper down your throat, causing you to cough and gag around them.

Mattheo has half his sense to pull his wand from his back pocket, and without turning around, whispers "Colloportus," and the heavy doors snap shut.

You're supposed to be afraid because you've never seen him like this. Mattheo is always a ball of sarcastic energy between trysts, but it's usually an energy he can somewhat contain.

You don't know what to do with him, not when he's watching you choke on his fingers through the mirror, while his other hand fondles at your breasts and rips your bra down until your nipples are poking through your school shirt.

The figure in the mirror distorts as your eyes begin to water. Thick beads of tears grow pregnant at the ends of your eyes before rolling down the side of your face.

"My girl," Mattheo presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, pressing his body into your side. His hard cock in unmistakable through his school pants, "My messy little girl,"

You finally moan candidly while your fingers grip the countertops and your hips buck into nothingness. Your eyes plead with him in the mirror, hoping they relay how utterly useless with lust you have become. It would not take hard work to make you cum, you're sure one more flick against your material-clad nipples might send you over the edge.

"Fuck, why didn't I think of this sooner,"

This is all new, even for the two of you.

"Spread your legs." He commands, even though his feet are already kicking them apart.

"Come here," you break eye contact in the mirror to face the boy behind you. Mattheo removes his fingers sitting in your mouth, leaving a trail of sticky saliva in its wake before replacing it with a long and messy kiss- one that has his tongue forcing itself inside.

Mattheo weaponizes your distraction to reach around and slide your panties to the side with one hand while he rubs your soft nub with his other, spit-coated hand.

You break away from the kiss, neck craning back and mouth hanging open while your eyebrows dissolve into crescents. You cannot look away from him, as you hump his hand.

"You wanna cum?" You nod enthusiastically. "And what if I told you, you can't cum until I've fucked that little pussy of yours? Hm? What then?" His words have you mewling from the sheer pleasure they bring and your orgasm threatens to snap once more.

"Fuck," He hisses, feeling unable to remove his hand from your wet cunt but needing to, in order to undo his belt and pull his aching cock out. "Don't you dare fucking touch yourself," He says in a deadly quiet voice before bringing his hand up to your mouth. "Spit." You don't ever think of disobeying him, not when you're swimming so deeply in your subspace, not when he's the one to bring you here.

Mattheo collects every bit of saliva you offer him before coating his cock in the stuff.

Deciding not to waste anymore time, he does what his body is screaming for him to do: he bends you over the bathroom sink and pushes cock right through your slippery folds. It's tense and painful and your voice is hoarse from doing all that screaming but the sudden contact strokes a deeply sated part inside yourself. His curved and pretty cock rams your insides with reckless abandon, all while he delivers small slaps against your cheek. Riddle keeps a firm grip on your throat. His mouth is inches away from you while his hips rut into yours. His words are being delivered through clenched teeth.

"You think you're so fucking smart but you're just my little whore, arent you? A little whore thst fucks anything that gives her the slightest bit of attention?" It doesn't even register that Mattheo wrongfully suspects that there had been something between you and Harry but you keep your mouth shut. For all his indifference in the past, this is how you would make him pay.

"Oh~ fuck." His cock bruises your cervix, leaving him balls deep and feral inside you. "Fucking Potter?! You wanna give what's mine, to fucking Potter?!" His voice is utterly depraved and animalistic and it has your orgasm cresting.

He is panting, while he mumbles into your ear.

"What would Potter think? If he saw you like this? What would he think? Would he still want your slutty pussy knowing I've been inside it? Knowing that I've cum so deep inside you? Completely ruining you for anyone else, huh?"

"You…" The tears threaten to spill, "It's only ever been you, Mattheo -oh my god! I'm so fucking close!" You fight down tears as the lava begins to bubble at the pit of your stomach.

"S-Say it again. Tell me you want me!" He exclaims, "Tell me you fucking need me."

"Oh my God, Mattheo, I fucking need you." You push your hips back to meet his thrusts.

His voice wavers after your confession. His strokes became sloppy. His mind is flooded with the tightest of your cunt around his cock- how someone so smart could possibly ever say they need him. It has a flood of heat pooling at the base of his cock. "You're so fucking pretty… my pretty girl - my pretty whore," He nods to himself while his heavy cock finds purchase in a specific clump of sensitive tissue inside your cunt. It has you clamping your own mouth shut, your arms wavering while your back arches towards him, only allowing him better excess.

"I need you," You say once more, swallowing a ball of saliva as you nod towards him through the mirror, "I need you to cum inside me."

"Oh my fucking god," Mattheo's eyes soften in their desperstion, "M'gonna fucking breed pussy right here- fuck!" His grip on your throat grows tighter until you're wholeheartedly cut off from your air supply. You hump his cock until you feel it twitch inside you.

"Y-Youre making me cum, baby- fuck-" You feel his hot cum spurting inside your walls, triggering your own orgasm that has you gripping his cock like a vice.

"So… so pretty" His hips stutter against yours until you've completely drained him of his cum. A sharp tremor settles over your bones and you gasp in vague increments, waiting for the overwhelming state of euphoria to subside… but it never does.

The weight of what you had done comes crashing back down but you are unable to feel anything besides an immense wave of satisfaction at having your deepest need satiated.

"I think I nearly killed Potter today." His voice is a hoarse echo within the school bathrooms.

"There is no Harry Potter," You say, watching him through the mirror, "In my whole world, there is only ever you, Mattheo."

And a part of him believes you, but he refuses to affirm something as emotionally stifling as that. Instead, Mattheo's eyes flutter shut as his nose finds your hair once more. His cock is still buried inside you, and you hiss as he moves his hips slowly, almost insitinvely. He loves being so wholly enveloped by you. He loves feeling you everywhere.

© to @mphountitled on tumblr; do not repost

[daikaiju-arts]

I’m so flattered people are interested in my lil Irl Au thingy 🥺 I made a lil timeline image for the events that take place in it!

It’s based on a theory I had about what’s goin on in the Real World, which I’m 99% sure isn’t canon, but it’s fun to toy around with the idea!

Extra details:

Gangle lives alone in a dinky lil apartment, she’s a hikikomori and only goes out when she needs essentials. She’s kinda popular online and does art commissions though

Pomni is an accountant (of course)

Zooble is a tattoo artist

Post-Circus, Gangle can’t look at computers, tv, tablets, or smartphones for too long, it makes her nervous. She also can’t wear her sunglasses anymore because it’s too similar to wearing the headset. She does a little better though, she tries to keep track of her hygiene and attempts to go out more. The experience of the circus made her realize that she should experience more in her real life (it’s very hard but she keeps at it). She can’t do digital art anymore, but she does traditional stuff instead! She also can’t watch her favorite shows or movies, but she can listen to them.

Post-Circus, Pomni adjusts a little better, since she was in the circus for a shorter amount of time. She’s also uncomfortable around computers, so she can’t handle accounting anymore, so she instead does smaller jobs like petsitting and stocking in retail. She has TERRIBLE nightmares of the circus though, and suffers from insomnia and has to take meds to sleep (but still has the nightmares). Her aversion to touch is increased due to being plugged and poked with various wires and needles and medical equipment for so long

Post-Circus, Zooble, becomes more comfortable in their body and in their orientation in terms of gender. The allegorical experience that came with their digital avatar gave them a lot to think about after escaping it. They embrace and have a more solid understanding of who and what they are as a person, and what they value most in their life

[cashfreeapp750]

Cash App The Pros, Cons and Features of The Popular Payment Service

[lovifie]

Hormones

When you suddenly find yourself thirsting over your LT!Simon that on any normal day you have to restrain yourself from throwing a chair at.

Enemies to lovers | Fluff | smut | 895 words Next Part

It's been a couple of months since you started working with the Task Force 141, an awesome force of men that save the world while the world sleeps.

The same way Soap and Gaz are, you are a sergeant. Not yet included in the task force officially, but still being asked to tag along to some missions.

It's been great! The sergeant's quickly become like childhood friends, the captain took you under his wing like one more of the team, Laswell is euphoric there is another woman and the lieutenant… Well, he's there.

It's not that you would expect him to give you special treatment, THE Ghost from Task Force 141. You are not a nosy person, but c’mon, it's Ghost! Who hasn't heard of him?

In the military world, it was the closest to meeting a celebrity. You were not expecting him to fall head over heels for you, but you were still a bit taken back when the first thing he said to you was:

“The fuck you looking at? Want a pat on the back for making it here without shitting yourself in the process? Get the fuck out of my face, go bother somebody else.”

You were not expecting a kiss on the forehead, but shit, a “Good morning” would have been enough.

Still, as time went on, the interactions between the LT and you remained just as bad. At the end, you stopped trying to talk to him, and just asked the sergeants or the Captain.

Except that bothered him too, like a stubborn toddler.

“Now you are too great to speak to your immediate superior? Need to go cry to the Captain like a brat? Make sure not to wet your nappies, soldier.”

And honestly, what's his fucking problem?

As a sergeant, you are proud to admit you have a wide range of skills and abilities, one of them being your patience to not absolutely destroy all the idiots that you have come across in your life. But honestly, you can feel it run thin as time goes by.

Even the captain had to jump to your rescue on more than one occasion, when Simon attack was completely uncalled for or he got a bit too hurtful.

But unlike your lieutenant, you remain professional. Listening to your captain, getting along with your sargeants and completely ignoring your lieutenant.

Until today.

The summer weather, great when sunbathing, not great when the AC is broken and you get stuffed in a room without windows for a debriefing with the team.

It's Ghost's turn to talk, standing to his full heights, when he finally takes off his jacket. And your eyes follow the movement, and then they just… stay there.

The tablet he is using looks like a smartphone on his hand, digits so thick you wonder how he manages to get them on the weapons triggers. The tendons of his hands moved under the skin as he adjusts his hold of the electronic.

And you follow the line, taking in the tattoo sleeve on his left arm, trying to decipher what they are supposed to be, some damaged with scars, others seems so old the ink got blurry, but still you can tell the way his muscles move under them.

Such a big arm, you know he could lift you with ease. Shit, he could lift everyone in the room. His biceps must be the size of your head, and he seems so unbothered by it, like it is not incredible the way he is built.

He switched his weight from one leg to the other, and your eyes traveled to his hips and waist. A waist that looks small, not that it is, there is nothing small about this man, but the sheer size of his shoulders in contrast makes his waist look small. His shoulders and his back, wide enough that it makes you wonder how he can enter through the door at base. He must enter sideways, there is no other way.

His hips called you again, making your eyes travel down your body, until they set between his legs. The bulge in there makes you feel offended, of course the idiot would be packing even when soft. How dare he?

Would he be a grower or a shower? Cause if he is a grower and this is the soft stage, you wonder how he doesn't get tangled.

You wouldn't mind getting tangled, you think, biting your lip.

Wait.

WAIT.

WHY ARE YOU THIRSTING FOR HIM?!

You look at the front, standing straight, and come face to face with Soap; who is perfectly aware of hour hatred towards hour LT is now looking at you like you just grew a second head on your shoulder. For a moment you don't know who looks more confused with your actions.

A silly thought goes through your head, and you pull your phone out, opening your period track app. And as you guessed, you were right. You show your screen to Soap and as he read: “Prediction: Ovulation. High risk of getting pregnant.” He burst out laughing making you chuckle as well as you shake your head.

Maybe, if you wouldn't have been so engrossed in your imagination, you could have noticed the way Ghost was stuttering while speaking, in ecstasy he finally managed to get a reaction out of you.

[jeannyjaykaydeh]

Movie Lessons

(Part 1/3)

Fluff

Warning: Alastor is a bit jealous

Alastor x Reader

Imagine: Alastor goes to depths far below his level by starting to watch films to learn how to win you over.

There you are again. You're awake earlier than usual today. Why is that? Did you sleep badly? Did someone wake you up far too early?

Oh, the radio demon very much hopes that no wretched soul has disturbed you and robbed you of your sleep.

Well, maybe he kind of hopes so, because he's known to like tearing wretched souls to shreds.

But then again, that would mean you've suffered and must be tired now, and he never wants that.

Alastor watches you as you stride down the large, apple-shaped hotel stairs in that aesthetic way you move. Your beautiful hair that nestles against your shoulders and your beguiling body that triggers a hunger in this man. But it's not the kind of hunger he usually feels. No, this hunger feels different. Unusual. Strange.

And yet from the moment he sees you, hunger fills his chest with a warmth and he doesn't want this feeling to end.

The feeling is strongest when you talk to him. You're a clever woman, you have a good sense of humour (he loves the sugary-sweet laugh you give when he tells his typical jokes, but you always have a good line on your lips too) and - what turns Alastor on the most - you radiate warmth. It resembles a sense of security. As if you had a motherly side.

"Good morning, Al," you greet him with your angelic voice, which sounds like the magical sound of a delicate violin string to the demon.

"Good morning, my dear. It's unusual to see you in the lobby so early," Alastor replies with a sincere smile.

You shrug your shoulders sheepishly and reply: "Yes, I got up early today. I have quite a few plans."

Alastor raises an eyebrow curiously. You have plans without telling him in advance?! You just get up early and do your thing freely and don't have to answer to him?!

He clenches his hand around his coffee cup and has to be careful not to suddenly find himself holding ceramic shards.

He hates it when he realises that you don't belong to him.

This thought of somehow not being able to reach you torments him.

Normally, he knows how to deal with women. He respects them, he even loves to take part in feminist protests and fights, he has self-confidence, he's a charmer and he knows that there are some female souls in this hell who would get involved with him if he let them. He has no problem approaching someone and wrapping them around his finger with his charisma, but it's different with you.

As soon as you appear within his reach, it's as if he's forgotten everything: his good manners, his social skills, his self-confidence. He simply doesn't know how to talk to you to get closer to you. To show you that he's interested in you. And to find out what you actually think about him.

It's like a curse that forbids him from making you his own.

He manages to suppress the anger welling up in his chest and his grin intensifies as he says, "Well well, quite a few plans, hm? Don't make it so exciting, sweetheart. Tell me about your plans for today.“

As Alastor takes a small step towards you with interest, you blush slightly and bashfully tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Then you reply: "I want to go into town to buy a new outfit for tonight. Angel invites me to the cinema."

This is followed by static noise and a venomous sideways glance at the spider demon, who is lying on the sofa scrolling boredly through his smartphone. But the radio demon regains his composure and, clearing his throat, he turns to you.

"Now then, Y/N," he says with slightly lowered eyelids and a rather forced-looking smile, "I hope you have a good time. I hope you'll find something that suits you."

You say goodbye to him and leave the hotel.

Even after the door has long since closed, Alastor stares in the direction you disappeared in and wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"What are ya so stressed about, Smiles?" he hears Angel's voice from the sofa.

Without turning to the spider demon, Alastor replies: "What makes you think something is stressing me out?"

"Well. It's yer noticeably wry look after Y/N said we were goin' to the cinema."

While the radio demon adjusts his sleeves and straightens his bow tie, he replies in a patronising tone: "I simply have no understanding whatsoever for this affinity with this frivolous medium."

Angel giggles and replies with a wry grin: "What, huh?! Jealous that films are so awesome that no one listens to fucking radio anymore?"

Alastor lets out a low grumble under static before taking a deep breath and saying: "Your young minds have been poisoned so much that you no longer appreciate the true entertainment value of a good radio show. But the time will come when you'll realise that one day."

Disinterested in his words, Angel Dust shrugs his shoulders and mutters: "Fine by me. But it certainly wouldn't be a bad idea for ya to realise what a really good film would teach ya either."

"Je suis désolé, quoi?“

"Come on, smiley face, every idiot in this hotel realises how much ya fancy the girl but have no idea how to pick her up. Go see a few romances and ya'll know what women want."

Alastor raises an eyebrow. Strong scepticism, but with a hint of curiosity, can be seen in his facial expression.

Films are supposed to teach you how to get close to a woman?

That sounds completely idiotic.

Doesn't it?

[snapnov4]

marry me | gojo satoru

synopsis: a bad idea disguised as a practical joke turns into something way deeper than you intended it to be.

wc: 1.1k

cw: just good ol fluff!

a/n: happy late birthday to my baby daddy and man of my dreams gojo satoru. i have to marry this man. i have to i have to i have to. anyways. enjoy reading this cute little fic i wrote, meaning i thought abt gojo proposing as a joke and vomited this out. enjoy!

it starts, like all things involving gojo satoru, with a bad idea disguised as a practical joke.

you're sitting across from him, in a restaurant that’s not too fancy, more of a family-type deal. he's forgone his blindfold in favor of his square-framed glasses, but his uniform is still on. he insisted on treating you to dinner after you exorcized an unregistered special grade on your own. however, with gojo, things can't always be so easy; he always adds his patented gojo twist to things, and this time the twist is this terrible joke.

“come on, it'll be funny!” he whines, from across the table.

“you want to propose to me in this restaurant for free food? when you make well over six figures a year? and have full access to thousands of years of old clan money?” you ask, incredulously, reaching to take a sip of your drink, suddenly wishing you had gone with a stronger option.

“yes, exactly. what's not clicking?”

“uhmmm, all of it?”

“look it'll be funny. you could even say no, then you can run out and i get free food as pity points,” he smiles at you, and you find it hard to keep saying no. “i mean, they'll probably all call you heartless and tell me i deserve better but that's fine.”

“okay and if i say yes, what about a ring? or the fact that we're not even together? how is anyone going to believe you?” you ask, thinking you've backed him into a corner, until he just sighs softly, keeping an easy smile, and reaches into his pocket. he pulls out a black velvet box, and shakes it a bit by his head.

“you think i hadn't planned for that?” he asks, smirking in your direction, trying to hold back laughter at your aghast expression, you drag a palm over your face, finally conceding.

“okay. fine! fine! just…try not to embarrass me. please?”

“no promises! also the waitress is coming this way, so get ready. tears are optional but preferred.”

you roll your eyes at his statement, your gaze following him closely when he stands up and walks over to your side of the table. you look around desperately hoping that no one will actually have their attention drawn to you but the thing about gojo is wherever he goes he commands attention. consequently, when he stands at a whopping 6’7 everyone’s already looking, and when he drops down on one knee in front of you, holding that little velvet box in front of you, you catch people’s smartphones shooting up immediately, great. and you're sure the vision of jujutsu’s strongest sorcerer, taking off his sunglasses and holding up a ring box to you would haunt you forever. you think right under reverse cursed technique in his list of talents, they should add acting, because the look in his eyes almost feels real.

the way your name falls so delicately from his lips, before he clears his throat, feigning nervousness. the way he struggles at first to look you in the eyes, the ring sparkling in the dim lighting. he starts:

“you are truly the most beautiful woman i've ever met, inside and out. to know you and love you is a pleasure too great for words, and i want to continue living in it every day. will you marry me?” you roll your eyes, but the smile across your face is genuine, maybe he was right, maybe this is funny. so you have no issue, saying yes, throwing your arms around his neck as he spins you around, delicately sliding the ring onto your finger. the two of you giggle all the way back to jujutsu tech, containers of your free leftovers in hand.

and so it becomes a tradition.

satoru continues to propose to you every time the two of you get the chance to have dinner together, and despite all your better judgment, you laugh and say yes every time.

and what started as a joke, turned tradition, starts to morph into something else.

satoru notices it on a summer day. you're out with the students, supervising them as they spar. the sun’s been beating down for days, he's standing beside you his eyes trained on your hands. your left ring finger has a tan line, it's from that ring. you're not wearing it, you returned it to him last night, forgetting to give it back after dinner and then desperately trying to get your schedules to align for at least five minutes, but he'd been out of town for a week and when he finally got back late last night to find you working on paperwork in your office, he didn't know why it felt like his heart sank when you slid the ring off and put it in his hand.

now, the box feels heavy in his pocket (when did he start carrying it all the time?) and he looks at you with so much adoration that had his blindfold not been on, he'd look like a love-struck puppy to any passerby. you'd been wearing the ring so much it's left a mark on you, it's obvious you'd been wearing it, the tan line a stark reminder that it was there; and something about it makes satoru wish he could make the next proposal permanent. you turn your head to him, smiling softly.

“the first years are something else this year, gojo, did you see yuuji and maki spar? they're going places,”

and he's not sure why but before he can stop himself he's blurting out:

“let me take you on a date.”

you sputter and falter, turning fully to look at him, “are you being serious?”

he nods, that goofy smile of his making you weak to his every whim, it's the same one he gave you that night at that dinner table; the same one that made you start this tradition.

so he takes you out, and then that becomes a tradition. still every day, he thinks of the way that ring looked on you whenever he slid it on your finger, and how he felt rejected every time you gave it back. he'd clear his schedule if he knew he could have dinner with you, just to see the smile you couldn't stop whenever he got down on one knee.

satoru doesn't propose anymore. he figures the next time he does it, he should be serious about it since you're his girl now. on a tuesday night, you're sitting with him on the couch, your legs are thrown over his lap and he looks at you, focused so intently on a book you've been dying to finish, the bookmark always staying near the end as you get called into emergency exorcisms, and he knows. he fishes that ring out of his pocket, the same one he gave you in that restaurant almost two years ago, and there's no fanfare, no cameras, no theatrics. he just opens the box, looks at you, and says,

“hey baby, let's get married.”

and just like the first time, you smile and say yes.

[pitchsidestories]

mirrors II Jenni Hermoso x Reader

masterlist I word count: 938

a/n: hi, the inspiration came from the request here. We'd love to hear your thoughts on this one. <3

It was October. And everyone, football players and fans alike, knew what that meant.

The best of the best were about to be honoured at the Ballon d’Or Award ceremony.

Even as a sports journalist, this was a very special night and you felt honoured to be invited amongst all those big names in the audience.

There was just one face that you could have done without seeing. And of course you were seated right next to each other.

You let your gaze wander across the room, trying not be intimidated by the amount of men in suits surrounding you. Majorly to ignore her.

Someone on stage was about to hold an acceptance speech and you hoped that it would shut her up but no, of course not.

“Come on, you know we’d look cute together.“

You didn’t even have to look at her, the smirk basically vibrated in her voice. You sighed. Apparently she couldn’t behave anywhere. Every time you met, she tried to flirt with you.

Slowly you turned towards her and whispered: “Jennifer. We’re at an award ceremony.“

“Yes, and you look gorgeous in that suit. It goes well with my dress.“, she replied quietly and casually slipped her hand onto your thigh.

For a second you cursed yourself for choosing your dark green suit. The colour was too similar to Jennis floor-length gown and made it look like you intentionally matched.

You slapped her hand away and glared at the football player: “Shh, I’m trying to listen here.“

Turning back towards the stage, you tried to follow what the laureate had to say while jotting down notes for yore next article into a small notebook on your lap.

You shivered as you felt Jennis warm breath against your ear.

“As if they had anything important to say anyway.“, she complained, rolling her eyes.

You gave up on listening and instead considered Jenni. “Men love to talk. But so do you.“

She shrugged: “At least I have something useful to say.“

“You’re flirting.“, you stated, unimpressed by her attempts at maintaining a conversation.

“And?“

“And I really need to write that article.“, you replied, your voice rising with slight anger.

When she leaned over to snatch the notebook from your lap, you had to stop yourself from yelling at her. Instead you hissed at her: “Excuse me?!“

Jenni waved the book around nonchalantly and pouted: “Now you’re just making excuses to ignore me.“

“I’m not.”, you disagreed heavily while simultaneously trying to get your working utensils back.

Maybe it was time for you to abandon your scribbling on paper in exchange for only writing things down on your smartphone or laptop you thought to yourself as the forward wasn’t showing any sign to hand the notebook back to you.

“What do you want?”, you sighed tired of her childish behaviour.

“For you to finally acknowledge that we look hot together.”, she revealed with a devilish grin on her lips.

“You don’t give up easily, huh?”, you replied, your voice couldn’t hide the growing frustration you felt towards her.

“I never give up actually.”, Jenni admitted in a serious tone.

Abruptly you stood up from the chair. The intensity of her green eyes looking at you was getting too much to handle.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”, you announced.

Much to your own surprise the Spaniard decided to follow you. “Coming.”, she responded giddily.

“Fine.”, you muttered.

“Go.”, Jenni said, while brushing your back with her hand. Normally you would say this was purely an accident, but the Spanish footballer certainly did that purposeful.  

Once you reached the bathroom you let out an impressed whistle.

“This is really fancy here.”

Your gaze wandered around the interior: the mirrors were large, and everything looked like marble with golden highlights. It screamed expensive. Something you were still not used to as you grew up under rather poor circumstances.

“It’s a bathroom.”, Jenni chuckled amused.

“Still. Besides I don’t remember inviting you inside with me.”, you remarked.

“It’s a public bathroom. I’m allowed to be here.”, she reminded you smiling smugly.

“You’re lucky you’re hot. Although your big mouth.”, you begun.

“This mouth can do even more.”, the forward claimed, closing the gap between the two of you confidently while swaying her hips in a suggestive manner.

“Yes, I’ve heard about it, you’ve got quite a reputation.”, you answered cooly.

“I do?”, Jenni raised an eyebrow, pretending to be scandalized.

“Yes.”, you affirmed.

“Want to find out if it’s true what they say?”, she gave you a challenging look impatiently waiting for your response.

“I always want to know the true story behind a rumour.”, you confessed playfully, her glances almost left you breathless.

“Then don’t move.”, the forward demanded.

“I won’t.”, you assured her.

“Good.”, Jenni nodded satisfied while brushing her lips first against your cheek before wandering down to your lips until she finally kissed you.

There was an intensity and hunger to the kiss which almost knocked off your feet if you haven’t been sitting next to the luxurious water taps.

The older woman knew what she was doing, the rumours turned out to be an understatement in your opinion.

 For a second you caught the reflection of the two of you kissing in the big mirror. You both were breathtaking as a couple.

“Maybe you’re right.”, you mumbled against her mouth.

“I told you we looked good together.”, Jenni smirked triumphantly.

In this case the mirrors didn’t lie it reflected the desire you both had for each other. While the men held their speeches and felt very important you had found something much more meaningful.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

the art of breaking: part two

the art of breaking, part two: theory of decay

very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. this fic contains themes of abuse and extremely dark content.

words: 10k

summary: joel knows just how to make you his forever. a sequel to "the art of breaking"

warnings (new warnings in red) and story under the cut; reader discretion is advised.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

warnings: dead dove do not eat, non-con, dub-con, very dark!Joel, BAD bdsm etiquette, not SSC/RACK compliant, sadist!Joel x masochist!reader, coercion, corruption, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting, glory hole, reader gives tommy a blowjob (joel and tommy do not touch), body modification, permanent marking, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, whipping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, vaginal, reader x other men, degradation, humiliation, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare, blink and you miss it piss "play," straight up abuse this time guys, overstimulation, forced eating, needles, voyeurism, objectification, human furniture/ashtray, cigarettes, consumption of non-food items, nipple/clit pumps, this one might be worse than the first idk sorry

Again, I cannot say this enough. This is a dark fantasy and should not be taken as representative of a good d/s relationship—it’s abuse masquerading. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I’m condoning it. 

Please read responsibly. 

i. dessication

When he goes to work, he leaves you free to roam the house and do your chores. For shorter trips out, he tends to put you in your cage. There’s no real reason, but it keeps you in a good place. You’re always softer, quieter when he gets back and lets you out. 

He couldn’t do it all the time, of course. There are things needing to be done. Plus, every day, he gets to come home to you knelt, waiting by the door with dinner kept warm. He could afford a housekeeper, but then you’d have nothing to keep your mind and body occupied when he’s away. 

Of course, sometimes he leaves you chained up in the basement. He can’t always be nice, after all. And the thing he loves to come home to most, second only to you kneeling at the door, is your exhausted body still tied where he left it, bearing the marks of his latest pleasure. 

Sometimes, he just leaves you in stocks to contemplate all the raw kisses from his favorite whip. Sometimes, he has you pinned to the table with a vibrator strapped to your clit for the day. On the lowest setting—he’s not a monster. 

Well. It starts on the lowest setting. He can do whatever he wants with it through a handy app. It was the only way Tommy could convince him to upgrade to a smartphone.

But today, you’re just set about neatening up. Neither you nor Joel are messy— though he does have a tendency to empty his pockets wherever he’s standing—and it’s not a huge house. You finish up early and have time to read while supper’s in the oven. 

You’re already kneeling when you hear the key in the door, eyes down, hands behind your back, but you have to tense up not to flinch when you hear a second pair of boots.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” drawls a voice you don’t know. 

The only reason you don’t panic is because Joel’s boots enter your field of vision. You’re intimately acquainted with them—literally—and despite the fresh layer of dirt, you’d know them anywhere. 

“Ooh, damn, she’s good,” says the voice.

Joel chuckles and reaches down to stroke your cheek. “Told ya.” 

You melt a little against his hand, letting the pride in his voice warm you.

He rubs his thumb over your cheek and lets you press a little kiss to the digit before stepping back to take his shoes off and dump the handful of change and crumpled receipts on the foyer table. “C’mon,” he says, snapping his fingers so you know he means you, too.

You resist the urge to look at the stranger, but you don’t like the way he lingers to follow you instead of following Joel. You can feel his eyes on your exposed flesh, the dress just short enough to show off your cunt when you crawl. 

No one has ever come into the house before. At least not when you’re out and about. You don’t know if Joel’s had company while you’ve been in the basement or something; you’ve never even thought about it. All you know is that it’s been a long time since you’ve seen another person. 

It’s terrifying. 

You go to kneel between Joel’s feet, but he stops you. “Turn around,” he says, guiding you with firm hands to face forward. 

He laughs when he sees that you’re still staring very carefully at the carpet. “Y’can look at him; he ain’t gonna bite.”

The other man, who has settled in the armchair facing the couch, laughs too. “I might,” he says.

“No, you won’t.” Joel’s voice goes hard for a moment, and you don’t need to see to know he’s glaring. 

It makes you feel better. So what if someone’s looking at you? Joel’s still protecting you. 

He lifts your chin up so you have to look at the other man. He’s broad, though not as much as Joel, with dark curls and dark eyes that make you feel like he wants to cut you open and see how you tick. 

“This is my little brother, Tommy,” Joel says. “Go tell him hello.” 

“Hello,” you say quietly. 

“C’mon, now, go give him a proper greeting,” Joel nudges you with his foot. You crawl over to Tommy and kneel between his legs. Your gaze darts from him to Joel, teeth worrying at your lip. 

“Don’t embarrass me, girl,” Joel warns.

Tommy lifts your chin with his hand. “He wants you to suck me off. Go ahead.” 

It’s nice, but it’s not his permission you need. You risk one more glance at Joel. 

“You heard him. You got two seconds, sweetheart, before you’re gonna regret it,” he growls.

“You goin’ soft? You usually have ‘em trained better by now,” Tommy teases, but his words have Joel seeing red. 

You sit back. “What?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, did you think you were special?” Tommy says with a nasty smirk. He pats your face. “Poor thing.”

You look at Joel, tears welling up. 

“What, you think I had a house full of equipment that’s never been used? Y’should be grateful. All my toys before you had to suffer some trial and error. I got it perfected now, and you’re wasting it, being a fuckin’ disobedient bitch.” 

You close your eyes tight and choke back a sob. He’s never, ever spoken to you like that before. When you turn back to Tommy, you have your mouth open wide and waiting.

He leans back. “Well? You gonna make me do all the work?”

“Can I use my hands, please?” you say, eyes darting from Tommy to Joel. 

“Great, now you got her all nervous,” Tommy bitches, and Joel rolls his eyes. 

“Go ahead,” Joel tells you gruffly. You’ve been so good. So obedient. Maybe he shoulda warned you that he wanted to show you off. No, he thinks, it’s not his fault. He didn’t owe you a warning. You should just accept it and obey.

You’re shaking when you tug open the button of Tommy’s jeans, fumbling with the zipper. Apparently, it takes long enough that he grunts and knocks your hand away, pulling his cock out. 

It feels like a trap. Joel has not explicitly ordered you to do this. But he doesn’t usually try to trick you. 

“For Christ’s sake,” Tommy snaps, and yanks you forward. You get with the program quickly, wrapping your lips around him and trying to do your best. 

He’s smaller than Joel, but it’s a decent cock. Not that it matters to you. Despite not having to gag on him, you can’t breathe anyway, too preoccupied. Why is Joel doing this? Is he going to punish you for it later? 

And the worst thing, the thing that keeps bouncing around your brain as you try to get Tommy off: What happened to the other girls? Did he get tired of them and kick them out?

Was he not going to keep you?

You don’t notice you’re crying, but Tommy clearly enjoys it. He moans and holds you down as he cums down your throat. You aren’t ready, though, and sputter a little, coughing and leaking his cum down your chest. 

“Jesus Christ,” Joel snaps. He gets up off the couch and yanks you away from his brother by the hair. “What the hell's the matter with you today?” 

“I’m sorry,” you cry. 

“Shut up,” he says, and drags you out to the place you visit in most of your nightmares, despite only having been there once in reality. 

The Pit. 

ii. consumption

When he comes to get you in the morning, you’re wrecked. Deflated, no more tears left to pour down your cheeks. For now, at least.  

The sun is against his back when he opens the gate, reaching down for you with one strong arm. Bathed in the golden light, he is every inch your savior, and when you’ve climbed out on shaky legs, you prostrate yourself at his feet the way he likes. 

He’s still mad, though, so he steps one filthy boot on your head and grinds your face into the mud. He pisses on it for good measure, the hot stream dripping down your hair and face onto the soil. 

He’s got a switch in one hand. With you effectively pinned in place, he wastes no time in swinging it down on your ass. 

You scream and sob as he beats you. When he finally stops, when he’s drawn every bit of his anger in welts against your skin, he lifts his boot from your head and squats down. 

“Why d’you have to make me do this?” He’s solemn, sorrowful. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” you say, focusing on controlling the hysterical sobs wrenching from your chest. 

You don’t know what will follow, so you remain still, not daring to move without an order. 

“I should drop you off at a fuckin’ whorehouse,” he mutters. He pulls you up by your hair, and you scramble to your knees. “You can learn to suck who you’re told to suck.”

“Please, sir, please don’t, please—” It’s too much. You stumble, sobs wracking your body hard enough that you can’t move. You collapse in the grass with his hand still holding your head up. 

He lets go, letting you fall. 

You crawl to his boots and kiss them, mud be damned. It wasn’t like you weren’t covered in it anyway. “Please, sir, I’m so sorry, please don’t—” you say between sobs. 

“Please don’t what? You think you’re in any position to be askin’ for anything?”

“Don’t get rid of me, please; I promise I’ll be better; I can be good.”

“I’ll think about it, if you can fuckin’ earn it.”

“Please, please let me try to earn it.”

He squats down and helps pull you to your knees in front of him, cupping your filthy face in both hands. “I don’t wanna send you away. You know I love ya. But if you can’t be good, then what’s the point, baby?”

Your sobs are subsiding out of the pure elation that comes from his gentle touch. “I’ll do anything,” you whisper.

“I know ya will. You don’t really have a choice.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna get you fed and taken care of. But you’re about to have one of the worst days of your fuckin’ life.”

You choke on a sob and sway a little. The fear and the hunger are like a fog over your brain. 

“Hey. Listen t’me.” He holds your hands in one of his. “You’re gonna learn, and it’s gonna be real hard for ya. But at the end of it all— if you take it all like a good girl—you’ll be forgiven. Got it?”

You look up through tear-sodden lashes, lip quivering, and nod your head. 

There’s no part of you anymore that registers an issue. No warning bells, no red flags, no hair raising. 

You follow him to the bottom of the patio steps, where he nudges you to kneel back down, folding over so your face rests against the soil. You wait while he goes inside, unsure of how much time has passed until he comes back out with a plate of eggs, scrambled with cheese and little bits of sausage. 

That raises some alarms. Not to the way he treats you, but more of a signal for what to expect. It’s protein-heavy, which isn’t necessarily unusual, but it smells delicious. And there’s no way you’re getting to eat that after behaving so badly. 

You’re half right. He squats down next to you and scoops up a bite with the fork. You don’t take the bait; you know that’s not for you. 

He moans exaggeratedly when he chews, grinning all the while. And then he scrapes the rest off the plate into the dirt in front of your face. 

“Ah, ah. Not yet,” he says, and you close your eyes at the sound of his zipper being yanked down. 

“You get wet from that beating earlier?” he asks.

You nod, even though he’s already reaching down between your legs and shoving his fingers in your cunt. He brings back his shiny hand and strokes his cock. 

“Look at me, baby,” he says, shifting onto his knees so when you open your eyes, you’re faced with his fist pumping away at the red, angry head. “Coulda been you. Shoulda been, but bad girls don’t get what they want.” 

You whimper. It really does hurt your feelings, but you know you have nothing to say for yourself. 

“Open. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and get some fresh.”

You obey immediately, squeezing your eyes back shut as soon as he starts to cum. A little bit lands in your mouth, which you hold open.

“You can swallow that. But don’t eat yet.” 

He walks away, puttering around on the patio. You try to work up the nerve for his command, stomach churning. Maybe it’ll still taste fine. Maybe cold semen and dirt won’t ruin it that much. Maybe. 

If you hadn’t earlier, you believed him now about it being the worst day of your life. He certainly wasn’t starting out small. Sure, you’d eaten off the floor before, but inside the house. The house you clean, so you know how sanitary it is. 

But thinking about doing this makes you want to cry. And when he tells you to get started, you do cry. Just a little. 

“You got about six minutes,” he says, checking his phone for the time instead of the eternally broken watch on his wrist, “and there better not be a single crumb left. Get your ass up here as soon as you’re done.”

You’re not sure how long it takes you, but it must be nearly the whole six minutes, because by the time you’re knelt at his feet on the patio, he says, “Cuttin’ it damn close, sweetheart.” 

He’s playing fucking Candy Crush, legs kicked out on the little wooden table in front of him. He’s got you knelt at his side, and after a few minutes, he digs into his breast pocket and hands you a smushed carton of cigarettes. 

You draw one carefully out of the pack and extend it to him, letting go once he’s pinched it between his lips and pulling out the lighter. Carefully, you ignite the tip for him and tuck it back away. You go to give the carton back, but he shakes his head.

He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth to blow smoke. “Hang onto that for me. And this,” and he hands you his coffee cup. 

It’s not the first time he’s used you as a table. He tried using you as a footrest but found it less satisfying. You try to sit and work through your nerves, try to ignore the terror that he might not keep you if you can’t endure the day. 

It’s a good thing that he drained you of any concept of dignity long ago, cut you open, and let it ooze away like pus from an infection.  

“Open,” he says absently, not bothering to look away from his game.

Your eyes and mouth snap open, and he taps the cigarette against your lip, letting the ash fall onto your tongue. You jerk back a little but correct it immediately.

He quirks an eyebrow. “I’ll give ya a pass this time. But keep your mouth open, tongue out, and don’t fucking swallow.” 

He’s clearly happy to spend the afternoon like this. He goes through a second cigarette and still doesn’t let you swallow or spit. Your knees ache from the planks of the deck. 

He gets up and goes inside for a few minutes, taking his empty coffee cup with him. You don’t dare drop your position, though. 

When he comes back out, he hands you a bottle of beer, condensation already dripping. He resettles to watch the game on his phone. 

Anything resembling hope is trickling out. He hates watching things on the little screen, peering at it through his glasses. But he never smokes inside the house, so he’s resigned himself to this for the sake of your punishment.

It makes you feel less than the ash on your tongue. 

By the time it’s over, your mouth has long gone dry, itching with the ash of four cigarettes, when he stands up and stretches. He leans down and holds your chin before spitting in your mouth.

“There ya go. Swallow.” 

And you do. When you cough a little as the ashes cling to your dry throat, he pries your mouth back open and spits again. 

It helps a little. 

iii. dismemberment

You’d only been in the Pit once before. The first time was arguably your worst offense, which was good, Joel thought, that you still hadn’t topped that misbehavior. 

But as glad as you are that it hasn’t happened a lot, it means you don’t really know what to expect. When he brings you into the ensuite, you know this routine enough that you kneel on the shower floor, barely flinching when he turns only the cold tap, and the faucet sputters to life. 

He never gets in until you’re shivering, so while he gathers fresh clothes and towels, you scrub the mud from your body. When he checks and finds you satisfactory, he turns the knobs until the water runs warm. 

Your shivers don’t subside for a few more minutes, though. Not until you’re practically done cleaning him with the spongey loofah. Hot tears burn in the corners of your eyes, though only a few slip loose.

When he turns around and takes it from you, you thank him for letting you wash him. 

He gives you a smile, hand cupping your cheek.

“Of course, baby. Don’t worry. I’m going to help you remember how to be my good girl.”

But first, before he can follow up on the threat, he washes the mud and piss from your hair with gentle hands, massaging your scalp. You hold still, head tipped back, and let the tears come harder.

He notices but doesn’t comment. It’s normal now, when he takes care of you after a hard punishment. Or, in this case, in the middle of one.

You go to speak, to pour out your regrets and devotion, but he shushes you.

“I want you quiet ‘till I say otherwise,” he says. “Nothin’ outta you unless it’s an emergency. Got it?”

You nod, and he helps you to your feet, drying you with a soft towel and taking care around the raised welts on your ass. There will be some nasty bruises tomorrow, but when isn’t there? Your tits have mottled spots of yellow fading, and the shape of Joel’s hand around your throat basically never leaves. 

He gives your raw, burning skin a sharp smack, sending you off to put on the dress he’s laid out for you.

He tells you nothing, just leads you to the truck. The drive is quiet, apart from the crooning voice on the radio. It’s a bit of a drive, and you park in a broken-up lot surrounded by rusty chainlink fence. He grabs your hand and takes you across the street to a dilapidated building. A cheap banner is tacked above one of the doors. 

Joel hands a bill to a man, who opens the door just enough for you to squeeze in. It doesn’t take long to figure out where you are.

“Been a while since I brought you someplace nice, baby. Hope you like it, ‘cause we’re gonna be here most of the night.”

That’s the understatement of your life. He hasn’t taken you out of the house in over a year. You’re not sure you remember how to exist away from home, clinging to his arm as he leads you through the club.

You can’t decide what will be worse, but you don’t have to wonder for long when he drags you around to an empty stall. He’s not there to use a hole. You’re there to be one. 

He clips your collar to the wall with just enough slack that you could pull back to breathe if the person on the other side doesn’t let you. 

He takes the ring gag out of his pocket and dangles it in front of you. “You need this, or are ya gonna be good?”

“I’ll be good,” you say immediately, a phantom ache in the hinge of your jaw. 

“You sure? ‘Cause if you have to ask later or I have to make that decision myself, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper. 

“Good.” He pats the side of your face, two sharp smacks in lieu of a caress. There will be no softness for you tonight. 

He waits to talk to you until your mouth is full. You look miserable, but you don’t hesitate. It’s not to the standard he’d usually require, but you’re both aware of the hours ahead, so he lets you pace yourself. 

He crouches down near you. “You like that? Some random dirty prick in your throat?” 

You, of course, can’t answer, but your eyes close against the hurt.

“It’s fucking disgusting. You think I want to let just anyone use you? I could fuck any hole I want. I could go out there and have every cunt and ass and mouth. You know why I won’t?”

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t try to answer, don’t stop what you’re doing. 

“Because they ain’t you, sweetheart. You’re my perfect girl. Nicest I’ve ever had. And if I got something this nice, and I don’t share it with my brother? You don’t even suck him off right? How do you think that made him feel, baby?”

He keeps it up, past the point where he feels like carrying on, but he can tell it’s wearing you down faster than the relentless facefucking. You’re starting to work your jaw, joints popping in between visitors, but even that doesn’t compare to the way you’ve started to shake when he’s scolding you.

“I know you’re tired, baby. I hope you remember this fuckin’ lesson because I’m not sacrificing two nights of sleep again to repeat it.”

You whimper around the stranger’s cock, which encourages them to fuck into you harder. But Joel knows the tears in your eyes aren’t from that. 

“Yeah, you were bein’ selfish, huh? I couldn’t fuckin’ sleep with you out there, and now I’m up all night with you here.”

There it was, he thought, watching you break. A little too early; it was going to be tough to keep you going. But nothin’ did you in like the thought of having hurt him in the process. 

And it was true. He never slept with someone out in The Pit. Too fuckin dangerous. He kept watch on a camera. He needed you scared and sorry, not dead. 

He watches as you choke down the stranger’s seed, looking like you might retch. He shuts the little sliding door for a few minutes and gives you some water. After you’ve rehydrated and seem a little less green, he opens it back up.

“Alright, get ready for the next round.”

In the truck on the way home, he keeps you tucked close to his side. Between the dark, empty highway and his coat wrapped around you, you start to doze off. 

He nudges you a little. “None of that now. Ain’t finished with you yet.”

You whimper, not in protest but in exhaustion. Despite how hard you try to fight it, you’re fast asleep when he pulls into the driveway. 

He thinks about waking you up anyway, to follow through on his word. He carries you inside and up to the bedroom, still deliberating, but when he tries to set you down on the bed, you cling to him desperately, even in your sleep. He manages to wriggle the coat off you and lays down beside you. He’ll just let you both rest for a little while.

You wake up, mid-afternoon, shaking all over. Joel awakens moments later, eyes wide as he tugs on your arm to roll you over. 

“Oh, baby,” he says, and moves to get out of the bed. “Knew I shouldn’t have let you go to sleep.”

But you grab onto him, lip trembling. 

He knocks your hand away. “I‘ll be right back, jus’ hold on.”

You’re curled into yourself, sobbing, when he gets back three minutes later. 

He hands you a water bottle anyway. “Sit up; you need to eat. It’ll help.”

Somehow, you find the strength to struggle and wriggle your body into sitting. He brings you to lean against his chest while he leans against the headboard. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, a kiss pressed to your head. 

You start crying hard all over again. 

“I know. M’sorry. I should have talked to ya last night, huh? S’that what you’re all worked up about?”

You nod. There you are, sitting in his bed, when you hadn’t fucking earned it. But he doesn’t shove you off or hurt you for it; he just feeds you a protein bar and lets you sip at the water between bites. 

After he’s given you the last of the bar, he has you slide down to your knees by the side of the bed.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I disobeyed and embarrassed you.” 

“I didn’t ask you what you did wrong.”

“Oh,” you say softly, and have to think. “I didn’t understand, at first. That you wanted me to suck his cock.”

“And after you did?”

“I—” you don’t want to say it. You know he’s going to be mad. He doesn’t like when you question things like this.

“Is this because Tommy said you weren’t special? ‘Cause you know better.” 

“No, I just… why did you get rid of the others? What did they do?” 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, and cups your face in one hand. “I don’t think that’s anything you gotta worry about. Not anymore.”

“But how will I know how to do better?”

“You already are. None of ‘em ever made it this far. They talked big talk but couldn’t back it up. Some of ‘em didn’t want to give up the things you have, some of ‘em couldn’t handle my expectations. I told you, you’re the nicest thing I’ve ever had. You’ve let me make you exactly the way I want you to be.”

“Even though I was so bad the other night?”

“Yep. Because you took every consequence, and I know you’ve learned your lesson. And you’ll probably fuck up again someday. But if you keep wantin’ to be better, I’ll keep teachin’ ya.” 

You can’t help but cry again. You’re so tired and so tired of crying. 

“What, were you worried I was gonna replace you with some new young thing someday?”

You nod, and he clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“I’m gettin’ old, sweetheart. I don’t want to keep breakin’ in toys that ain’t worth my time. I just finished puttin’ you back together exactly the way I like ya. You stay my good girl, and you’ll be mine ‘till I die.” 

It doesn’t stop your tears.

“Hey,” he says. “What do you need?”

It startles you. “What?”

“What do you need? What’s gonna make you feel better, baby?” 

You’re not sure when the last time you’ve had to think about something like that is. He’s been taking care of you for so long now. 

“Whatever you want,” you say. 

“No, baby, that’s not what I’m asking.”

“That’s my answer, though,” you realize. “I need to feel whatever you want me to.”

“God damn,” he whispers. “I fucked you up, huh?”

Your lip trembles.

“No, baby, I didn’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just kinda incredible. Jesus. How could you think I’d ever get rid of you? There’s not a fuckin’ bit of you that isn’t mine.” 

Your cheeks burn, so you bury your face into his palm and press a kiss to the center. 

“You want to know what I want, is that right?”

You nod. 

“I wanna fuck your pretty little mouth. And then I want to order us some fuckin’ takeout and eat it in the bath.”

It makes you smile just a little. 

“Yeah? That sound good, baby?” His thumb rubs against your cheek. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, open up for me.”

You wrangle yourself into position. The initial weight and taste of him sends warmth through your bones for the first moment since he dragged you outside. 

It’s sloppy, the way he fucks your throat, in a way it usually isn’t. It’s always messy, but his thrusts are erratic. You can’t keep up with his pace because there simply isn’t one. It’s not long before he’s holding you down and pumping his cum down your throat.

It trickles down and cleanses everything in its path. You’re lighter, like you can breathe again. You thank him sweetly, pressing a kiss to his twitching cock. 

He’s panting, but strokes your cheek with one hand. “That’s my good girl. Feel better now that I washed all those other guys outta your mouth?” 

Technically, he had done that last night, had shoved three soap-covered fingers in your mouth in the gross club bathroom. Wretchedly, it had the side effect of making you nauseous, and he had insisted on doing it over after you threw up.

But this felt more pure to him, more consecrational in a way. The soap might have cleared the actual evidence away, but his come was your wine and wafer. 

“Yes, sir,” you say into the flesh of his thigh where your head rests. You kiss there for good measure, eliciting a pleased hum from him that sends you preening a little. 

He lays back on the bed, leaving a hand on the top of your head to stroke your hair while the other gropes around for his phone. “What do you want, baby? Lo mein?” 

“Oh, yes, please.” 

He feeds you noodles in the bath and then eats you out until you fall asleep. 

iv. reduced to bone

You’re on your knees in the basement, bent forward over a metal pipe placed at just the right height to nestle into your hips and keep them tilted up in the air. Stocks hold your head and wrists in place, tits hanging just below. The wood is slowly dampening as you drool around the ring gag. 

“Got a surprise for you, baby,” he had said when he led you down. “You know how you keep beggin’ me to hurt you worse, and I have to keep tellin’ you I’m not tryin' to wear you out?”

“Yes, sir?” 

“Well, I think you’re going to like this.”

That had been… well, you’re not entirely sure. A while ago, maybe, but your brain wasn’t the best judge of time right now. After he had secured you here, he had dragged out the little machine. It’s sitting under your torso somewhere, thin clear tubing stretching out like a web he’d caught you in. 

There’s no noise but the hum of it, which you’ve gone pleasantly numb to. The pressure is unending, each nipple and your clit being tugged into the tiny cups relentlessly. 

It tingles, just on the side of too gentle to be fulfilling on its own. That’s okay. You’re pretty sure you’ll be in delicious, mind-shattering agony soon. 

This you know because, well, it’s Joel, but also because of the tools he’s laid out on the little wheeled cart and left for you to stare at. 

A thin cane. Clover clamps with a length of chain. A tawse with a tapered, pointy tip. A wand. 

It makes you dizzy to look at. 

Also, you know because it’s a Friday night. Joel enjoys you however he likes any day of the week, but he’s careful about saving the deepest of his cruelties for Fridays. Because mind-shattering wasn’t really an exaggeration. When he gets like this, you sometimes don’t surface enough to take care of yourself for a day or two.

On those occasions, he never leaves you alone. Doesn’t want to, both because he loves when you need him that deeply and because you’re so soft and pliant. Truthfully, he thinks he could do anything to you then and you’d thank him for it. 

Which is why he’s got Tommy coming over tomorrow. It’s not that he thinks you need to be out of it to avoid a repeat of last time. He knows you learned your lesson and you’ll be good. 

But he’s got something special in mind that he needs help with. It’ll just be easier for everyone if you’re at your most agreeable. 

And yeah, you owe Tommy a blowjob. One of the ones that make Joel feel like he mighta died and somehow gotten through the pearly gates by the grace of your devotion. 

Plus, he’s pretty sure you’re going to love his plan, and he wants you unprepared, so you’ll cry real pretty and be truly desperate to show him your appreciation. It’s been on his mind since that night a few months back when you didn’t seem to believe him about never letting you go. 

He’s never fucking letting you go. There’s nothing in this world that could take you from him. He’s made sure of it. 

Sometimes, he has to remind himself that you don’t know you’re married. 

He thought about telling you that night, so you’d understand the depth of the commitment he’s made. But he doesn’t want you to take it the wrong way. Doesn’t want you thinking you need to act like a wife . 

He’d had a whole bucket of bullshit cooked up to excuse it, but when he told you to sign the paper, you hadn’t questioned it. Hadn’t questioned that you couldn’t see what it was, only the line where he pointed. You’d signed the fucking paper and never asked a goddamn thing. 

He was glad. He didn’t like lying to you. This was just one of those hoops to jump through in a world that didn’t understand what you shared. 

When he comes back down, your eyes are already glazed over. Your body shines with a thin layer of sweat, and your chest is heaving as you squirm. It’s gone beyond gentle. The waves of suction have you whimpering soft and high, barely louder than a breath, but nearly constant. 

He chuckles and strolls over, crouching down to wipe the sweat off your brow with the bandana from his pocket before it gets in your eyes. You give him a truly pathetic look, eyes wide as you drool helplessly. 

“Not so nice now, huh?” 

You whine. 

He strokes your cheek with an exaggerated pout before sliding two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on the back of your tongue. It tries to curl around them, eliciting another cruel laugh. 

“Jesus, girl. S’there anything that would stop ya from gagging for my cock?”

You shake your head. Even if you weren’t spread by the ring gag and choking on his fingers, you’re beyond speech. Too far deep. 

Joel actually doesn’t mind when you talk. He’s got no rules restricting your speech (well, most of the time). As long as you’re respectful, he likes the company. 

But he really likes when you go quiet like this. When he’s pushed you so far that you can’t . 

“Look at you, all worked up. We haven’t even gotten started, baby. You gonna be able to take it?”

You nod, whining, and he pulls his fingers out of your mouth and wipes them on your cheek. 

“What was that, baby? Couldn’t quite understand ya.”

Tears spring to your eyes as you whine again. 

“I’m just teasin’,” he says and kisses your forehead. “I got ya. I know you’re gonna be my good girl and take everything I fuckin’ want.”

He reaches down and tugs the tubing until the cups pop free of your breasts. You cry out, but it turns into a desperate moan when he tugs the one off your clit. 

Yeah, he coulda turned the pump off first so they just fell off, but where’s the fun in that? 

He’s grinning wickedly as he reaches back up to your breast. He barely, just barely, brushes over the side of your nipple, and the sound you make goes right to his cock. 

“Fuck, you’re so swollen.” He has to remind himself he’s playing the long game; he just wants to pinch and pull so badly. He’s pretty sure you’ll scream, even though normally it wouldn’t be much at all. 

But he wants to fuckin’ torture you tonight, so he’s going to drag it out. He wants you incoherent and beaten down when he’s done, so far gone you’ll stay there for days. 

So he’s gotta start soft. He drags his fingertip around your areola, not quite brushing the nipple but tracing the ring left behind by the cup. You twitch, shoulders jerking back, and he grips your breast. 

“None of that, now,” he croons, letting go and switching sides to torment your other breast. 

It’s holy, in that way you never quite understood. Not like the Jesus kind, though you never were much for church either, but in the way that people chase salvation through empty bottles and sharp needles. 

With the wand and the tawse, he breaks you down again and again and again. But that’s the thing about Joel. He reduces you to pain or pleasure or the delicious apex of both that brews between your thighs, and then he cleans you back up, puts the pieces back where he likes them.

He makes you come until you cry, and then, when you’re sobbing and exhausted, that’s when the night really begins. You’re twitching and jerking at the barest contact, writhing with every snap of the cane. 

It’s so, so good. Until it isn’t. But he’s running that damn mouth of his, that sweet, filthy mouth, and you can’t not take it. Your tears are gone, all run out; he likes to wring you dry. And he keeps rubbing his hand over your hypersensitive flesh, already raw and ruined, and murmuring soft words and sweet taunts. 

“Look at you,” he croons. “My pretty little toy. You’re so beautiful, suffering for me like this, baby.”

And so you do. You suffer for him. There’s nothing left in your little subby brain right now but Joel Joel Joel. 

You’re dry. He almost can’t believe it. The only time you’ve not been a sloppy, soaking mess was when he broke your finger. 

He whistles low and slow. “Shit, baby. Guess you have some limits after all, huh.” 

It’s impressive that you can even lift your head enough to shake it weakly. An overwhelming fondness washes over him. 

“ Aw. Takin’ it for me anyway, were ya?” He comes around and squats near your head, unhooking the gag and easing it out of your mouth. He rubs gentle circles on the hinges of your jaw as you whimper.

“Did so good for me, baby. Lemme get you outta there, and I’ll give you my cock.”

You shake your head, tears spilling over, but you don’t have a voice. The words don’t come together in your mind, just devastation.

His grip turns tight, forcing you to look at him. “No? You tellin’ me no?”

You shake your head again, lip quivering. 

“You don’t want my cock?”

You shake your head harder and try to reach for him, hands flexing where they’re bound in the stocks. Trying to make him see just how bad you want his cock. 

Luckily, he understands that much. “You wanna stay there? Baby, my knees ain’t gonna like fuckin’ you here.” But he can tell from the way your face crumples that he still isn’t quite getting it. 

“Are you tryin’ to tell me you want me to keep goin’?” 

You nod and he slaps you, a sharp strike that catches you by surprise.

“Stupid girl,” he says, scowling, and gripping your chin tightly between his thumb and forefinger. “I decide when we’re done. The whole point of this was not to ruin ya. This ain’t a punishment. Well, it wasn’t. Might be, next time.” 

He stands up, shaking his head. “Dumb fuckin’ cunt.”

It hurts worse than the cane did. 

When he sees the heartbreak on your face, he sighs. “Ah, shit. Look, I know you’re just tryin’ to please me. But you’re makin’ me feel bad for tryin’ to be careful with ya. If I take it too far today, you won’t be able to take as much anymore. I ain’t breakin’ you.” 

You’re sobbing too hard to respond, but you don’t try to argue or struggle when he releases you. You crawl to lay kisses to the toes of his boots and nuzzle your cheek against them.

He sees it for the apology it is. 

v. parched to dust

This time, when Tommy Miller takes out his cock in front of you, you’re ready. And there’s no way in hell you’re disappointing Joel again, so you wrap your lips around him, not quite eagerly but with enough determination that no one could fault you.

When you drag the second consecutive orgasm from him, he tugs you away with a fist in your hair, panting and gasping. Joel swats his hand away and beckons you back to his lap. 

“ Jesus,” Tommy finally says, tucking himself back into his jeans. 

“Told ya it was just a bad day,” Joel snipes. 

“Sorry,” Tommy says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shoulda figured. It’s just… you’re a little soft for her, yeah?”

“Course I am. But I’m not soft on her.”

You know he loves you. You do. But hearing him admit that he’s soft for you makes your chest ache. 

“Got another surprise for ya, baby,” Joel says, rubbing his hand over your back. 

You’re overwhelmed. It’s not that he doesn’t give you things or do things for you; it’s that it’s never such a big deal. It just is . He takes care of you. That’s how this works. Not gifts and surprises. 

You bite your lip so you don’t question it, but he sees through you.

“Now I know you don’t remember. D’you even know what day it is?” 

“Saturday,” you say. “You’re home.” 

He shakes his head, but it’s betrayed by the smirk. “You’re right, baby. But what’s the date?”

You actually have to think for a minute. You hadn’t crossed off the calendar this morning like you usually did, and yesterday’s activities have you a little rattled. “It’s um, it’s August 19th?”

“That’s our anniversary, baby.”

Your brows scrunch as you try to think back. That’s not right. Your first date was in February. You moved in sometime early in June. You’re not sure what his metric is, but August doesn’t make sense. “Um. Are you… are you sure?” 

He doesn’t get mad like you thought he might. He just laughs. “Course, I’m sure, baby. It was the night we came home from your folks’. When you agreed to be mine.”

Your face heats. “I’m sorry—”

“Y’ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry about, baby. I didn’t expect ya to remember. But you’ve been mine for two years now, and you’re still worried I ain’t gonna keep you. But I’ve been thinkin’, and I know how to prove it to you.” 

If this doesn’t convince you, he thinks, nothing will. Never mind that his whole goddamn life revolves around you. Never mind that you’ve worn his collar for the last 731 fuckin’ days. 

You’re busy wondering why he made you suck another man’s cock today if he cares about your anniversary. But then again, you’ve long accepted that what he wants won’t always make sense. It’s not your job to make it make sense. It’s just your job to do it. 

“C’mon, let’s go downstairs,” he says. 

You swallow hard around the sudden fear, and he laughs. 

“What? Had enough yesterday?”

“No, sir,” you say. It’s mostly the truth. Mostly. 

He shakes his head. “Not today. C’mon.”

Now that he moves, you follow. 

Tommy’s already in the basement, which almost gives you pause, if only because his movement startles you. 

Joel has you hop up on the padded table instead of the metal one, typically a sign that either you’re going to be here for a well-extended time or that he’s going to fuck you on it. 

Tommy’s setting things you don’t recognize out on the little cart, but you don’t try very hard to look. Looking makes your breathing get a little ragged, so you look at Joel instead. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, bending slightly to give you a kiss before he begins to slowly circle the table, fastening straps over your body. 

He’s left the dress on, which is weird, too, but you’re not complaining. It’s always a little chilly down here and even though you know you shouldn’t, you’re glad he’s not made you bare yourself completely in front of Tommy. 

It’s a lot of straps. You watch curiously, if not a little dazed, as he secures your ankles, thighs, stomach, chest both above and below your breasts, arms in three places, neck, and head. 

The one around your neck clips to your collar, not adding another band or choking you. But you’re unable to lift your head and neck at all. 

When he’s done with the strap across your forehead, he smooths away the worry lines that crease beneath it. 

“Just need ya to hold real still. You’re probably going to like this, but don’t fuckin’ come.”

“Yes, sir.” Your eyes are wide and worshipful as you wait for further commands. 

“Be real good for Tommy, okay?”

Your heart pounds in your throat, but you promise immediately. 

He hops up to sit on the spanking bench nearby. 

“Where first?” Tommy says. 

“Hip,” Joel says, settling in to watch. 

Tommy goes about his business and pulls the bottom halves of the table apart, wrenching your legs open slowly. He spreads them wide and slides a stool over, situating himself right up by your cunt, and flips the hem of your dress up over your belly button. 

You whimper and try to look at Joel for any indication of how you’re supposed to behave, but the restraints don’t allow enough wiggle room. 

Something cold smears across the front of your left hip, and, much to Joel’s surprise, you break. You’re still raw in more than one way from the previous day. 

“Please, sir,” you blurt, lip trembling and eyes squeezed tight. 

He hops down, brow furrowed, and comes closer, raising a hand to Tommy to pause him. 

He cups your face. “Please, what, baby?” His other hand rubs up and down your side. 

You force your eyes open to look at him, blurred through waiting tears. 

“Please, can I have a gag?” you say. Your eyes are scrunched, and fists clenched. 

He strokes his hand over your cheek. “‘Course you can. Good girl.”

The praise keeps you calm while he steps away. When he comes back, you open your mouth wide, and he settles it between your lips. 

You nearly cry in relief when you feel the little bulb press inside, not much different than the head of his cock. A few tears spill over when he leans down to kiss your forehead. 

“Atta girl, he says, pinching your chin before returning to his perch. 

The warmth of his touch lingers, and you let the pressure of the gag distract you from where Tommy starts to move again. You suck on it steadily, eyes fluttering shut when you feel the unmistakable scrape of a blade across your hip. 

Shaving. He’s shaving you. You can’t fathom why, with only peach fuzz reaching there. And you think maybe it’d be a cold day in hell before Joel let anyone shave your pubic hair. He liked it kept trimmed but not too neat. 

“I’m from the seventies, baby. Women’re supposed to have a nice healthy bush,” he had told you fairly early on when you were just dating. He hadn’t told you to stop shaving and waxing, but of course, you had. 

Warm water washes over the area with a washcloth not far behind. Tommy’s firm hand does a final sweep with something cold. 

“Alright, honey,” Tommy says, his voice almost seeming fond , “just hold still and be a good girl, okay?” 

As if you’d do anything else. 

You startle a little at the loud buzz that kicks up, and Tommy rubs gloves fingers over the opposite hip for just a moment. 

And then he gets to work. It hurts . But the pain clues you into what’s going on, and you come to the only logical conclusion: Joel’s having you tattooed. 

You start to cry, the feeling of being loved and owned overwhelming. You don’t hear Joel’s chuckle, buried as it gets under the gun in Tommy’s hands. 

You thought it was overly cautious of him earlier, to worry about you having an orgasm during anything involving Tommy. But you get it now. The pain itself is bearable, almost delicious, but the rush of euphoria in your veins from the mere concept is intoxicating. 

It goes on and on. Maybe it’s only half an hour. Maybe it’s four. The pain cycles, fading to a soothing heat before building back up to a scald. 

You don’t realize it’s over right away. The buzz of the gun plays on in your brain even when the room falls quiet. And Tommy’s doing something to it, probably wiping it down, but your skin still rages. 

Joel hops down and comes over to the side of your left leg. “Shit, that’s fuckin’ gorgeous,” he says to his brother. 

“Looks damn good. Hey, she’s got a real pretty pussy, huh?” He says, elbowing Joel. “S’funny, watchin’ her leak all over.”

Joel peers over, running a finger over your cunt, and laughs. “Knew you’d like that,” he says.

You whimper. 

He pulls out his phone and snaps a photo. “Want to see, baby?” He asks though he’s already turning the screen to you. 

The skin is red and irritated, but the ink takes your breath away. In shiny black, right there on your hip, sits a blocky “JM” surrounded by a circle. It looks like a fucking brand. 

Your eyes fly to his, whining desperately and praying he understands. A sly grin spreads across his face, and the tip of his middle finger traces oh so gently up your slit. 

“Come for me, baby,” he says, not bothering to touch you further. He knows you won’t need it. 

Vision blacking out, you writhe uselessly against the restraints as the pleasure batters through you. You’re only vaguely aware that the loud keening sound is coming from you, but it’ll register later when you feel the raw ache in your throat. 

Tommy whistles. “Sorry I doubted you, princess.”

You whine through the aftershocks, tears welling up again at the thought of the tattoo. You hope Tommy would leave so Joel will fuck you. 

Then you remember him asking, “Where first?” just as Tommy drags his stool around to the right side of your torso. 

Joel comes with him, rolling up his sleeves and tinkering with something on the cart. They both touch your arm a lot, fingers roving and adjusting you. You start to tune it out until Tommy lathers a spot on the inside of your wrist. 

Once it’s been shaved and cleaned, someone presses something against the spot for a moment. 

“Well?” Joel says. 

“Lines look clear to me,” Tommy says. He’s leaning close to your arm. 

Joel doesn’t walk away this time. As the gun kicks back to life, he stays with his hand resting on your upper arm, looming over Tommy’s shoulder. 

It’s easier this time, now that you know what to expect. It hurts, but you’ve had worse and probably will again. You’re feeling a bit too dizzy, though, when it finally stops. 

“This one’s for you to see,” Joel says, starting to unlatch the straps. He frees your arm first and then your head and neck, plus the gag. The ache makes itself known as soon as you shift a little. 

You peer immediately at your wrist, and a strange clenching tears through your chest. A few inches below your palm lays the dark outline of Joel’s thumbprint. 

“Oh,” you whisper, a strange tingling spreading through your limbs. “Oh.” 

“Knew you’d like it,” he says, lips curling into a smug smirk. 

Once you’re untethered, he peels your dress off so the fabric won’t brush against your hip. 

“There’s a protein bar and a bottle of water on the coffee table,” Joel says. “Go eat and wait by my chair.”

You’re swaying a little but he helps you down and makes sure you can stay on your feet before he removes his hands from your waist. 

You make your way upstairs in a daze. Truthfully, you don’t really remember it. When they come upstairs, you’re knelt in your place, wrapper and empty bottle on the table. 

“Good girl,” Joel says, lowering himself with a little groan into his recliner. He shifts around and pulls his cock out. “C’mere.”

You hop up immediately, and he takes you by the waist to help you settle where he’s fully hard already.

“Don’t move,” he says, to your great disappointment. “None of that,” he scolds at your pout. “It’s my turn. Just relax.”

Tommy sets the gun and equipment up to the side of the chair. You settle against Joel’s chest, snuggling in and resting your head on his shoulder so you can watch. 

Joel’s other hand, the one not waiting in place, comes up to cup the back of your head. He bends his head down to kiss where he can reach. “You’re being so good. Just a little bit more, and then you can take this cock.”

“Do not come on her tattoo, Joel,” Tommy says. 

Joel laughs, but Tommy smacks his arm. “I’m serious. It’ll fuck it up and probably infect it. Don’t fuckin’ do it.”

“I’ll wait ‘till it’s healed, don’t worry.”

You moan and clench around him at the idea, which only encourages his pleased chuckling. 

Tommy takes your hand, peeling it from where it rested against Joel’s chest, idly brushing through the hair there. You let him, letting it go limp and unresistant.

He presses your thumb against an ink pad and pushes it down on a piece of paper, rolling it carefully. He repeats the process a few times before he’s satisfied. Wiping it clean, he coats it one more time before pressing it against Joel’s wrist.  

You stare, rapt, as he traces the lines of your fingerprint onto Joel’s thick arm, framed by dark hair. It sits in parallel to the watch on his other wrist. 

“Where d’you want these?” Tommy says after he’s wrapped up and started to pack away the equipment. He’s holding the papers where they tested your print.

“The safes. One in each office,” Joel says. 

It’s weird, certainly, but so is Joel, so you don’t give it much thought. 

He’s cradling your face in his palm, looking at you with something so tender and ferocious that you can’t possibly look away. He thrusts up into you, his other hand tight on the hip opposite the tattoo.

It hurts, but, well, you don’t mind. 

The way he fucks you open now is slow, cruel after making you sit still for so long, but he’s savoring it. Savoring the way you can’t help but stare at him in worshipful bliss. It’s like a drug, the way his attention makes you hazy. He’s got you hooked, addicted, right where he wants you. His. 

Not a damn part of you that isn’t. 

The smirk curls across his face, and his hand curls around your neck, abandoning the gentle caress for something you both understand as love. You come on his cock when he tells you, every time he tells you, as he leaves you gasping and clutching his forearm, not prying him away but holding on as the room spins. 

When he fills you, he kisses you deeply, hand back around your throat as his mouth takes the rest of your air. You collapse against his chest when he lets go, and he holds you there with a smug, satiated smile and a soft kiss to the top of your head.

You doze in and out in his lap as he and Tommy share a bottle of bourbon. 

“Damn, I shoulda brought Daisy over. You haven’t had someone for her to play with in a while,” you hear Tommy say through the fog of your brain.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Joel says. His hand is scratching at your scalp and it feels so good you almost forget Tommy is talking.

“... my wife and your little pet—” he’s saying.

You don’t mean to open your eyes, but you catch his as soon as you do. He laughs. “Yeah, I got a wife. I’m not as mean as my brother, here.” 

You find that hard to believe, but also, you don’t really think of Joel as mean. He’s strict, sure, and he has high expectations. But he takes such good care of you, and you want for nothing. 

The phrase stirs something odd in your head. Do you want for nothing? Well, it’s at least partially true. You don’t want anything, not a thing you have or don’t have. You’re happy with whatever Joel gives. 

It’s probably the same thing. Besides, you wanted that career; you wanted to put on a face, a mask, and pretend to be someone who gave a shit about the company’s reputation. And you were wrong, so wrong. And Joel’s always been right. So what do you know about what you want?

Joel’s rumbling voice startles you a little where you’re tucked against his chest. “She was one ‘a mine, y’know,” he says to you. 

Tommy’s wearing a sly grin. “Yeah, until you scared the shit out of her,” he says, laughing. “Poor little thing didn’t know what to do with herself.” 

“She wasn’t like you,” Joel says. He waits as if he expects a reaction, but you don’t stir from your safe place in his arms. 

“Nah, not everyone’s as fucked up as y’all,” Tommy says. “I ain’t a sadist,” he says to you, a glint in his eye. “Don’t get me wrong, I do love puttin’ her in her place, but mostly, I just like havin’ my pretty little wife at home.” 

Joel’s watching you; you can feel the heft of his gaze. But you’re so blissed out, so calm right here in his lap, dripping his seed slowly around where his cock still fills you. 

“Would that bother you? Playin’ with a girl who used to be Joel’s?” Tommy goads.

You think about it for a moment. “She ever get his mark?”

Tommy grins, teeth like a shark. “Nope.”

You hum, unbothered, and nuzzle your cheek against Joel.

“Attagirl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head. “Knew you’d learn this time.” 

You gaze at his thumbprint on your arm. The cells around it will grow and die, but not his claim on you. 

It’s almost comforting, you think, that by the time that fades, there’ll be nothing left of you anyway. 

bonus: the art of breaking playlist

thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who asked for a part two and expressed love for the first. I will admit I am INCREDIBLY nervous to publish this both because it's kind of fucked up but also because so many of you loved the first part and I'm scared this won't live up to your expectations.

please, if you enjoyed this, let me know! soothe my anxiety lol. and if you don't want to publically do so, anon is always on.

i love you!

[bootleg-nessie]

Things that will happen in the future (based on my own experiences with time travel):

***FAQs at the end***

*All of these observations are copied directly from my notes in roughly the order I took them in

*Don’t ask about the interchanging use of past/present/future tense, you know how that stuff is with time travel

Women just started all growing three boobs instead of two. Scientists baffled

Genetically engineered catboys (no literally)

The great pyramid of Giza has been converted into a Bass Pro Shop

The entire state of Rhode Island was bought by some rich tech CEO who promptly dug a 500 foot wide trench around the entire state so that it could in fact be an island. It was soon converted into the world’s largest parking lot

Pollution has gotten so bad that fresh oxygen is now delivered straight to most homes via a subscription service

Basic necessities such as food, water, and housing are now provided for free by the government, but only for the top 1% of wealth holders

Insulin now costs twice as much as rent. “Get fucked,” say pharma companies

92.6% of new electronic appliances now have smartphone integration and require a monthly subscription to use

Most billionaires have real estate on earth’s moon

As an ongoing film experiment, Taika Waititi successfully convinced a Nebraska man that he’s been raptured and is now in heaven. He actually got Truman Show’d and now millions of viewers tune in every week to watch God (played by John DiMaggio) manipulate Robert into confronting his own views, battle cognitive dissonance, and face the realization that he might not have been as good of a person on Earth as he thought he was

Carrots have gone extinct, as have highland cows

Species of extinct animals and plants now are being posthumously renamed after the billionaires and elites most directly responsible for killing then off

Researchers discovered a sentient colony of fungus off the coast of Chile, it prefers to go by Fleebo and appears to have a incredibly complex intelligence far greater than any other observed organic being

Nobody knows where Ireland went. It literally just disappeared off the face of the earth one day and nobody bothered to question it. The story couldn’t compete in the news cycle with the recent news about a company in China that made the first real life pokemon. An entire civilization of people gone and I’m the only one who seems to remember it or even care

Fleebo and its offspring have annexed Madagascar and are threatening any retaliation with nuclear warfare and “making The Last of Us a reality.” Nobody knows if Fleebo actually has the capabilities to do this, but after the Lovecraft incident we’re all TOO goddam scared to fuck around and find out

Large snails have replaced cats and dogs as the most common household pet. Snail culture has largely taken over the world, especially Japan

The president of the United States is now decided with an oiled up twerking competition. Most people were hesitant at first but this has produced vastly more competent leaders so now everyone just kinda goes along with it

With the cost of living crisis only worsening with time, selling tattoo space on your body to advertisers has become common as people struggle to afford rent and pay their bills

North and South Korea have reunited into “Korea 2.0”

Germany has split up into East and West Germany again

Belgium and France have been annexed by West Germany and renamed “Wester Germany” and “Westest Germany” respectively

The entirety of Florida is now underwater. Most of Kansas is too for some reason that scientists refuse to explain because they’ve “sworn an oath to the eldritch gods” and that “much worse things would happen” if they did

The melting ice caps in Antarctica unveiled a lost civilization of intelligent creatures descended from a species of lungfish, predating human civilization by millions of years. They planned on hibernating for another 10-15 million years to observe the course of evolution on Earth and are very very angry at humans for waking them up prematurely and ruining all of that with global warming

The politically correct term for lungfish people is “Dipnoid” but most people refer to them by a variety of slurs, such as “finwalker” and “kelp muncher” (not that they even eat kelp)

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch has now increased to nearly half the size of what was formerly known as Canada and has been colonized entirely by pirates (the flag is actually pretty cool). The pirate nation has the 17th largest economy in the world and is projected to surpass the United States in GDP

Africa is about 2% smaller. Nobody knows why. Most people point to Fleebo, who denies having any involvement

All human-Dipnoid interaction was promptly banned by most world governments, except for the GPGPRP (Great Pacific Garbage Patch Republic of Pirates), whom the Dipnoids rely upon extensively for trade

Scientists have used DNA from fossils to recreate other species of humans. We now live alongside them like we did for thousands of years before everyone besides Homo sapiens went extinct. Racism is at an all time high

Class C and above robots are now legally recognized by most progressive countries as people

The United States government has been exposed for secretly funneling billions of dollars into the GPGPRP and using it to fund terrorist operations all over the world.

A new major religion revolving around Dave Grohl has skyrocketed in popularity. Grohilsm is now the world’s largest religion, second only to Fleeboism

Scientists discovered a new continent in the Pacific Ocean, and then promptly lost it again. Most people are convinced this was just an elaborate practical joke, but scientists “swear it definitely happened”

For a brief period of about 30 years, everything in George Orwell’s 1984 happened almost exactly as written in the book. Literally 1984

It was revealed that Jeff Epstein didn’t kill himself. He actually faked his death and spent the next few years in a drug-fueled episode of psychosis making sock puppets in a cave in Italy and then molesting said sock puppets until he died from a sock puppet related illness

Bigfoot was discovered off the coast of Georgia doing cocaine with a congregation of alligators. When questioned, he said he normally lives in Montana and was only there on vacation. He is now a celebrity, and has been featured in a number of tv shows and films, two of which he won an Oscar for. Last I checked, he was a washed up actor living in Hollywood with a reanimated Neanderthal woman

The GPGPRP raided most of England’s museums with the object of “doing exactly what they did for the last few centuries” England was understandably furious, but the rest of the world found it rather amusing

England declared war on the GPGPRP, which it promptly lost after hackers brought down the entire country’s military overnight. Much like in the 21st century, England is the world’s laughing stock

The entirety of Luxembourg relocated itself to the moon

Russia attempted to take over most of Eurasia. In retaliation to the full global effort to stop them, they launched nukes at the world’s 600 most populous cities outside of its current territory. Most of the warheads were stopped in time, but a few major metropolitan areas got hit pretty badly, including Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Chengdu, Mexico City, and Istanbul. Japan was understandably super pissed that Hiroshima and Nagasaki got nuked for a second time

In the wake of the nuclear holocaust, Canada assumed control over what was formerly Russia and assimilated many of its citizens and leaders into its own society and government. Under the new rule of formerly Russian leaders, Canada became a puppet state for the second coming of Russia. It annexed much of the United States, Mongolia, China, and a handful of other countries, becoming “the world’s first megacountry.” Crungolaska now controls a majority of the northern hemisphere

As part of a practical joke by Adam Sandler, Tom Hanks was actually marooned on a desert island like in Castaway. He lasted less than a week before he died. When I left this era of the future, Adam Sandler was serving a lifetime sentence in prison for murder

Fringe groups of crows with above-average intelligence have started popping up around the world. So far they have been observed forming small communities, crafting relatively complex tools, using rudimentary speech, performing rituals, and creating music

Aliens visited earth and had a formal meeting with many of our world leaders, but decided to leave us alone for a few thousand more years because humanity is “not yet mature enough to handle the responsibilities of interstellar travel.” They have incentivized us with a the blueprints for an Alcubierre Drive and a means to produce the exotic matter to fuel it once they deem us as being ready

The original colony of settlers on Mars has declared independence, officially becoming the first country not on Earth

We sent Tom Cruise back to space but this time we just left him there

The tether for the space elevator broke. The town known as Vatorville, famous for being the location of the takeoff point of the elevator shuttle on Earth, was completely decimated as tens of thousands of miles of steel cable came crashing back down. There were no survivors

Most people in first and second world countries have mandatory microchip implants that serve as a personal ID

Last Thursdayism has been largely denounced by quantum physicists. Current theories now revolve around “Next Thursdayism,” the belief that the entire universe was created in the future and that we all exist as a memory in the past

Synthetic organ farms for transplants and research have become a massive industry worth billions of dollars. However, there is still a huge black market for organically grown human organs, as they’re much cheaper to acquire and aren’t taxed at the exorbitant rates that lab-grown organs are

China dug a hole all the way to the center of the Earth. Turns out it’s hollow and there are people living inside. Who knew?

A university reconstructed the entire city of Rome as it was in its early days during the Roman Empire. It’s actually pretty historically accurate, except for the fact that there’s a lot less sex because it’s run by a bunch of sweaty history nerds

After Rome 2 resulted in the creation of a cult revolving around the Roman god of the dead that gained traction as a minor religion, Pluto was officially reinstated as a planet by NASA when cultists picketed their headquarters every day for nearly 3 years straight. “Fine, we’ll give these fucking virgins what they want so they’ll finally shut the hell up,” said NASA’s administrator in chief

In a display of the biotechnical prowess of Disney’s Imagineers, all the animatronics in Disney’s Hall of Presidents were replaced with clones of the originals, which went about exactly as well as you’d expect. After reports of the presidents hurling a series of racial slurs and other obscenities at the first black family to enter surfaced, the project was shut down almost immediately after it had opened. Minority admission to Magic Kingdom plummeted to 2.3% of its numbers from the previous year, making it the second whitest place on earth after a taylor swift concert

Plastic now makes up about 3% of every organism on earth by weight

Public officials are now required by law to take shrooms before running for office

Trees are considered a rare and highly sought after commodity, and are usually only owned by public institutions and the rich (the vast majority of oxygen farms use algae to produce oxygen)

FAQs:

FAQ: What time period(s) did you go to?

A: I have no fucking clue. The world stopped using the Gregorian calendar in 2063 after a gamma ray burst hit the sun. The GRB led to stellar ablation, which changed the length of a year on Earth. The sun would continue to lose mass at an accelerated rate for several more years, with the length of the year changing slightly from year to year. The world adopted a variety of different calendars which kept being updated frequently and were often super confusing and contradictory. I traveled to about a dozen different points in time, which based on my best estimates spanned within a few millennia of the current date.

FAQ: How did you obtain a time machine?

A: I think it was the 17th or 18th of June, 2055? That night, a large sci-fi looking box thingy roughly the size of a VW Bus appeared a few hundred yards away in the open field in front of my house. I tried to take a picture of the box, but for some reason the closer I got, the more the image on my camera started to become fuzzy, and by the time I got close enough to take a decent picture, the camera had stopped working altogether. I pulled open a door to reveal a corpse inside that was charred beyond recognition, who appeared to have suffocated and/or burned to death during a fire that damaged most of the interior. I also noticed a number of strange tumors and growths on the body. I pressed a random button on the remains of what I believed to be a control panel, expecting nothing to happen, but the door closed automatically and I suddenly lost consciousness. When I came to, I exited the box, expecting to still be in the field in front of my house, but instead found myself a ways outside of a small snowy village that based on my best estimates, was somewhere in northern Asia around 2-3 thousand years ago. The villagers started coming after me with spears, so I quickly ran back to the box and pressed another button, hoping it would return me to from whence I came. This time, the people I found (who were thankfully much nicer and spoke a dialect of English that I could mostly understand) told me that it was the year 506 of the PGRB-Δ4 calendar (the calendar that the United Territories was using at the time). I repeated this maybe a dozen more times trying to get home until I landed in 2023, which as far as I could tell, was the closest I had gotten back to my original time so far. It was at this point that I decided to stay and seek medical attention, as I was rather concerned about some nasty new growths on my arms and legs similar to that which I had seen on the corpse.

FAQ: Where is the time machine now?

A: No idea. It disappeared a few days after I landed in 2023. My best guess is that some poor sap found it and ended up sometime else.

(I never ask for likes/reblogs but I literally spent fucking WEEKS on this one so if you liked it pls show me some love <3)

[fictionstudent]

Novels are not movies.

Visual media has taken on the world by storm. It’s the next big thing in the evolution of humanity, maybe. It’s quite certainly changed the way we entertain ourselves. And with the recent spread of short-form content, visual media has also become cheap, disposable, and easily accessible to the masses—perfect recipe to make a product famous.

Alright, I’ve been a little too dramatic, lol. But for real, I’m one of those who’s severely addicted to Instagram Reels. Whenever I’m done scrolling, I feel like I’ve completely wasted my time—I could have read a novel, watched a movie, or caught up with my favorite mangas. But instead of all those ways to relax—and believe me (pwlease) that I only open Insta to relax, when I’m free—I just waste my time.

I love my novels and manga, mind ya, so when I catch myself wasting precious time that I could have instead used to consume them, I cuss myself. And then I go scroll some more Insta, because I’m an absolute idiot.

Anyway, back to the topic. Visual media has absolutely taken over our lives. I won’t go into the debate of whether this is a good thing or not, but we all can agree that it’s an undeniable fact. Video is everywhere.

Because—and lemme repeat myself—it’s cheap, disposable, and easily accessible today.

And because of such exposure to video storytelling, beginning authors forget that novels are not a visual medium. Yep, here goes my rant.

***

#01 - The Problem

The problem is simple—these kids have too much access to their smartphones. And these smartphones are filled with videos, like a dustbin with its lid hanging on because of all that garbage overfilling it. (Damn, I sound like a boomer.)

And therefore, when these new authors begin writing, they can’t help but imagine a sort of movie or a TV show as their story. And that’s where the problem is—novels are not supposed to be movies.

Movies are a visual media. That means they’re composed of pictures. Images. But guess what novels are composed of?

Text. Words.

It seems pretty basic. I mean, everybody knows this distinction. But what they don't know, however, are the implications of this distinction.

Personally, I began writing with film-novels too. And those novels are bad. Genuinely. I cringe at the fact that I could even mail editors and believe they’d accept them. Good thing they never did.

What’s a film-novel, though? Well, the idea is pretty clear—it’s a novel, but imagined in the form of a film. So, it’s like a film, but in text.

It’s like you’ve written the film as a novel, instead of writing it as a screenplay or something, maybe.

But you’d ask me—why? Why is it even a mistake? Everybody has a different writing style. And to that, I’d tell you one thing—the audience. The audience is different. The media is different. You can’t expect a cinephile to read your book. And since it’s not like a professional novel, a (Googles the correct term) bibliophile certainly won't.

So, who’s gonna read your story?

No one—because it’s neither a film, nor a novel. It’s a film-novel, an illogical mix of the two.

Everyone drinks water, and everyone likes ice-cream. But you can't… No, I’m not even completing that sentence. Ew.

Anyway, you get the idea, lol.

***

#02 - Identify

So, what does a film-novel even look like?

And for that, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you,

The lean figure was standing on the other side of the railing three floors up on the ground of the school building where children below were shouting and kicking football upon each other, wearing white football jerseys. The figures, as they ran all over the ground, seemed very small as I looked at them. The goalkeeper of the right side, who was just beneath my white shoe, kicked the ball so hard that it flew in air and went directly to the other foot of mine. The other players shouted “Whoaaa!” as they saw the ball flying. But suddenly, two of them looked upwards and saw me. One of them pointed towards me and then shouted, “Hey, who’s he?!” All the other players started walking towards that boy who was in the middle of the field with their heads tilted up above on me. Another one shouted, “Hey! What’cha doin’, eh?!” My narrow eyes, which had dark spots beneath them, looked at the boys from behind my spectacles. I then moved my head a little up and saw my shiny gakuran jacket fluttered by my shiny yellow colored buttons as the wind started blowing from my left side. I was able to feel the wind dancing upon my soft skin as I closed my eyes and turned my head upwards. I took a deep breath, and then exhaled it out with my mouth. I then again took a breath. This time, when I exhaled it out with my mouth, I was able to feel the saliva of my mouth upon my lips. I tilted my head and turned towards my arm, which was trembling a little. Both of my hands were still holding the railing of the school’s rooftop. I then turned left and then looked on my other arm. “Hey! Get down!” One of the persons from beneath shouted. I turned my narrowed eyes towards the ground, the teachers, a large gang of footballers and students, and some even workers had gathered in a circle. I turned my head towards the front. I looked at a couple of brown colored and blue-green colored houses in front of me, which stood high and mighty. Beneath them was the clear blue sky.

A wall of text!

Warning: you don’t really need to read all of it. But you probably did, lol.

Anyway, it’s the opening scene from one of my first novels. And, as much as I hate to say this—it’s pretty sh*t. It has a lot of problems—no paragraph divisions, for example, as well as a lot of grammatical mistakes too. But the biggest problem with the text is that it’s just images.

Reading this text, I dare you to highlight one single sentence that might tell you anything about the narrator.

The narrator is narrating the motions, not the emotions.

(Damn, that was a dope line to say, man.)

The narrator is only telling you about the images and actions and dialogues and thoughts. Even though it’s in first-person POV, you feel distant from the narrator. And, even in third-person POV, authors are supposed to make sure the distance between the narrator and the reader remains at a minimum.

That’s how you get a film-novel—that’s filled with scene-descriptions, actions, and dialogues. There’s no narrations in it. The readers don’t know the thoughts of these characters.

***

#03 - Is it really a problem, though?

Well, you might ask me—is it really such a big problem?

Heck yeah.

The reason is pretty simple, actually—no one wants to read a film-novel. These novels are filled with only descriptions and actions—that’s too much of mental effort. these novels make their readers keep on imagining stuff, and no reader wants to do that.

Because it’s easier to look at pictures than to imagine them based on text. And that’s why your film-novels won’t work.

See, you need to understand this—novels are different than film. Sure, novels are a form of storytelling too, and they do include visual effort, such as descriptions, action, and all that. But, all that is not the main selling point of a novel.

The main selling point of a novel is the emotions. Emotions captured in words, in situations—caught in context like a butterfly in a child’s hand. Films can display emotions, but novels put those emotions into words.

Narration is what forms the greatest part of a novel. Narration is where a novel actually shines. Narration is what the readers come to read.

And, as you could guess, films don’t narrate. Consider this,

And rain made him feel like crying. He gulped down, trying to keep the lump of his throat in check. He couldn’t cry in the middle of so many other kids. They’ll ask questions, and what will he say to them, huh?

He was sorry.

For what?

For everything he did. And for everything he didn’t.

The day had just begun. It’d be long before it ends, y’know. He just couldn't wait for it to end. There was no lifting up his mood. Not until tomorrow.

How do you display this in a film? The answer—you can't. However hard you try, you can't.

Such narrations are where the art of novels shine. Such narrations are what differentiates a novel from a visual media.

***

#04 - Is it really a problem, though? (pt.ii)

All this talk constantly reminds me of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. It’s a literary achievement and really experimental in a lot of stuff that it does. For example, the novel has no dashes or apostrophes—and it’s not like these punctuation marks were not needed, they’re just not used. So, you’d find a lot of grammatical mistakes throughout the text.

And also, one thing that McCarthy ignored—and that’s relevant to the discussion we’re having—is that there’s literally zero narration. Zero.

McCarthy adopts a style that’s similar to a third-person POV, and is kinda like how I used to write when I was little—just with paragraphs and better scene-descriptions and action-descriptions. A lot better, as you can observe if you read his work.

Anyway, he didn’t have any narrative elements in his text. So the readers don’t really know what these characters are thinking or planning to do. They just know that these characters are somehow surviving.

I don’t wanna give away most of the plot of the novel, but the basic premise of the novel is that there’s a father-son duo who’s been caught in this apocalypse-type situation, and are traveling down the road to the south part of the country to escape the harsh winters that the north experiences. The novel doesn’t reveal a lot—the readers don’t know the names of these characters, the thoughts of the characters are hidden most of the time, and you don’t know what actually happened that most of humanity is dead and society is completely gone.

Now, McCarthy did it for a reason. A scarcity of punctuation marks reflects a form of scarcity in the scenery around them. Because most of it is, well, gone. Humanity is gone, and stuff is decaying. You don’t find fresh food anymore. Scavenge all you want—one day, all the canned food will expire, and there will be nothing to eat. Except fruits and veggies, that need to be grown somewhere. And nobody likes the latter, honestly.

And the scene-descriptions are so tough to read. They’re an actual pain. I have had a really hard time deciphering most of it, because the vocab is too high, and probably the sentences do not flow into each other easily. I can’t say anything about the sentences if I don’t understand them, y’know.

But, man, maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Maybe that’s why McCarthy wrote the descriptions in this way—to symbolize the mental stress that the characters go through as they experience this world, this form of reality that they were not meant to be in.

And maybe the novel is so lacking in narrations because the characters’ minds have gone numb. They’re forgetting language. With almost zero human interaction most of the time, they are forgetting how to think and interact in words. You lose the skills you don’t really use anymore, y’know. And these guys are so obviously depressed, so they don’t think about the world. They are used to the sad reality they live in. No point in complaining how bad the food is if that’s all you’re gonna eat all your life.

So, a scarcity of narrations tell you a lot about the story and its characters. It reflects something, it symbolizes something. The Road is a masterfully crafted piece of prose, please don’t get inspired to write in this style just because. This style won’t work on most of the stories.

Yeah, just because he wrote like this means you can too. Let me tell you, dear reader, that all of what we call rules are meant to be broken. Nothing is absolute. But here’s the catch—you can’t break the rules just because you don’t know how to apply them.

Authors need to learn these rules, because that’s what constitutes most of the written prose. That’s what forms the basics of the craft. So, learn them, understand them, and know how to use them. And then make a conscious decision not to use them.

See, these rules are like tools or weapons in your arsenal. And you need to keep your arsenal ready for everything. And then, you can decide which weapon to use, when to use it, and how to use it. Because you don’t know what sort of idea hits your head next and you’d suddenly need some of them.

***

#04 - Solution

So, how to make sure your novel actually comes off as a novel and not a film-novel? Unfortunately, the answer to that question… is that I don't know.

I know this sounds so absurd, but it is what it is. As someone who’s so recently started studying prose, I know this problem exists, but I still don’t know how to fix it. You could say I know my novels are film-novels, and I’m trying to fix it. But I, personally, am having a lot of trouble with it.

However, one way I can recommend is to write from your character’s POV, not your POV. You probably imagined your story as a film, but that’s now how you’re supposed to write it. Get into your characters’ head, see what they’re seeing, and write that.

But it’s tough. For me, at least. I always find myself going back to my old ways, and I think I need to re-write almost all of my scene-descriptions and actions because of it.

Lol, how ironic.

***

Conclusion

Yeah, and that’s it. I hope you liked this blog. Sorry I hadn’t posted in along while, I was going through a writers’ block. Stuff is happening these days, y’know.

Anyway, I’ll see you again in a couple of days, with something new. Bye-byee!

[guilty-pleasures21]

Prom with Neighbour!Miguel

Just had this in my head.

Warnings: some suggestive thoughts.

_______________________________________________

     Imagine getting ready to go to prom with your childhood sweetheart Miguel who lives next door to you.  

     Your rooms have always faced each other, the floor-to-ceiling windows allowing you to flash each other scribbled notes when you’d still been too young to have smartphones. Miguel had even managed to convince his parents to get him a projector two years back so the two of you could watch movies together when you were meant to be sleeping on a school night. 

     You walk out of the shower in your t-shirt and shorts, your body freshly scrubbed and your makeup perfectly done. You stop in front of your bed, admiring the dress carefully laid out on top of it. It was made out of sheer lavender lace that sat over a white silk underskirt. Thin straps held the corset top up whilst two off-the-shoulder sleeves curled loosely around your arms. You’d even found the perfect ballet flats in the same colour that came with thick satin ribbons that wrapped around your calves. You’d felt like a Barbie princess when you’d tried the whole outfit on at the store! You’d sent Miguel a picture of the skirt once you’d bought the dress, letting him know the colour he needed to match, but also keeping enough of your outfit a secret for him to be pleasantly surprised when he picked you up before the dance. 

     You glance up at the thought of your boyfriend just in time to see him tug his shirt off. You blink at the sight of his broad back, dumbfounded by the defined lines of his muscles etched into his tanned skin. You knew he was fit - he’d been the captain of your school’s basketball team for the last three years - and of course you’d seen him with his shirt off before, but the sight of his bare torso never failed to stun you into silence. You bite your lip as he runs his fingers through his hair and your brain momentarily goes numb at the way his muscles flex at the movement. You close your eyes and shake your head, pulling yourself back into your body, but when you open your eyes again, he’s turned around. 

     Your lips part as your eyes trace the outlines of his abs and you swallow hard when your gaze lands on the bulge in his sweatpants. You slowly make your way up his chest, licking your lips at the broad planes, then your eyes travel up the length of his neck to his ear. You bite your lip, chewing on it like you were nibbling his soft little earlobe, then you slide your gaze along his chiselled jaw to his lips. They curl into a smirk and you look up to find him watching you with the same intensity that you’d been studying him with. Your eyes widen with horror as he fixes you with a devious grin and you spin around, mentally berating yourself for your actions. 

     Ay, mierda, you were so hot, parting your lips when they’d landed on his core like you wanted to wrap your mouth around him and swallow. The blood rushed to his centre at the image of him sliding himself down your pretty little throat and he closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness hit him. He smirked mischievously as he waited for you to look up at him and a soft snicker escaped his throat when your cheeks turned red with embarrassment. Mierda, you were cute. He placed his hands on hips as he continued to watch you, waiting with excitement to see what you’d do next. 

     Shit, shit, shit! Ugh! How embarrassing! You were the one who’d said that you weren’t ready to go all the way yet, but there you were checking him out like he was your favourite dessert! You let out a frustrated whine, then twist your head back to sneak another peek at him. Miguel raises his eyebrows, his lips still curled into that amused smile, and you cover your face with your hands. Ahh! He was so handsome! And all yours too! Ahh! 

     You jumped up and down as you squealed with excitement. Well, he guessed that you were squealing - he couldn’t hear you from all the way over in his room, but he knew how you got whenever you got excited. You stopped suddenly and took a few deep breaths to calm yourself down, then you looked back at him again, your expression mischievous this time. You turned back to your cupboard so your back was facing him, then you shimmied your shorts off. Miguel's eyes immediately fell to your legs, long and bare beneath your shirt, then they climbed back up to your ass. 

     You twist your head to sneak another peek at your boyfriend and you grin when you see that you have his attention. You curl your fingers around the hem of your shirt and tug it off before tossing it aside. You restrain yourself from looking back at Miguel and instead, gather your hair into a loose ponytail, treating him to a view of your back. You turn to the side and place your free hand on your hip, posing in front of the mirror in your cupboard, then you let your hair go again and finally turn to your boyfriend. Miguel’s gaze instantly lands on your chest, his eyes following the curves of your bra, and your nipples tingle at the hungry look in his eyes. You bend over, pushing your arms against your sides to plump up your cleavage, and Miguel bites his lower lip as he runs his fingers through his hair, clearly getting frustrated by your teasing. 

     Santo cielo, you looked so deliciously soft. His palms itched with the need to be squished up against your lush breasts and his teeth ached with the desire to nibble on your smooth skin. F*ck. He couldn’t wait until summer started - when you’d agreed to have sex with him for the first time. Thank god the two of you had gotten into the same university: then he wouldn’t need to wait until the weekends or holidays to be able to spend time with you. 

     You straighten again, flicking your hair back before running your fingers through it, and Miguel stares at you blankly as you shoot him a cheeky wink. You turn around and reach for your phone to send him a text. 

     ‘Should I change my underwear, cariño?’

     His eyes widened when he saw your message, catching onto your underlying meaning immediately. He looked up at you again and swallowed hard before nodding his head. 

     Your entire body buzzes with excitement at the hazy look in his eyes. He always made you feel so attractive, your boyfriend, lighting up whenever he saw you, proudly displaying you by his side whenever you were hanging out with your friends, admiring whatever outfit you dressed up in whenever you went out together. 

     Miguel watched intently as you spun back around and gathered your hair over your shoulder before reaching for the clasp of your bra. His heart thudded rapidly in his chest as you took it off and tossed it aside, revealing the entire expanse of your back to him. His eyes went round with desire and his pants tightened in anticipation of seeing your bare ass exposed before him. You paused to rummage around in your drawers, then you held out a mismatched set of underwear, still facing the other way. Miguel quickly grabbed his phone. 

     ‘Aren’t they supposed to match, bonita?’

     You replace the underwear back in your closet and laugh when you see his innocuous message. 

     ‘They don’t have to match, hermoso.’

     ‘Most places sell them separately.’

     ‘I think you’re thinking of lingerie.’ 

     His heart fluttered at the nickname - as it always did no matter how many times you used it on him - and he smiled as he looked up at you again. Then his heart leaped into his throat. 

     You let the lingerie you’d bought dangle from your fingers, teasing your boyfriend with the naughty sheer blue lace. You’d gotten it when you’d gone dress shopping with your best friend a few weeks ago. You’d been a little intimidated by the more raunchy sets of underwear, but you’d liked how desirable the cute little bra and panties had made you feel when you’d tried it on. 

     Ay, mierda. You were so mean, teasing him so badly like this. Miguel scrambled for his phone and swiftly tapped out his response. 

     ‘YES YES YES YES YES!!!’

     You laugh and keep the underwear back in your drawer. 

     ‘Hmm, I think I’ll save it for a more special occasion, actually … 😉😘’

     Miguel closed his eyes as another wave of dizziness hit him. P*tas, you were driving him crazy! He sighed as you clipped your bra back on, then furrowed his brows when you walked over to the window. You swept your gaze over him one more time, then pulled your curtains shut. Miguel let his head fall back as he groaned in frustration, then he trudged over to his closet to continue getting ready. 

     “Ah! You look so handsome!” You grinned when you heard your mother’s excited squeal come from downstairs: Miguel had arrived to pick you up. You smoothed out your dress and checked your makeup one last time, then you carefully made your way down to the entryway. 

     “Y/N!” your mum exclaims, delighting in your beautiful outfit. “You guys are matching!” 

     You lift your gaze to Miguel and your heart thumps happily when you see the lavender shirt he’s wearing under his jacket. 

     Ay, mierda, you were so, so beautiful! He stared silently at you as you walked down the stairs, admiring how pretty you looked in your fairytale dress. You stopped in front of him and smiled sweetly as you waited for him to say something. He grinned and held his hands out to you, rubbing his thumbs over the backs of yours when you placed them in his. 

     “You look so beautiful, princesa. Mi princesa hermosa.” His heart melted as you giggled softly at his praise, then your parents got the two of you to strike a few poses as they snapped pictures. 

     “Okay, guys,” you finally stop them when your phone starts buzzing with impatient texts from your friends. “We have to go or we’ll be late!” 

     You drag Miguel out of your house, laughing at your parents’ enthusiasm, and the two of you walk over to his driveway to get into his car. 

     “Oh my God!” you pant, sinking back into your designated seat. “That was like a workout on its own!” 

     You lean back against your boyfriend’s hard chest and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close against him. Your friends gradually collapse into their own seats around your table and you yell at each other as you struggle to be heard over the music. Eventually, the night comes to an end and where some of the more unsavoury characters in your year disperse to their own afterparty, you and your friends decide to head home. Miguel offers to drop off some of your friends who live in the same neighbourhood as you and soon, the two of you pull into his driveway. 

     “Do you want to go to sleep, princesa?” he asks after switching the engine off. You yawn, suddenly realising how exhausted you are. 

     “Yeah,” you admit tiredly. “I just want to put on my pyjamas and snuggle up in bed. Can we hang out tomorrow?” 

     Miguel leans over the console and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. “Por supuesto, princesa. Message me when you wake up?” 

     You nod eagerly in agreement and Miguel walks you to your door like the gentleman he is. 

     “Night, Miguel, I love you,” you tell him, stretching onto your toes and wrapping your arms around his neck. 

     He bent over slightly and slid his arms around your waist, hugging you tightly against him. “Night, princesa, I love you too.”

[eatmycodbetty]

{You again?} ~ 2

part two. . . one

pairing: anthony lockwood x gn!reader

word count: 2.7k

summary: Your first time helping the trio goes well, but some resistance at your attempted aid spurs a personal challenge.

DISCLAIMER: I headcanoned mobile phones. Not smartphones, but an old nokia basically. still in the same vintage ish vibes it just makes it easier for what i want to achieve in the first few chapters. there are personal phones that imma make suck so they aren’t OP, and then professional calls go through a house phone. lmk if it’s too distracting and ill write it out lolol

notes: dialogue is hard. :pp ALSO this is the end of the INTRODUCTION phase of the story- there is soooooo much more to come.

Two . . .

11:47. Middle of London

Running down the street, you see the park sign. You recall what George had told you earlier that day, and you enter from the east of the entrance, a hidden path that kind of slopes from use over the years.

At first, there’s nothing. It is dark, obviously no ghost-lamps around, and terraced with trees. This is practically a jungle at night, no wonder they lost a source here. You could lose your own two feet if you weren’t so careful.

As your panic finds a fake lull, you hear a yelp from across the park, over an old cobbled half-wall. You sprint to the area, seeing a streak of orange and hearing George’s calls for mercy.

When you leap up over the wall, rapier in hand, a scared George is running at you. He sees you and trips, grabbing you on the way. You two stumble but you get up swiftly in time for the onslaught that was behind him. Two smaller ghosts coming out of a thick fog followed him, but you make quick work with a few jabs into their figures, them quickly dissipating with horrible screams.

You turn and help the poor boy up from behind you, his fingers still grabbing your jacket. “Oh my BLOODY god y/n thank you thank you THANK YOU. You came just in time” He stutters, out of breath, and takes a second to gulp down some air and stand back up. “We were so close…but that damned cluster almost ruined it for us. We ran up this hill with the…wait.”

He stops to search and pat his orange hoodie quickly, coming to a disheartening realization as he looks back up at you. “We lost it again. I might just leave it if I am being honest- it’s too fucking much.”

As he rambles you take a breath, shushing him with a hurried question. “Where are the others, G. We need to make sure you are all safe before worrying about this stupid trinket.”

He quickly realizes that he left the other two, looking to the left of your current spot. He points as you two begin to run, rapiers in hands. You toss him a salt bomb and with a nervous nod he takes it and readies as you two approach the scene.

You almost stumble over a bush to see the same girl from earlier- Lucy, was it?- and the slender boy you can only assume is Lockwood. They are caught in the middle of a whirlwind of activity, fighting well- but not quick enough- as spirits reach out at their blind spots.

You take a jump into the action, yelling for them to duck as you fight from Lucy’s side first. George throws the salt bomb whilst you dissipate the area around Lucy. She sits back up and you acknowledge each other with a quick smile and nod, fending off the near liquid-like fog on Lockwood.

As you do this, the salt bomb goes off right above you, nice shot George, and the whirlwind you’re in starts to falter. You three run out, shouting at George to run as well.

Running up the back of the group, you jump back through the brush and into the area where you found George earlier. As you make a b-line towards the rest of the group, a thick ghost-fog starts to fizzle in front of you, but you throw another salt bomb hastily and dive back over the cobbled half-wall.

As you steady yourself, a shimmer catches your eye. Without thinking, you dislodge the item from the stones and keep running, narrowly missing the foggy spirits that linger above you.

The four of you keep running until you’re out of the park, back through the small passageway and into the street, where you find a resting area under some ghost-lamps. Perfect. Lucy and George immediately sit on a bench, laying out and catching their breath.

You catch up to the group, deciding to lean on the lamp pole behind them to catch your breath as well. The tall and slender boy stands in front of the two sitting agents, rubbing his hands which eventually land on his hips. You see his jacket open a little at this, is he wearing a suit? In the field?? Yeesh, you think. The rumors around this guy might just be right. For now he just loiters and thinks, gaze wandering between the group and you.

George speaks up first, eyes locked on the pavement guiltily, “hey so..I might have dropped the eyeglass when I had to run.” He looks back up at the two others, “BUT we can come back in the day- I never want to come back here at night ever again. Even if the ghosts can help us find it, they can all go to the shitter.”

You think as he’s rambling, and absent mindedly take out the object you picked up out of your pocket. You twist it around in your fingers, focusing when you realize the smooth texture- it’s a brass eyeglass. Before he can keep going you speak up, “Uh hey G…is this what you lost?”

He looks at you for a second and leans over, confused…until his eyes widen and he snatches the trinket from your palm. “Y/N you are a saint! How did you even find this in between fighting?!” He is obviously relieved, holding the eyeglass with his forefingers in the light for the group to see.

You smile and lean your back on the pole, “I just saw it lodged in that old wall when we were getting away, I didn’t even think about it really.” And you didn’t, you just thought it was a big coin or something.

“Well it doesn’t matter if you thought about it or not-you saved our arses.” He gives you a friendly jab on the arm and hands the trinket to Lucy, who stuck it in a small silver sack to prevent a longer night.

He jests as he’s handing it to Lucy, “Seeeee..safe and sound. Can we leave the house alone now when something goes missing…”

She quips back, “Well it seems y/n was the one to actually get it, but next time I will be sure to leave your precious books on the lounge table alone.” She smiles sarcastically and puts the silver pouch in her bag as he huffs.

“I guess that’s fine..I might as well just bring them back up to my room if they’re only going to be destroyed in the lounge…you are all animals.”

As he complains, Lucy looks back to you, ignoring him, “Hi y/n! You were surprisingly fast, thanks for the help back there- George was right about you.”

You smile at her and cross your arms with a reply. “You didn’t do half bad, we should train together sometime. We need to stay sharp…literally.” She smiles this time, a silent agreement between you two.

Then, a cough.

Lucy’s gaze is disrupted from you and you all shift to the tall and silent boy standing with his hands in his pockets. You honestly forgot he existed for a moment, what is up with him? George huffs quietly, “oh yeah..”

The boy shifts on his feet before turning to you, standing at full attention and extending a hand. “Hi there. I’m Anthony Lockwood, and this is my agency Lockwood & Co. Although, I can boldly assume you know these two already.” He squints at the two on the bench, of which Lucy shrugs and the two meekly feign ignorance.

You quietly snort at their remarks towards the boy, but then turn to him in the same manner- you feign your own confidence. He is, after all, the boss of another agency, and you feel the need to show your resilience in your lonesome.

As you take his hand and shake it once firmly, you reply, “Hello, Mr. Lockwood. I am Y/n L/n. I run my own ship…and I know George. Nice to finally meet, I’ve heard wonders.” You make a little explosion expression with your hands as you say this.

He has an inquisitive look to that last bit, underlying charm in his face, but he just nods and looks at you, analyzing your gear. “Nice to meet you too, Mx. L/n.” He smiles thinly, “I’ve seen your work in the back of the papers, and, well, word gets around when you challenge the higher agencies…dicks.” You sniffle to restrain a laugh at that. He hesitates as you start to rifle through your bag, continuing only as you hand him a business card. “You’re George’s old mate, right? We are on the same team it seems, you know if you ever-”

George cuts him off, “Y/n is one of my friends from Fitts, or rather one of my only old friends outside of you lot. You can trust them, we’d probably be another sob story if it weren’t for their saving the day anyways.” He looks to you and you wink in an obviously heroic manner, you both chuckle. Lockwood smiles a bit more genuinely at this, stopping only at Lucy interrupting.

“I don’t know them that well if it makes you feel better, Lockwood.” Lucy explains as she stands up now, between the bench and Lockwood. “But from what I’ve seen, we could learn a thing or two.” She looks to you again, “…or maybe we need the help- you did a great job playing the hero after all.”

You rub the back of your neck, but before you can reply to her sudden advertising, Lockwood intercepts: “I don’t think we need help. Having connections is nice but we work just fine- I mean we would have been fine back there with or without them- no offense.”

You roll your eyes from the obviously beaten boy over to George and Lucy, who have a kind of disdain on their faces at this remark. Lucy scoffs at Lockwood. “I think you just can’t accept anything. If you get out of your neurotic thick skull for one minute to see that we were in the trenches back there then maybe you’d be a bit more accepting.”

He is, surprisingly, not much wavering by this. Must happen often. You speak up on your behalf, as it seems Lockwood doesn’t have much to say to the girl. “Well, I don’t want to join you lot or anything, if that makes it better. I work well on my own, I don’t want to do the agency thing again. I just like helping, especially for an old friend and for a couple pounds.”

Lucy and George hear you and immediately make a “see?” face at Lockwood, who eventually butts in. “Well…only if we really need to. Agent L/n is an exceptional fighter, thank you for your help tonight.”

You nod at this with a small smile whilst the other two celebrate a silent victory, yet he continues. “Just as long as I’m let in on it, okay? No going behind my back- we’re a team. Got it?” They nod and quietly fist bump- he notices but ignores them once more, a kind of compassion wavering behind his eyes. What is even going on with them?

You pipe up again, “Well...I am glad that is handled. I will be making my leave, you all have a good night. George has my contact if there’s any night you want me to be on call or whatever, just let me know.” You want to go to bed and leave the awkward circumstance, but someone persists as you start to pick yourself up and head off.

“Y/n wait- before you go.” A hand on your shoulder turns you, just as you had tried to leave. Lucy is there, holding about 30 quid, taking your hand and placing it in your palm for you. You like her confidence, it's a wonder how she puts up with the other two. “Remember, we’re still paying you.”

You take a second to look at the money, before gripping it and patting her shoulder, “thank you Lucy.” You then peek over her shoulder at George, who is now getting off the bench, and Lockwood, who is somewhat still lost in thought. Weirdo.

You call out to them as well, “Thanks everyone, keep in touch. Goodnight!” You start to bound off as everyone is exchanging goodbyes and you split from the party, them going off in another direction back to their home.

1:23am. Closer to home

You breathe a full breath for the first time since leaving your flat earlier in the night. You're almost home, but you stopped in a busier part of the city to take a look at the stars. Barely visible. You sigh and keep going, eventually landing back at your flat.

Taking off your dirty clothes and settling your supplies in their usual spot, you go to take a well deserved shower. After, you swiftly lie back on your bed, letting your legs dangle in your fuzzy slippers.

You stare at your walls, your pictures and bundles of dried lavender to help protect (and refresh) the dingy flat. All these memories of when things went wrong, but more importantly, when things went right. Memories that morphed you into the person you are today.

Tonight was different, but it was kind of...fun. You were already used to being deemed a "hero" in your endeavors for as long as you can remember, but this felt different. You wanted to show them that you could be great- but why?

You already knew you were great, you didn't have to prove it to anyone. It had been clear for the many years working your way through countless different people and places that you excelled independently.

You decide to turn in for the night, to actually rest. It's almost 2 am, so it's easy to spiral into these kinds of mindless thought bubbles. You turn off the lamps and tuck into your sheets, with only the subtle glow of the moon dimly lighting the one room flat you occupy.

Then, another glow joins it. You look over, your phone is lit up. Who could even be texting you this late? You turn the phone over, seeing a new message from an unknown number. You pick up the phone and open the message.

Unknown Sender: Hello Mx. L/n. George gave me your number. Could you be on call the night of this coming Wednesday? The other two were persistent about it on the walk home. You'll be paid 30 quid if you're called, and 15 if we end up not needing you. Unknown Sender: Oh, and Luce wants to meet up sometime. Something about your rapiers. She might text you about it, but she is already asleep. Just wanted to let you know. Unknown Sender: Goodnight. - LW

You sit there in a kind of standstill at what had just occurred. Why did he sign off like it's a letter? Everything about this boy screams strange, but he's not your boss so you aren't going to pay it too much mind. It's nice that Lucy remembered, you smile at the thought of training with someone else. You reply quickly, just in case you forget in the morning.

You: Hey! I told G that I have nothing this week, so it's all good. Thank you for letting me know! You: Also...go to bed. It's almost 2:30

Here is where you see him start to type, then stop. You get a message about a full minute later.

A.Lockwood: You too. Looking forward to working again. Have a good night, y/n.

You give a tired chuckle and set your phone on your chest. He stopped the formalities? He must be tired. Whatever. You take your phone once more to turn it off, no more interruptions tonight.

As you go in and out of consciousness, you can only think of a few things. You're happy that George is doing well for himself, you enjoy the presence of another strong individual in Lucy, and most notably you're wondering what you even got yourself into.

Whatever the week brings, you have a feeling that it will be just fine. And maybe even...fun.

~fin~

thanks for reading pt 2 guys :)))) this is the end of the introduction part, we're gonna get into the juicy bits later. I'll be gone for two-ish days but I'll be back in no time- don't forget about me!!

[capitalism-and-analytics]

I recently saw a post (not from you, just out in the wild) talking about how 'trickle down economics is a failure'. I'm fairly ambivalent about the concept for a few reasons, but in this case the person was criticizing it because 'the rich got richer' and 'wealth disparities, etc.'

Now I'm by no means an expert, but wealth (if not 'money') has certainly exploded in the last 50 years in the US - the fact that the vast majority of the population own a smartphone AND a computer alone should lead one to conclude this (it's near tautological). I'm also somewhat critical of demand-side economists when they complain that things aren't affordable, because that's literally what their economic model declares is the ideal situation. They seem to believe that a highly complex system can be fine-tuned so that everyone gets exactly what they need without fail, and don't consider such an idyllic outcome is nigh impossible: you either have too much, or not enough, never exactly what you need (at least, for a large population over a long period of time). I think I'm going to start referring to these people as 'Goldilocks Economists' because they seem to think they just need to keep trying things until they get it juuuust right, and underestimate just how many variable would require accounting.

Since you seem more informed on this topic, what are your thoughts?

Without seeing the post, I can't really speak in regards to it too confidently of specifics, but given your examples, it has to do with the fact that there is a disagreement in intended outcomes. Economic systems do not have intended outcomes or goals, they are dictated by society. The real metric of the 'effectiveness' of a system is in regards to how much it fulfills the represented society's goal(s). In relation to the author of the post, they aren't 'wrong' in their criticisms as it pertains to their own goals, but they are failing to realize that the rest of society does not agree with their goals in behavior. The reality is that the things people say and the things people do often contradict themselves. e.g. businesses often utilize cheap labor because consumers care more about price leadership than the usage of fair labor, despite claiming they would pay more for products produced with more fair labor.

Some of the other misconceptions that you brought up:

We don't live in a zero sum system and it is constantly growing as it is not measured through finite tangible resources, but the perception of both implicit and explicit value, which is effectively infinite.

The issue isn't that a system can't theoretically be fine-tuned, but instead the issue is that we can't unanimously define what is perfection to even attempt to fine-tune towards.

The misunderstanding that growth is only additive opposed to when in reality it can be multiplicative or exponential, which perpetuates the disparities. e.g. if everyone does 10% better, then those already doing better will proportional gain more relative growth, despite everyone being better off.

The misconception of 'needs' v. 'wants'. This goes back to my earlier point, but there is this fallacy that everyone will pursue the needs of others over their own wants, yet in reality, most of society will only pursue the needs of others when it aligns with their own perception of value.

[balkanradfem]

I have some good news! I am now in a possession of a smartphone that is not old and decrepit, and I'm going to tell you the story of how I got it.

I've been working, and the mother of the woman I work for was there. She's always been chatty and sweet to me and I feel relaxed around her. So at one point my phone falls out of my arms, hits the floor, and falls apart in three pieces. She sees this and reasonably gets worried, but I reassure her 'it's all good this happens every week', because my phone is so old that it doesn't break from falling apart, I just need to put the battery back in. She the asks me if I'd like her old phone, because she got a new one, just needs to set it up. And immediately I'm like 'Nooo that would be too much, I could never repay you, I'm sure there's someone else who needs it more'. And I leave the interaction.

And then the next day I'm thinking, maybe my reflexes to decline stuff are not that great. Someone on tumblr recommended me to ask for people's old phones, and I was there, rejecting them when they were offered to me. And I'm thinking, if only I could offer her something in return for the phone, then I could propose a trade.

Next week, I see her again! She complains to me about the price of chestnuts on the market, and I immediately hatch a plan; I can get this woman chestnuts for her phone. That way it is fair, I resolve an inconvenience and I get her old phone, perfect. So I actually take several hours to hype myself up to ask her, thinking of a way to ask her that wouldn't bring me into an uncomfortable situation. Maybe she's already promised her phone to someone else while I've been a coward. In the end, I'm like, okay, I'm going to take a shot and laugh it off if she says no. And I ask her 'hey, do you still have that old phone?' and she's saying 'Yeah, I'm still using it! My daughter didn't have time to set my new one, but maybe next week it'll happen.' And then I reveal that I've been thinking of bringing her a bag of chestnuts to trade for her phone, and she laughs me off and tells me not to bring anything, she'll just give me the phone when she gets her new one set up as she doesn't need this one anymore.

I don't see her next time, but time after that she's in there, and as soon as she sees me, she goes 'I brought you your phone!' and I'm just overjoyed that she remembered. After I was done with work she even found a charger and just left me with it. I thanked her dozen times and went home happy.

The phone I got was Samsung Galaxy, which is funny because my old phone is also Samsung Galaxy, I'm in the same boat. My sim card wouldn't fit into it because it needed to be smaller! I went to the sim provider center to ask them to give me a smaller one, and they did, as well as warned me that this new phone is going to eat up all the internet immediately, and that the mobile data is even turned on automatically every time I turn the phone on! I was expecting the first, but not the second. So I spent several hours figuring out how to stop that phone from using up the internet; I blocked every app from using data (except tumblr), I stopped all apps from updating (be yourself), I went into the settings of every app individually to stop them from using data in the background, and still when I turned on the mobile data, 50mb was eaten immediately (I opened tumblr app for one second). Gyns I only have 200 mb. So I'm thinking, mmmm, this won't work, I'm not going to be able to stop this thing from eating my humble 150mb in 3 seconds. So I took out the sim card, put it back in my old phone. New one is so big it wouldn't fit in my pocket anyway! And if I broke it I would feel terrible. So, I am still back on my old phone, which I love, and the new phone is going to serve a different function; it's going to be my camera.

The new phone has an incredible camera that allows me to take close-up photos, which means I've been taking pictures of every little flower, every droplet of water, and every plant I could find in the grass. The difference in quality is incredible. This thing can also take pictures in the night! Something my old phone cannot dream of doing. You're about to see high definition photos of garden, mushrooms, forest, and anything else I set my eyes on.