#there are straight people on this site! there are even companies

[redandfranticfeelings]

"staff said this site is only 25% queer so let's disprove them by having all my followers vote on this poll!"

do y'all really think you're gonna get a fair unbiased sample of how many queer people use this site when many of you have "cishets dni" in your bio and make posts geared primarily towards a queer audience thus getting a specific following?

[becca-alexa]

so my manager told me i need to start going into the office three days a week

[knightjpg]

Brick by Brick

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.

tags: construction worker simon/neighbour reader

part 1 | part 2

Summer is the worst time of year for construction work outside. Up early before the birds are awake to try and beat the heat, arriving on site at six or earlier with bleary eyes and creaky joints from the day before. It means coming home at four or five with lots of day left to get through yet without the will or energy to do anything beside shower, eat, watch some telly, and sleep. 

The pay is good and it beats sitting in a cramped office all day, but when Simon gets home with aching knees and the thrum of a headache at the back of his skull it's hard to remember why on Earth he chose the career he's in. He's drenched in sweat, large dark patches adorning his pits and back. 

It's one of those days where very little can make him stray from his commute straight to home to collapse into his big falling-apart chair, but today it's not really up to him. A large moving truck blocks his driveway. The faded company logo against dirty white overtakes the entire view of his windshield, though Simon can see the back doors are still swung open. No one to attend to it, though. 

Simon noticed the FOR SALE! sign had gone, of course. Remembers feeling vaguely pleased, even, that the home next to his wouldn't be empty anymore, because he of all people knows exactly how quickly places can fall apart without anyone tending to it. But right now all he feels is tired, and hot, and really fucking annoyed. Just when he's clicked his belt loose to get out of the car and see if the dolt belonging to the truck is anywhere to be found, voices carry from the open front door. 

“...last. I'm afraid it's a little heavy, though, so maybe we should get the boxes out first?” 

And out steps the sweetest little thing he's ever seen. Hair tied up, tight little top, and shorts that give him ample view of your legs.  

Maybe summer's not so bad after all. 

You're talking to a bloke wearing a uniform that matches the moving truck and who looks flushed in the face from exertion. As soon as you clock Simon's car, though, you stop mid-sentence in surprise, and then quickly walk to him, brows furrowed apologetically. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry—you're trying to get past us, aren't you?” Simon gives you a nod, and you turn back to the mover. “Would you mind moving the truck up a little? I don't want it to be in the way.” 

There's precious little parking space ahead, so Simon rolls down his window and calls out to you, “Jus’ backing up a few yards s’fine.” He gestures to his driveway so you know that's where he's headed, and you flash him a smile and a thumbs-up in understanding. 

The truck is moved, Simon parks his car, and you pull another heavy-looking box from the cube. You never reach your new doorstep with it; Simon steps in and lifts it from your hands. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweetly with surprise. “Oh—are you sure? It's heavy...!” 

One corner of Simon's mouth tugs up. Tired as he is it weighs next to nothing, and he can't resist holding it with one arm, holding out the other. 

“Can take ‘nother if you need.” 

You laugh and assure him this is quite enough, then jog back to the truck while Simon pushes past the half-open door to his new neighbour's home. 

It's a mess, of course. Piles of boxes, scattered furniture, rolled-up carpets. Simon puts the box down in the living room, then saunters back outside to lift another from your hands. He does the same with the couch; the mover is struggling and Simon doesn't trust him not to let it fall and crash. And you're such a little thing. Just doesn't feel right, watching you rush around and struggle without stepping in. 

With Simon's help it's quick work. The mover thanks Simon before driving off, but he's not really listening. There's much more important things to pay attention to. 

You're pretty. Cheeks flushed from exertion, breathing hard, flyaway hairs from your ponytail sticking up in odd directions. Simon has to suppress the urge to smooth them away. 

"Thanks so much for the help,” you tell him earnestly. “I'm sorry we were in the way—we thought we'd have a little more time before people started coming home from work.” 

“S’alright,” Simon says. It's nearing evening, now, the sky above you glowing in pale pink and oranges hues. The little smatter of trees across from you rustles with a gust of summer wind.  

You introduce yourself and insist on giving Simon your number “in case there's ever anything you need.” Simon's more concerned about a young woman living all on her own but takes your number all the same, watching your pretty little fingers tap it in on his phone. 

“I mostly work from home, but I'm very quiet and boring,” you tell him with a smile. “You don't have to worry about noise.” 

For some reason that isn't the selling point it should be. When Simon stands inside his hallway, house empty and dark and quiet, he wishes he still lived in a shitty apartment with thin walls on the bad side of Manchester. Maybe then he'd hear your footsteps, or better yet, your voice. Instead the only thing waiting for him at home is silence. Heavy and thick, where he's ripped away from sweet sunshine and plunged underwater. 

-

Simon is halfway to falling asleep on the couch when the bell rings. He groans, drags a hand over his face, and glances up at the TV. The football match is still going. The camera pans over a cheering crowd, their cries distant and quiet. 

He mutes the thing entirely and heaves himself up to open the door. Swear to God, if this is the fucking salesman again... 

“Hi there.” 

You give Simon a little finger wave, your other hand cradling a round oven dish. When you shift on your feet the protective foil on top rustles noisily. 

You look a little more put together than you did yesterday—rested, showered, fed. Just as pretty. 

Although, speaking of fed... 

“Alright?” Simon asks, eyes on the oven pan. He's only catching a faint whiff of something, but whatever it is smells really fucking good. His stomach reminds him that the only thing in his fridge are a couple cans of beer.  

You nod and lift the dish with a shy little grin. “Yeah. Um. I wanted to say thanks again, for yesterday. And I wanted to test out my oven, so...” 

You hold the dish out for him to take. Simon's fingers brush yours, large meaty paws easily twice the size of your own. When he peels back the foil you add, “Shepherd's pie. I thought about cookies, but I wasn't sure if you'd like those.” 

The scent hits him, then, rich and hearty and buttery smooth. The dish is still a little warm. 

Fuck. When was the last time he ate something homemade? 

“No, I'll eat anything,” he says, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. He hasn't showered yet. Must look a nightmare. Does he stink? “Thanks.” 

Your whole face lights up, and Simon's neck feels hot. He averts his eyes to avoid your gaze and pretends to inspect the pie instead. Jesus, what is he, twelve? “I'm glad. I'll leave you to it, then.” 

D’you want to come in for a drink?  

It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't get the words out quite right and gives you a brusque nod, watching you walk back to your own home before closing his door all the way. 

He eats at his kitchen table and finishes the whole thing in one go. Chases bits of flakey crust with his finger, licks up every leftover crumb. The meat is tender and juicy and for a while after the only things he smells is golden-brown potatoes seasoned with rosemary. 

He mourns it when it's gone, of course. Has half a mind to go over right now and ask if your cooking is for hire—Simon can't remember the last time he felt satisfied. When he ate not just for the sake of fuel or convenience but because someone wanted him to have something nice, something special. Is it special? Is he special? Are you going around the neighbourhood handing out cookies and pies to just anyone? 

Simon's sigh is loud in the silence and sticks to the kitchen walls. 

The pre-made frozen meals are fine, of course. Empty plastic containers fill up the rubbish bin. They're easy and cheap and most days Simon's glad just to have something warm in his stomach.  

And yet. 

The next day Simon stands at your door at six in the evening sharp, holding the clean dish in his hands. You invite him in for a cup of tea, because unlike him you have good manners, and you sheepishly apologise for the stacks of boxes everywhere. 

“S’alright,” Simon says, carefully manoeuvring around a large pile of books. “I don't mind.” 

And he doesn't, though he does feel like a bull in a china shop. Large and much too coarse for the little tea cup you hand him while the kettle whistles on the stove. 

“I'm afraid I don't have much to go with it,” you say with a flutter of your hands. “Do you like ginger snaps? I think I've got a pack somewhere.” 

You don't wait for his answer and pry open one of the cupboards. First come the ginger snaps, then the box of Earl Grey, which you hold up to him with a triumphant smile. “Unpacked the important stuff first.” 

Simon frowns and jerks his chin to the cupboard. “S’it stuck?” 

“Oh—yeah. They all are.” You give the wood a little knock. “It'll take me some time to get to fixing everything. The house went for a good price, but only ‘cause it needs some love.” You give him a rueful smile and get up, wiping your hands on your thighs. “I'm not all that handy, so I'll have to take it bit by bit.” 

Simon rises before you finish your sentence. "Let me see.” 

“Oh, no, it's okay. It's not a big deal, really—” 

Simon crouches down, slowly, to spare his knees, and tests the hinges. The wood is rotten in certain places, the hinges old and rusted. Rather than fixing it up it should be replaced entirely. You really better had gotten this place for good money, because this will take more than a bit of elbow grease to repair. He prods at the hinges, tuts, and looks up at you. 

“Ready to fall apart, this one. You said they're all like this?” 

You nod, worry creasing your brow. “I—yes. Well, the kitchen is. The bathroom seems alright. Is it worse than I thought?” 

“Might be. You have anyone look at this?” 

You shake your head. “I'm starting to feel silly about it now, but I was going to look up how to do it myself.” 

Simon straightens. “I'll go get my kit.” 

-

It's not as bad as he feared. Two cabinets need tearing down completely, but the others are worth saving. Simon warns you the repair job will fuck the wood, but you tell him it's no problem; you'll paint over it anyway. 

You feed him tea and ginger snaps while he works, asking him several times if he wouldn't like a break, hasn't he done a lot already? You feel terrible about having him work on his day off. Didn't he say he worked construction? He must be so tired, poor man. You insist he stay for dinner. “You've been so helpful—it's the least I could do.” 

Simon takes a breather to watch you cook. Chicken, pasta, summer salad. The sun sinks lower and hits you straight on from the kitchen window, painting the edges of you a dazed red-gold. An angel's halo. 

“You big on reading, then?” 

You turn down the heat and put a lid over the pan to join him at the table. Simon's eyeing the many books strewn about on top of boxes that say “pans” and “kitchen supplies”. Le Morte D’Arthur. Histories of the Kings of Britain. Beowulf. There's even one that prompts a vague, long-forgotten memory from his school days— The Canterbury Tales.  

“I am. Always have been.” You nod to the books. “I teach at university—medieval literature. But I'm working on my own research on the side.” 

Simon lets out a low whistle. His pretty bird is a clever one. Smarter than him, that's for sure. He might be big and strong but he's got bricks for brains. 

That's what his dad always used to say, anyway—that he's stupid. Those always were his kinder moments. 

“That explains all the books y’got.” 

“There sure are a lot of them, aren't there? I swear moving really makes you realise just how much stuff you own...” You shake your head. “I'll have to get a bigger bookcase.” 

“Think it's impressive.” 

Your eyes crinkle with a smile. “Not as impressive as knowing how to fix my cabinets! I don't know how I would've managed by myself.” You hop up from your seat to check the food, then ask over your shoulder, “Is that something you do a lot for work, too? Carpentry and the like?” 

Simon shakes his head. “We do the heavy lifting. Clearing a place out, laying the foundation. Johnny—my coworker, he's mostly on machinery. Kyle does transport and plumbing. I do the heavier handiwork.” 

You hum and start plating the food while asking him more questions. Is the pay good? Is his boss fair? Are his coworkers nice? 

Price's fairly strict is what he is, Simon answers, and you laugh again. He likes that. Likes that he gets you to do that. 

He wolfs down a plate of his pasta and devours the chicken. It's fragrant, roasted with lemon and thyme, bursts between his teeth. He tells you more about Johnny, that he's a cocky bastard who likes playing with electricity way too much, but that he's also a loyal friend. That he's a hard worker—that all of them are. 

When his plate is empty and he's eyeing what's left in the pans you push them closer without saying anything, and prompt him to tell you about that time a plumbing line exploded and Kyle got soaked from tip to toe in disgusting gunk. He smelt like sewage water for weeks. 

Simon doesn't even realise how much he's talked until his throat starts feeling rougher than usual. You make it easy somehow. If he'd thought you would look down on him because of your own job he needn't have worried. You're not at all like what he imagines when he thinks of professors, none of the stuffy superiority complex he's used to weathering when people find out all he does all day is chafe his fingers on hard cement.  

Maybe you're just good at faking it, but he doubts it. The sparkle in your eyes when you listen to him so intently has to be real. 

You send him home with a warm thanks and dessert, and Simon feels something in his chest lurch when you peer up at him through your lashes in the doorway, smiling and sweet. Can't remember the last time he went out for dates. Can't remember having the time or energy for it. 

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. 

Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench. 

There are days when it's hard, of course. Simon is only human, and spending days and days on sizzling hard concrete would wring anyone dry. The project is coming along nicely, but at the height of summer there's plenty of times when even the promise of your smile isn't enough to keep him from falling asleep on his couch—often on an empty stomach. 

But during the weekends he rings your bell dutifully. Six o’clock becomes something sacred in his mind, sweet relief after praying on his knees for hours smoothing out cement. It gets to the point where he turns down Friday drinks with the guys more than once because he's got something to go home for now, his pretty little bird that's never once mentioned a boyfriend of any kind. 

“You really should let me pay you.” 

Simon gives you a look before pushing his large shoulders further into the cabinet under the bathroom sink. “Should be the one payin’ you. I know I'm doubling your grocery bill.” 

He eats more at your place than his own these days. It gives him incentive to rush through a shower, dress like something resembling a human, then wait at your doorstep to be let in. Wagging tail and everything. 

Your cheeks darken and you duck your head. “No, um... It makes me happy. To see you eat my cooking, I mean,” you confess a little shyly. “I feel like I'm the one getting everything out of this. I hope I'm not keeping you from—from spending time at home, or with your family.” 

“S’just me, love.” Simon pauses, pretends to inspect the pipes. “Less you don't want me coming ‘round anymore.” 

“No, no,” you say hastily. “No, I like—I like the company. Really.” Your voice softens. “And I'm not just saying that because I appreciate the help.” 

Simon exhales, shifts a little to accommodate the strain in his boxers, and holds his hand out for the screwdriver. 

[fleapit]

hi. why is nobody talking about the porn ban in north carolina? the PAVE act is a bill that was passed back in september 2023 (came into law january 1st 2024) that effectively bans users from viewing websites hosting adult content without age verification. (link to the bill)

"-the act legally requires commercial ventures to verify users’ ages if a company “knowingly and intentionally publishes or distributes material harmful to minors on the internet from a website that contains a substantial portion of such material.”

In order to do so, North Carolina requires these sites to either use “a commercially available database that is regularly used by businesses or governmental entities for the purpose of age and identity verification,” or utilize “another commercially reasonable method of age and identity verification.” Companies are not allowed to hold records on any personally identifying information used to confirm users’ ages.

Additionally, North Carolina offers residents the right to a lawsuit if a site is found to record user identifying information, or if a minor’s parent or guardian finds that a website allowed their child to access a site purposefully hosting material “harmful to minors.”" obviously we don't want these websites having our IDs, but sites like e621 and pornhub just straight up aren't asking for them either- blocking their service to the state in it's entirety instead. even beyond the restriction of adult websites, obviously as the 'queerest place on the net' we can see how "material that is harmful to minors" is not just intentional vague wording, but a massive red flag. even if you dont care about the porn- which you should, this is a massive rights violation. how long until 'harmful material' is expanded to include transgender people? same-sex relationships? anything lgbtq? this is a serious fucking problem and it opens the door to hundreds of potentially worse bills that extrapolate on the same concept.

i have no idea what to do to fight it, but if someone smarter than me could add links to representatives or something, that would be awesome.

i'm also going to tag a few people to get this post out: @polyamorouspunk @safety-pin-punk @doggirlbreasts (i have no idea who else to tag, if any of you can think of someone who can help this post get out there, please tag them!)

[charliemwrites]

Character File

Name: Castle “Daddy” Alistair Aliases: Daddy, Captain Daddy, Big Daddy Age: 38 Gender and pronouns: AMAB using he/him/his Marital Status: officially unmarried; unofficially – very taken Surviving family: mother, father, sister

Physical description: Standing at 6’3” (190.5 cm) and weighing 225 lbs. (102 kilos) Captain Alistair is all around built strong and thick. Broad shoulders, slight tapering at the waist, and thick thighs. His hair is dark brown, shaved close at the sides and longer at the top – if he allowed it to grow out it would curl. His eyes are a very deep brown with a strong, square jaw and aquiline nose. Teeth are straight and even, though he has prominent canines. (face claim: John Bernthal)

Identifying/Unusual features:

Two facial scars; one across the bridge of his nose and one high on his left cheek. Both required stitches, though they were acquired separately.

Tattoos: The SpecGru symbol on the left side of his chest An ouroboros snake around his left thigh A rook with daisies on his right bicep (for his little sister) A full back pieces of the Grim Reaper with ravens

Two crooked fingers from a break that didn’t set correctly

While he has several scars, the worst of them is crisscrossing circles around his left calf; a steel cord wrapped around it multiple times and almost took the entire leg

Early Childhood:

Castle was born to Clancy and Helena Alastair in Michigan. Clancy had always wanted a boy, so after a difficult delivery, he and Helena were happy to stop at one and focus all their attention on their son. The first twelve years of his life were spent in a quiet suburb that was developed in the 50s.

Clancy owned fifty percent of a construction company that he built from the ground up with a childhood friend. When Castle was old enough, his father began to bring him to construction sites, teaching him the basics of both business and carpentry. Castle grew up with a strong appreciation for hard work and building things from the ground up, instilled by his father. He greatly admired Clancy’s dedication and hands-on approach as a leader.

Castle also had a deep love and respect for his mother, a music teacher at the local high school. She was both charismatic and eccentric, with a love of silly dresses and jewelry. She embodied kindness and compassion without compromising her own self-respect, the people she loved were her whole world. Family was everything to her and Castle feels that she taught him what love truly is.

In middle school, Castle developed something of a temper. Love, he thought, meant protecting his family. Insults or jokes about either of his parents were met with swift and violent responses. He spent many afternoons in the principal’s office (and many nights without dessert) from brawls in the lunchroom or curses traded across classrooms.

In the spring of sixth grade, Clancy got into an accident that left him with permanent damage to his knee and lower back. He chose to sell his half of the company to his business partner, then bought a small farm that he moved his family to that summer. While Castle initially was angry about the move, and angry that he had no say in the matter, he found that he really enjoyed the wide-open spaces and all the animals they now had to tend to.

Seventh grade brought better friends and a better attitude. Working on the farm gave him a physical outlet for all his growing hormones.

That winter brought a little sister.

Clancy’s younger brother (the well-earned black sheep of the family) had had an affair. When his affair partner died of birth-related illness, he was left with an illegitimate child. Neither his affair partner’s family nor his own wife wanted anything to do with the baby. So he brought her to his eldest brother, Clancy.

Even past their prime and with no particular desire for another child, Clancy and Helena took the baby girl in without hesitation. (Though Clancy did kick his younger brother’s ass quite soundly while Castle sneakily watched from the window.) She didn’t even have a name yet. Helena jokingly suggested naming her “Rook” to go with “Castle,” but then their son latched onto the name, and it stuck.

Rook became Castle’s whole world as he helped his parents care for both a baby and their new farm. He often sat with her when he came home from school – kept an eye on her while he did homework, giving his parents a break to take care of things they hadn’t been able to with the baby. While they weren’t technically siblings, they were blood, and Clancy insisted that the age gap between them meant that Castle needed to act responsibly with her. That she would look up to him since he was so much older already.

In high school, he would often walk (or carry) Rook to and from preschool on his way to his own classes. Clancy wanted him to join the football team, and while Castle enjoyed it to an extent, he preferred to be helping at home.

It was in his junior year that he began to seriously consider joining the military. By senior year, he had decided. When he graduated, he went into an ROTC program at the state college an hour away. Once he graduated, he joined the marine corps.

Military Career:

Alistair rose quickly in reputation and rank during his time in the marine corps. A level-headed and disciplined man, he became known for his leadership prowess early on. While not outgoing, he was well-regarded by his comrades and often a morale-booster, excelling in any unit he was placed in. He excelled in stealth and infiltration but had an impressive record as a sniper as well.

Unfortunately, his career was cut short when information leaked on a high-risk mission. The mission was a failure, with two teammates sacrificing themselves for the sake of the unit. At the safehouse, the remains of the team were ambushed just as exfiltration arrived via helicopter.

While trying to help a comrade up, a steel cord tangled around his leg and nearly dragged him from the aircraft. In the pain and panic, he dropped his teammate to his death. Alistair would have lost his leg if not for the quick response of his sole surviving team member.

Alistair would later discover that very teammate was the one to betray the unit. The man mysteriously disappeared, and Alistair was honorably discharged from service.

A year later, he was recruited for the PMC known as SpecGru.

SpecGru:

Keegan Russ is credited with coining Alistair’s callsign, “Daddy,” though his fellow teammate Nila “Nova” Brown quickly adopted it as well. They claim this is due to Alistair’s close observation, concern for health, and deep protectiveness for his squad. His adaptive and lenient leadership style has endeared him to even the most standoffish of his team – Nikto.

The addition of the fifth and final member to his unit has skyrocketed them to one of the highest success rates in SpecGru.

See him in action!

[cursingtoji]

ᥫ᭡ — EXECUTIVE AFFAIRS: In a cutthroat world of boardroom battles and power struggles, you must navigate ambition , corporate intrigue, and unexpected love affairs.

✧ PRELUDE

— contents: CEO!reader, construction worker!Toji, lawyer!Nanami, therapist!Geto, ex-husband!Gojo; power imbalance, sexual frustration, manipulation, use of 'darling', 'baby', 'dear' & 'boss', 4k words, on-going series

— note: osha is the occupational safety and health administration agency in the USA, even tho i'm not american seems easier to just say osha (also a fun word to pronunce)

A young man opens the rear door of the Jaguar as soon as your driver stops by the construction site, “This way ma’am” you accept his hand, touching the cement with your stiletto first before getting out of the vehicle.

As scheduled you are heading to a meeting with the architect responsible for this particular project, a big one. Normally the CEO wouldn’t be involved in such routine visits like this, but you definitely don’t want to be like the previous CEO, who barely stepped out of his office for anything.

Besides, you have to make a good impression with the other directors that would be there today as well, and what better way to do that if not going to the construction site yourself, even though you clearly do not belong there given the way your heel wobbled as soon as it touched the uneven ground.

“Excuse me, miss” you’re stopped by a man twice your size — horizontally and almost vertically — extending a white helmet in your direction, “I’m sure that hair costed a lot and you don’t wanna cover it, but every person on site, even the ladies, ‘gotta wear it.”

You stand a bit shocked at the man addressing you like it’s not your last name on his uniform.

“Mr. Fushiguro, I should inform you that it’s your CEO you’re talking to” the boy beside you speaks up, he’s wearing a white helmet and the unknown man a yellow one.

“Great, so you are able to afford the OSHA fine if they decide today is a good day for inspection, but I’d rather not have another pointless safety training just ‘cause no one had the balls to tell you to protect your pretty ‘lil head” his expression doesn’t change a bit with the new information. You find that respectable, especially having so many people stuttering when talking to you.

If you were to say that you don’t get even a little bit amused by people being nervous in your presence Nanami would have to warn you about perjury. 

It’s quite a change to have a blue collar employee sticking to the rules and not batting an eye when the highest possible authority of the company is standing right in front of him, especially when that someone looks like he just got out of a sexy construction men calendar… not that you have ever seen one of those. That’s just what you think they might look like, plus that scar only adds up to fantasy.

You clean your throat, “I appreciate your work ethic, Mr. Fushiguro” you repeat the name so you won’t forget, “I wasn’t aware of the rules” you side-look the young man beside you who’s now staring at his own feet embarrassed since it was his duty to inform you.

“Call me Toji” you take the helmet and put it on, “By the way, you’re supposed to wear trousers too and… literally anything but that” he points with his chin to your high heels thinking how that alone was a safety hazard not just on a construction site. Toji leans closer “but I’ll let it slide, ‘cause you have quite beautiful legs.”

You are left mouth agape, internally appreciating that he didn’t say that out loud — after all being sexualized when you are trying to impose respect would require you to put a show and fire the man — but also makes you question if he was straight forward with you because of his work ethics or because he does not respect you as his superior. 

Not that you wouldn’t let him do disrespectful things to you, but still!

You’re taken to where the rest of the directors are, they’re easy to spot — a bunch of men in suits that clearly don’t belong to the place — surrounding a table with the blue prints. They greet you and you realize this is the first time you see all of them around a table and not sitting, poor guys must be dying for a room with AC right now.

It’s not like you belonged there either, with your tailor made beige suit that had a pencil skirt instead of the newly-discovered-necessary trousers and how-the-fuck-you-thought-that-was-a-good-idea high heels. But in your own defense you did visit a lot of construction sites when you first started at the company all those years ago and that’s much more than the white collar men in front of you can say.

The main architect starts to give you all an status of the project being interrupted by the senior engineer every few minutes, the last one clearly thinking he’s better than the first even though neither of them lifts a finger in this ground.

Your sight is drawn to the man that scolded you before, while the architect is pointing to something on top of the construction and everyone else is shielding their eyes from the sun to find it, you’re looking straight ahead to Toji who’s currently lifting an apparently very heavy sack of cement on his shoulder and taking it all across the site. God, he’s strong.

His handsome face shines with sweat, you’re sure the wife beater he has on also violates some OSHA code, but who would be crazy enough to report that? Not you for sure, the view is worth the OSHA fine.

Especially when he drops the sack with a grunt and uses the shirt to wipe his face, revealing a torso you’re sure Michelangelo would die to use as inspiration to sculpt into marble then having people saying ‘whoa that’s real art’. 

You wonder if someone would scream at you for touching that piece of art.

Unfortunately you don’t expect to get caught ogling by the subject himself. So the best thing you can do is find whatever the architect is pointing to and pretend to pay attention like you should have from the beginning instead of eye fucking one of your employees.

“Hey, boss” you hear on your way out of the site and back to your cozy office where you wouldn’t get your ankle broken that easily. You turn around and see Toji catwalking his way to you.

“Technically I'm out of the hazard zone, mr. Fushiguro” you justify your lack of a helmet which you ditched a few seconds ago.

“Toji” he corrects you, taking his own helmet off “and I’m not this uptight, unlike some people here today” he mutters the last part looking behind him to some of the directors that seemed to be looking for tiny errors on the project so they could fix it and justify being there.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“I’m pretty sure you're being robbed.” 

“What?” you look around, “What do you mean?”

“You’re paying for double the stuff that’s actually being delivered” he took a sheet of folded paper out of his pants, you reach for it but he pulls it back, “I have proof and I can say names.”

“Did you say that to your field supervisor?”

“Please, who do ya think it’s signin’ under this?” he rolls his eyes.

“So you came to the CEO instead? You’re going behind some big backs here, sir.”

“Look, miss, I want a promotion, I know a lot of big shots will go down for this and I’m the only one capable of handling the people here. Besides I stand by what I said before, no one has the guts to do this so I’m taking a big risk and I deserve compensation” he hands back the paper and this time he let you take it. You stare into his deep green eyes suspiciously, the man has the looks of a fantasy villain with his sharp features and dark eyelashes, you're not entirely sure if you should believe him.

“Give your number to my assistant, we’ll schedule a meeting in the office, you tell me everything you know and I see what I can do about it.”

“In the office? Didn’t know you allowed commonores in your castle” he smirks.

“Only the pretty ones” you wink and his smile grows wider. 

“How long have you known about this?” Nanami questions.

“Not even 24 hours” you sit on your white couch signing for him to take the seat in front of you.

Your lawyer does that thing you find really hot where he unbuttons the coat of his five digit worth suit before sitting down. You admire Nanami’s elegance while he roams his eyes through the paper, he has a vest between the coat and the dress shirt. Navy blue suits him so well, matches his eyes. He makes you think every man should wear vests, but of course not every man can pull it off. Honestly, you find it hard to believe there's anything Nanami can’t pull off, but you haven't seen your lawyer without a suit… ever. 

Maybe he looks bad with a plain T-shirt? 

No way. 

Perhaps with an overall and cowboy hat? 

Mmm the image makes you wanna ride something. 

What about emo hair, eyeliner and a band tee? 

No, you can’t imagine Kento with emo hair, no chance he had a rebellious phase except if his parents wanted him to be a surgeon and he became the best lawyer in the city just to piss them off. 

“I’m glad you came to me first, but we’ll need to involve auditing and probably internal affairs. That’ll probably put the project on hold for some weeks, also I’ll need more evidence than this” he shook the one paper sheet that was merely a quotation of supplies even you could understand is way too much for a single building.

“I got the guy for that, say the word and Yuuta will arrange a meeting” you pointed to your assistant sitting outside.

“Tell me, dear” he put the sheet aside, taking that posture that intimidated you a bit, “A blue collar worker just saw your pretty self on the site and handed criminal evidence? Just like that?”

You open your mouth, thinking what to say that won’t sound like you are being taken advantage of, and failing.

“Oh darling” he says a bit too condescendingly for someone that technically works for you, “Thought I told you about being too naive” he leans on the couch, making himself comfortable like you’re about to have The Talk.

“Kento, is not like that” you cross your arms defensively, “He said he wants a promotion, how risky that would be?”

“Thought you would say that” he takes his phone and hands it to you, “So I did my own little research.”

“What’s this?” you find yourself looking at a picture of the man you met yesterday. 

Only now you could see tiny numbers behind him indicating his height and he held a plaque with his name. He looks way younger, still very handsome, you wonder how popular he used to be in his youth, with a face like that and the implication he was arrested was enough to make every girl’s bad-boy-dream come true.

“What was he accused of?” you ask out of curiosity.

“Not relevant, also sealed records” he breaks eye contact and that’s enough for you to understand he actually knows it and he did not get this information by any legal means.

“So what? The man got a bit of trouble with the law when he was young” you shrug, remembering even your ex husband had a little rich boy “criminal” file, if you can even call the dumb shit he did outta spite for his parents an actual crime.

“HR will find out about this, then you’re going to have to justify why you’re recommending a filled man for a managing position.”

“And I’ll tell them he actually found out about a theft scheme and whatever public-pissing crime he did will surely be overlooked.”

“Darling, you have to start thinking about your image, we’ve been through that before” he tilts his head.

“You don’t like my image?” you question playfully twirling your hair, Nanami smiles for a brief second.

“You know what I mean: your image towards the board, you barely made the votes necessary to be where you are today.”

Indeed, you owned the company and no one could take that away, but the CEO position needed to be voted and you only got the necessary votes because your ex-husband had the strongest voting rights and part of the divorce agreement was that he voted for you, so his, plus a few more other members of the board's votes and you made chief executive officer.

“Fine, then write a contract, he tells everything including testify if he has to in exchange of the supervisor position and I’ll pitch it to the board before any decisions are made” you uncross your arms raising from your seat.

Bringing the board into the conversation made you nervous, most of them don't like you and you’ve been trying to prove yourself for months. Even though you worked your ass off way before marrying the owner all they saw was a hurt ex-wife making pretend.

“Atta girl” Nanami raises too, buttoning his coat back and placing his hands on your tense shoulders. Nanami smells like what you think it should be every handsome lawyer's trademark scent, cause damn that smell would make you sign anything he gives you.

“Don’t worry much, you’re doing great” he presses a bit and you melt.

“Take me out to lunch?” you pout.

“I would love to” he lets go of your shoulder, “Unfortunately I have a hearing, but I'll be back for that meeting soon, okay?”

You sigh in defeat, getting even a few minutes of Nanami’s time for yourself is as hard as it can get, only a corruption scheme to get him to come to your office in such short notice.

“Ma’am” Yuuta says from the speakerphone, “Your ex-husband is calling” you groan, throwing your head back.

Of course he would want to interrupt your moment with Nanami.

“I can get you a restriction order” your lawyer offers jokily (or not).

Aside from being the company's lawyer, Nanami Kento was also your divorce attorney, which you managed to get only after agreeing to give him your company's account if he managed to land you the CEO position. Like everything in this merciless corporate world, it was give and take, you got what you wanted – not surprisingly so, afterall Nanami, even though is not a divorce specialist, is the best. Still, you like to think of him being more than another contractor of yours.

“I appreciate the offering” you smile tiredly, Nanami kisses your hand like the gentleman he is before leaving your office, “Yuuta, I’ll take him– it. I’ll take the call” you sit back behind your desk massaging your temple “Put him through.”

“Hello, beautiful” he greets over the speakerphone in that always so cheerful tone.

“Satoru, what do you want?”

“No chit-chat? It’s the least you could do for me after I gave you the company” entitled as always…

“You didn’t give it to me, you gave it up for the rest of your assets” you remind, already sick of this same discussion over and over.

When the divorce was officially on the table you told Kento exactly what you wanted: the company. The one thing you knew your ex husband would hate to lose, but also didn’t love as much as his lifestyle – which would be brutally affected if you decided to go for the 50% you were entitled to.

So through a carefully written agreement you accepted way less than you were owed in the form of full ownership of the respected construction company and title of chief executive officer.

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other. How have you been?”

“Fine. Just tell me what you want, I actually take this job seriously and have important things to do.”

Oh god, he would tease you so bad if he knew about the corruption scheme, and the worst part is that, eventually, he will know. Gojo has ears everywhere around here.

“Nanami” he says simply. You start to look around your office, wondering if he has cameras there.

“You… want… Nanami?”

“Yes, beautiful” he confirms slowly like he's talking to a kid that has just learned the alphabet.

“Why? You know what? Nevermind, I don't want to know. No, you can’t have him” you lean on your chair, denying Gojo gives you great satisfaction.

“It’s not for any bullshit reason, alright?”

“I don’t care, Satoru. Besides, I don’t own Kento, you can approach him anytime” you smile knowing he would never be able to do that without you.

“Aren’t you a sweetheart?” condescension drips from your phone and onto your desk, “He won’t represent me even if I run for president.”

“So you need legal representation? You’re not calling me from jail, are you Satoru?” you mirror his condescending tone, surely he can hear the smile in your voice.

“Thought you didn't care, or would you bail me out? Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t have the money for that” he laughs, arguing was never a thing with him, he would mock you and find a way to make you doubt your accusations. Gaslighting is it? “I’ll give it a shot, just so you know, but this is a great opportunity for you to ask something in return.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Think about it, baby, I’m sure there's plenty of things I can do for you” his tone is lower, more seductive.

“Doubt it” you roll your eyes hearing his chuckle.

“Yeah? When was the last time you had–” 

You hang up.

Then sigh loudly and press the button to talk to Yuuta.

“Yes, ma’am?” you scrunch your nose, still not used to being called that, Nanami said you should let your sweet assistant call you ma'am or madam at least in front of others since you could use the recognition of your authority.

“Please put Geto on the line.”

“Certainly” you wait, stepping out of your heels and digging your toes on the fluff carpet under the table.

“Hi, doc” you salute your psychologist.

“Sugar, I told you there’s no need to address me like that, hurts my feelings” his honeyed voice is everything you need to hear in such stressful times.

“It does? Maybe you should see a therapist to talk about that, I have a great recommendation” you can’t help but smile like a little girl when talking to him, being playful is a way to cope with your harmless crush.

“Just great?”

“He’s the best, I can assure you” he laughs, “Do you have a few minutes?”

“For you, absolutely” your face warms up then you remember the subject of the call and cools down again.

“It’s Satoru.”

‘It’s always Satoru’ Geto thinks.

“He just called wanting something, I told him no and he made that same old joke about me not having money” you huffed.

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Helpless? I don't know, he must think I’m poor now or something” which is ridiculous, you’re not nearly close to his patrimony as you used to when you were married but what you have is still fuckload more than what it takes to be considered poor.

“He’s trying to remind you of what you lost when you left him, this is just another manipulation technique, my love. Don’t let him get in your head” you need this as a mantra to hear every time your ex-husband calls, “Did he bring up sex this time?”

“No, but he was about to.”

“And what did you say?”

“Hanged up” you hear him snorting.

“Well, that can work on the phone, but what if you were talking face to face? What would you have done?”

Geto knows a lot about you. Obviously since you pay him to listen while you ramble and complain. Still, feels overwhelming having someone recalling your previous actions, especially the ones you're not exactly proud of.

“Tell him to shut up, throw a stapler on him, call security, threaten him with a restriction order.”

“Would you really?” Geto likes to take a joke you make and dig on that.

“Well, probably not the last two…” 

“Have you been looking up restriction orders?”

“No, that was a joke my lawyer made early. A restriction order would be too… bureaucratic? Also unnecessary, afterall Satoru he never physically hurt me or threatened to.”

“That would be a good way of making him leave you alone for a while since you're not able to fully detach from him” you sat up.

“That's not true! I’ve been doing everything by myself lately, don't even have time to think about him! I’m detached, doc.”

“Wanna know what I think you would have done if he made that sexual comment face to face with you?” you gulp and Geto takes your silence as consent to continue, “I think you would let him go forward with it.”

You make an offended sound but don't fight his statement, “And what would happen next?” he tones the question like a professor trying to make the class complete a sentence, you keep your head down and mouth shut, “You would’ve let him sweet talk you into sleeping with him again.”

“You don't know that” you murmur.

“It’s a pattern, love. This is how abusive husbands keep their wives from leaving them or even telling anyone about the abuse. They use sex to make them think how good it is to be with them despite everything else.”

“Satoru was not abusive.” you defend your ex-husband firmly, “And I already left him!” you defend yourself less firmly.

“And he still thinks he can have you back! You know why?”

“Because I’m a catch that he shouldn’t have cheated?” Geto stays quiet for a few seconds and you feel a lump in your throat forming. The comment was supposed to sound more like a joke but you're still too hurt for that , clearly.

“That as well, but you really think he regrets it?”

“He seemed pretty sorry in the divorce mediation” you murmur recalling his lost-puppy expression.

“The meeting where he signed a paper that would make him lose his company and his wife? Gee I wonder why” the little sarcastic remark made you smile and shake your head, your psychologist using sarcasm against you is quite funny, “My point is, if you really want to be independent from him you ‘gotta stop letting yourself be attracted back like a magnet” you let his words sink in hearing some papers being ruffled on his side.

“I’m giving you homework.”

“Oh no…”

“Find your sexuality by yourself, you can watch porn, masturbate or even better: have sex with someone. Anyone but Satoru, because right now that’s what he’s using to control you.”

“Geto, I don’t know about this. Porn is too gross, masturbation is too ineffective and sex is too…” you trail off.

“Vulnerable?” he completes.

“I guess…”

“It’s been a few months since you last slept with Satoru, right? What’re you feeling?”

“What do you mean?” you rub your face.

“You know what I mean” he's strict and you let out a long sigh.

“I feel frustrated, sometimes stressed and distracted” all caused by the men you have to deal with including the handsome psychologist putting some sense in you. Not exactly what you wanted him to put in, but oh well…

“Exactly, in your current state it’s only a matter of time until you end up on his bed. You gotta decide if you are willing to: find porn that is not gross, masturbate more effectively or let yourself relax and be vulnerable.”

Is easy to like Geto Suguru, he’s handsome, has a sweet voice, he listens without interrupting (manterrupting is a big no-no for this job thankfully). Though sometimes it’s easy to hate him too, you have to remember he's saying what you need to hear not what you want to, even if your ears could use some tickling from time to time.

“Still with me?” he asks after you remain quiet.

“Yes, doc” he says your name in a warning tone, “Sorry, Suguru.”

“All good for our appointment next week?”

“Hm” your thoughts go to the newly found out corruption scheme that will need your attention the following days, “I’ll ask Yuuta to confirm with your secretary alright?”

“Whatever works best for you, love.”

“Bye, Suguru.”

“Don’t forget your homework.”

🏷️ @rinntvrou @sakurasimppp @sad-darksoul — to be tagged in future works of this series please comment “@ me” in this post.

note: i’m not sure if tickle the ears is a known term worldwide but means “saying or suggesting things to please even if untrue”. also i have some big plans for kinktober so next chapter might take a little while to be posted, let me know your thoughts <3

© all content belongs to cursingtoji; do not repost!

[captain19cb97]

Stay (A/F) :: k.m

Synopsis: Sometimes distance doesn't make the heart grow fonder.

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x GN!Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Genre: Angst and fluff.

Warnings: Allusions to online bullying but nothing is explicitly said. Arguing, crying, cursing.

You could feel tears welling up in your eyes the longer you stared down at your phone. The endless stream of hateful words - tweets, Instagram comments - every social media profile people could find of yours had been flooded the few days, technically since people figured out that you and Mingyu were actually dating, and you weren’t just some random staff member that seemed to always be around him for work reasons.

You hadn’t said anything to any of the guys about the comments and messages you’d been getting, and you certainly hadn’t said anything to Mingyu about them because you already knew how he was going to react once you did, but it was obvious to the guys that something was going on with you, and it wasn’t anything good.

The first one to truly notice it was Mingyu, but when he asked you if everything was okay, you told him that you’d been a lot busier at the company with different things- it wasn’t a total lie, you had just been promoted so it wasn’t much of a stretch for him to believe it. Then when the news of your relationship started appearing in the headlines of certain sites, both of you were stressed out and worried about a thousand things at once.

The next person to figure out something was wrong with you was Wonwoo. Since Mingyu and him lived together and you were over at the dorm all the time, with and without Mingyu, it wasn’t hard for Wonwoo to notice something was different with you. Sometimes when you weren’t really focused on anything, he would notice a far off look on your face or how sometimes you just acted a little more distant than you meant to before quickly covering it up with a joke or a flippant comment about something else.

Then slowly, one by one, the rest of the guys started noticing the way you were distancing yourself from all of them. They would constantly invite you out with them like they always had but they started noticing that you were declining more and more, saying you were too tired that night, or how you just wanted a quiet night in after such a busy day.

It got to the point that Seungcheol had suggested not inviting you for a bit, so you stopped feeling bad about telling them no every time, something he knew you did because he heard you say as much to one of the stylists that you were friends with one day after they had invited you to lunch with them that morning.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop on the conversation, but he had been looking for you to talk about something that was part of their group schedule for the day, and as he turned a corner he saw you and once of their stylists standing a little ways away talking and he could tell that you were trying not to cry as you told her how awful you felt about how often you told them no to their invitations anymore.

“I barely see them outside of this stupid building anymore,” You sighed, wiping your eyes quickly. “I haven’t even slept at the dorm in almost a month because it’s easier to just go back to my apartment alone than to be there with Gyu. And I feel like screaming every single time I tell any of them no for something.”

The stylist frowned softly, as Seungcheol watched her rub your arm, “Then why do you keep saying no?”

He watched you give her a gut wrenchingly sad look, even from where he stood down the hall from you, he could see your eyes turning red as a tear rolled down your cheek. “You know why, Soo.”

Seungcheol hated seeing the look on your face, hearing the sadness in your voice, so he backed up a little bit around the corner and started walking around it like he hadn’t been listening, and headed straight for you with a giant smile on his face.

He pretended like he didn’t notice you wiping your face the second you saw him coming towards you, and his heart broke slightly when he saw the smile you plastered on your face as soon as his eyes met yours.

“Cheol! Hi,” You grinned up at him, as he stopped in front of you.

He offered you a quick nod, then one for the stylists, too, “Hi, Y/n, Sooyung-Noona, do you mind if I borrow them for a moment?” He asked her, “I just have a question about our schedule for today.”

The stylist smiled at him and nodded, giving you a soft look, too. “Of course, Y/n, if you have anything else you need, come see me later, okay?”

You nodded at her words, mouthing a quick thank you to her before she smiled at the both of you and turned away, heading back into the room you had pulled her from earlier.

Seungcheol waited until the door had closed behind her, before he easily pulled you into a tight hug, obviously catching you off guard by the surprised noise that sounded from you.

“What was that for?” You asked him softly, once he’d stepped back again.

“Your eyes are red; you’d obviously been crying about something.” He mumbled softly, lying softly as he looked down at you, “Figured you could use a hug and since Gyu isn’t here, I’m good in a pinch.” He smiled sweetly down at you.

You huffed softly, silently hating that he had noticed you crying, but also thankful that he hadn’t pressed about why. “I just feel bad that I keep saying no, every time you guys ask me to hang out with you all.”

He shrugged, still smiling at you, “Don’t worry about it. You’re incredibly busy, sometimes even more than we are. I feel bad that you have to keep saying no. When your schedule opens up a little more, tell me, or Gyu and then we’ll figure out something for all of us to do together, that sound okay?”

He let out a quiet sigh of relief at his understanding and nodded, “That sounds great. Maybe I’ll treat you guys to something this time, yeah?”

He let out a laugh and shook his head, “Not a chance, but nice try.”

You laughed softly at his words, and rolled your eyes, knowing none of them would ever let you pay for anything around them before you asked him what he had a question about.

That had been almost 2 months ago, and you still had yet to tell him or Mingyu that your schedule was never so busy that you couldn’t put something aside for even a little while to hang out with them once and a while. You didn’t think you were going to for a while, either. Mostly because you wanted to wait until all the comments and messages either died down, or they stopped bothering you as much, and since neither had happened yet, you didn’t want to go out to eat somewhere with the guys and have someone get more pictures of you with them. The last time that happened, the flood of messages you got still gave you nightmares.

You closed out every app on your phone and locked it, staring at your distorted reflection on the black screen and reached your hands up to your eyes to wipe them, then your phone started to ring.

My Heart❤️

Mingyu.

And it was a video call. You were happy the lights in your room were dimmed so he wouldn’t be able to see you that well as you answer the call, throwing up the same fake smile that you’d given Seungcheol all those weeks ago.

“Hi, baby!”

His beaming smile filled your chest with equal parts warmth and cold- warmth from love and the cold from the decision you’d made not even an hour ago.

“Love of my life,” He grinned at you through the phone. “Would you be so kind as to let me in, sweetheart?” He asked, “I’ll be at your door in a minute and my hands are pretty full.”

You froze, staring at him through the screen, “What?”

He gave you a quick confused look before his eyes focused back on where he was walking, “I know it’s kind of late, and very last minute, but I wanted to come see you. I feel like I haven’t gotten any time with you in weeks. Like proper time, and I thought tonight would be a good time since I know you’re off tomorrow and I’m also technically off tomorrow because I have an open schedule.” The words continued to pour out of his mouth, and quickly. “I’ve just really been missing you and you used to love when I’d come over unannounced when we first started seeing each other, I thought it’d be a nice surprise, ya know?”

You could tell he was almost at your door, so you couldn’t stall him or tell him it wasn’t a good time at the moment, so you quickly pushed yourself out of your bed and rushed towards your front door, while you hung up the call without saying anything, your eyes seeing the multiple notifications about more messages you’d gotten just since answering the phone call.

A thousand thoughts shot themselves through your mind in a panic, Was he followed? Do people know where I live now? Is someone going to try breaking into my apartment now when I’m not home- or worse, when I am?

You quickly unlocked the security lock and pulled your door open, just as he was stepping up to it.

He was frowning when you met his eyes.

“Why did you hang up?”

You didn’t reply, just grabbed two of the bags from his arms and turned to walk them into the kitchen while he pulled his shoes off before following behind you.

You heard your phone go off again – more messages.

“Baby?” He called softly, walking into the kitchen behind you.

You simply hummed, starting to pull things from the bags before he grabbed your hands and tried to get you to look up at him.

Another message.

“What’s going on,” He asked. “You always stay on the phone with me until you open the door.” You could hear the confusion in his voice as you continued to evade his stare, until he gently grabbed your chin and made you look at him.

The worry in his eyes broke your heart, and you could feel yourself trying to pull your hands from his before a sob clawed its way from your throat as your phone went off again, and again, and again.

The worry in his eyes flooded the rest of his body as he tried to calm you down, attempting to wrap his arms around you as you cried, yelling at him to let you go while trying with everything you had to push him away from you.

“Hey, hey, hey, what is going on? Y/n, please, calm down and talk to me, baby? What happened?”

You continued to struggle against him for a moment before you all but finally collapsed against his chest, tears streaming down your face.

He held you as close to his chest as he physically could, softly shushing you as he moved his fingers through your hair, as he mumbled gentle words, telling you it was okay, and that you were okay.

After a couple moments, when you’d finally calmed down enough that you were just softly hiccupping into his chest, he let out a soft sigh and tilted your head up, so you were looking at him. He gently cupped both of your cheeks and wiped his thumbs across them, trying his best to get rid of all traces of the tears that had tracked your face.

Then he offered you one of the softest smiles and easily leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Before you could even open your mouth, your phone sounded off from the counter again. You squeezed your eyes shut as you pushed away from him again, putting at least 2 feet between you. “I-I think you should go, Mingyu.” You whispered.

“What, why?” He asked, his voice no higher than yours.

You could feel the bile rising in your throat as you lied to him, “I don’t- I don’t want you here.”

His eyebrows couldn’t get any closer as he stared at you with an incredulous look. “Why not,” He asked. “Did I do something?”

You quickly shook your head, “No, of course not.” You told him easily.

He tried to take a step towards you, but you took another step back, and watched his face fall as soon as you did. “Then why?”

You could see his eyes beginning to slowly fill with tears as you both stared at each other. “Because I don’t.”

He shook his head, making the tears fall as he did, “That’s not an answer, Y/n. If I didn’t do anything wrong, tell me why you don’t want me here.”

You just kept shaking your head, “I just don’t Mingyu, I don’t-“

Another message.

He groaned, glaring at your phone on the counter. “Why is your phone blowing up so fucking much,” He yelled, reaching for it.

“No!” You panicked, yelling at him not to touch it as you quickly moved to take it from him before he could unlock it.

You stopped moving- almost frozen, watching as his eyes quickly filled with more tears as he scrolled through the hundreds of messages you’d gotten just tonight. The soft light of your phone screen lit up the tears in his eyes in a way that would be poetic, were it not so heartbreaking knowing the horrible things he was reading about you.

“Mingyu, please,” You cried, but unable to say anything else.

Finally he looked up at you, and you could feel your heart breaking into a thousand different pieces.

“Why didn’t you say anything,” He whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me this was happening?”

Your eyes trailed along his face as you tried to put into words what had been going through your mind this whole time. “How could I? What was I supposed to say to you?”

He dropped your phone back onto the counter and wrapped his arms around you, his voice cracking as he whispered that he was sorry.

You shook your head, trying to look up at him, “You have nothing to apologize for, Gyu. You couldn’t have known- I didn’t want you to know.” You cried, cupping his face. “I thought I could distance myself from you until it stopped, I thought that the space would help it not hurt so much but I was wrong. I was so wrong. I’m so sorry, baby.”

You buried your face into his chest as you both cried; Mingyu because he had no idea that this was the reason you’d been so distant lately, and you because you felt so terrible about having put him through it.

“Don’t give me space. That’s the last thing I ever want from you.” He whispered to you, doing everything he could to pull you even closer to him. “How did I not know you were dealing with this?”

You sniffled, “I blocked everything about our relationship on your phone so you couldn’t see it.” You admitted. “Every key word that I could think of that would let you see any of this stuff. Because I knew how you would react to it, and I didn’t want to put you in that position.”

He cradled your face in his hands, his cheeks streaked with tears, “That should’ve been my decision, sweetheart. Whatever position it would’ve put me in, should’ve been my choice. I’m your boyfriend, I’m supposed to protect you from things like this.”

For a long moment, you both stood in your kitchen, his arms wrapped tightly around your body as you both slowly started to calm down. The silence between you was broken every few seconds when your phone would ding once more from the counter and after about the fifth or sixth notification, Mingyu let out a deep, heavy sigh before grabbing your phone again.

“What are you doing?”

He quickly glanced at you as he scrolled and tapped away on your phone, not offering you an answer.

“Gyu, what are you doing?” You asked again, a soft lilt in your voice as the panic slowly started rising in your body at the pure angry look that had settled on his face.

“I’m doing what I should’ve done in the beginning.” He told you, pulling his phone off the counter as the text tone he’d set for you went off a number of times before he’d gotten it unlocked and pulled your tread up.

You looked down and saw that he had sent himself a bunch of screenshots of messages that people had sent to you before he handed your phone back to you. “I blocked everything on your phone, like you did to mine. And now, when someone comments on your stuff for everything, I’ll get a notification, too. And if it’s negative in any way, I’ll send it to the company.”

“What are they going to do about what people are saying about me,” You asked. “I’m not an Idol, what gets said about me doesn’t matter.”

A look flashed in his eyes, “It matters to me. And I’m going to make it matter to the company. I will not let anyone say shit about you and get away with it, and if I have to start suing people, or make the company sue people, I’ll fucking do it.”

A feeling filled your body, and your eyes began to fill with tears. Mingyu’s eyes softened before he gently cupped your cheek, “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

You barely shook your head, sniffling softly as you quickly wiped your face, “Other than the fact that I feel like an idiot for having thought it would be better to not tell you about this in the first place, nothing.”

He let out a soft chuckle just as you collided with him in a tight hug, “You’re not an idiot, my love.”

You laughed softly, “No, for this, I was though.” You looked back up at him, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just- I thought that I could handle it on my own, and that eventually it would stop, and things would be okay again. But then it didn’t stop, it just seemed to get worse the longer it went on.”

You sighed and shook your head, “And I don’t want you to think that I don’t trust you or anything, because I do, with everything I have in me. I didn’t want to burden you with this, because you’ve been so stressed out about all the performances and filming you guys have been doing lately, I was trying to not add more stress to your shoulders.”

“There is nothing you could do that would add stress to my life,” He smiled, his eyes flitted across your face for a moment before he let out a soft sigh, cupping your cheek again and gently rubbing his thumb along your skin. “I love you,” He said easily, like he’d said it a million times, but it wasn’t- it was the first time either of you had said it to the other.

Your eyes widened, and before you could even open your mouth, he continued.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for a couple weeks, but you kept skipping out on spending time with me. And telling you over the phone or in a text wouldn’t do. Not for the first time.”

You chuckled, feeling your cheeks hurting from how much smiling you were doing.

“I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t say anything to me and were dealing with this on your own, when you never should’ve had to deal with it to begin with,” A solemn look flashed through his eyes as he stared into yours. “I hope that you know there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that you can’t tell me, or talk to me about. Part of being your boyfriend is hearing about everything you’ve got going on, the good, the bad- all of it. I want to know it all, even when it’s painful.”

You nodded, blinking a couple times to try your best to clear the tears from your eyes before they fell. “I’ll try to be better about talking to you about things. But all of that applies to you with me, too, ya know. There is nothing that you can’t tell me, or confide in me about.”

He grinned, “I know.”

You smiled back at him, “Good, by the way, what was that thing you said a minute ago? Something you’d been wanting to tell me for a while?”

He chuckled, then gave you a look, “That first time thing?”

You simply nodded, smiling widely, “I think it was three words.”

“It couldn’t possibly be when I said, I love you, could it?” He teased.

You grinned wider somehow, “Yeah, that!” You giggled before setting your chin on his chest and looking up at him. “Say it again?”

He sighed softly, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Gyu. So much.” You whispered back, before moving slightly to connect your lips to his in a soft kiss.

One he hummed gently into as he pressed you closer to him, splaying his hands across your back before he slowly pulled away, “So, do you still want me to leave?” He teased gently.

You giggled, shaking your head, “No, I want you to stay. For as long as you want to tonight.”

“Sleepover?” He asked, wiggling his eyebrows with a wide grin that made you laugh.

“Sleepover.” You grinned.

[thesummerpetrichor]

𝓞𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓷

SoftDark!Joel Miller x afab!fem!reader

Summary: Explicit pictures of you taken by a man you cheated with find their way to your boyfriend's father's desk. He isn't too impressed with the artistry. Good thing he can make it right. He’s a photographer after all.

Warnings: 18+ only minors DNI you will be blocked. No outbreak, NONCON, DUBCON, coercion, blackmail, manipulation, power imbalance, implications of revenge porn [not by Joel], infidelity, girthy age gap [reader is in her early 20s, Joel is in his early 50s], explicit photographs and photography, petnames, praise kink, daddy kink, minor size kink, soft dom!Joel, sub!reader, fingering, edging, just the tip action, creampie, cumplay?, unprotected P in V [be better!!]. Let me know if I missed anything 🫶

Word Count: 5.9K

A/N: Surprise Joel Miller smut because why not. This is my first time writing for Joel, so please be gentle. Going for the subtle horror meets porn vibes. Hope you nasties enjoy. mwah 💗

Masterlist

I never walk about after dark

It's my point of view

'Cause someone could break your neck

Coming up behind you

Always coming and you'd never have a clue

I never look behind all the time

I will wait forever

Always looking straight

Thinking, counting all the hours you wait

“S’ just a hobby.” Kind, gentle mister Miller had scratched the back of his neck modestly, towering over you as you inspected the black and white photo negatives freshly hung on his walls. He just seemed happy that someone appeared to be taking up an interest in his retirement activities. It was an interesting choice, you thought, to hang up the negatives. 

That was your first time visiting the Miller household, and had you known your boyfriend’s father was as unassuming and sympathetic as he turned out to be, you wouldn’t have been as worried about meeting him as you were. You surely wouldn't have been able to guess looking at his pictures. But his scowl melted away into a soft, subtle smile the moment you walked through his door, and so did your reservations. 

You learnt a lot from him that evening– about cameras and such. He indulged you in conversations about your life and interests– you had many in common. There were quite a few people at the Miller’s Christmas party, and he made sure you weren’t too lost in the crowd. It was nice to have a listening ear.

Humble as he was, it was only months later you discovered his pretty pictures in a photography magazine. At the hotel you were staying in while on vacation with his son. It was the last vacation you ended up taking together. Switzerland. 

Since that Christmas you visited him every once in a while, occupying the couch in his office to help him sort through his prints, tidy up his gear, and chart out subjects he wanted to capture. His son didn’t really like making the twenty minute commute back home, so you brought his well wishes with you. Mister Miller liked the strawberry puff pastries you baked, so you brought them along as well. 

He was a quiet guy, and after all these years alone seemed to enjoy the company of someone in the house. His face lit up just that little bit whenever you came over. Enough to let you know you were welcome back anytime. 

His office was cozy. With a large Persian rug at its center, and tufted, walnut brown, leather furniture. He had an expansive library of literature beside his desk, one that he’d fitted to the wall himself. Reading- another one of his retirement hobbies. 

His desk was tidy, almost completely empty save for a picture of him and his brother Tommy, sitting on a ledge with their arms slung around each other, an in-progress construction site for background. Judging from the lack of gray hair on his head, and the absence of the little crinkles beside his eyes, the photograph was at least twenty years old. It looked like it belonged to an alternate universe. 

Mister miller looked a far cry from the sophisticated, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, middle aged man you knew. A regular ol’ Joe, or Joel, rather. He had this rugged boyish charm about him. He was smiling wide, he looked happy. There was a jarring absence of that tired look in his eyes. Whether he looked more handsome back then, or now– you couldn’t decide. 

It was late July. You watched the menacing, dark gray clouds drift lazily towards you from your living room window. It was 4pm, but you had the lights on, and the oven going in your kitchen. The younger Miller was not yet back from work, even though he was supposed to be off by 2:30. At times like that one you hardly regretted your unfaithfulness. 

You had your little dinner date with Mister Miller that evening, but from the looks of it you might have had to reschedule. A crack of thunder reverberated along the walls of your two bedroom, and had you reaching for the kitchen timer you’d abandoned on your center table– the dial dangerously close to hitting ‘0’.

It felt more wrong than it should, calling it a date, considering the circumstances. You couldn’t say you didn't feel guilty still meeting his father, telling him that things were going great when they really weren’t. You wondered what Joel would think of you if he ever found out about your little secret. 

It was difficult not to wonder how two people could be so similar and different at the same time. Why, save for some of his good looks, Mr. Miller’s best qualities did not seem to pass down to his son. Admittedly, you thought about it a lot. You thought about it when you found a shade of lipstick that surely didn’t belong to you stain the collar of his cream sweater. 

Things had spiraled far out of your control since that moment. Into your secret paradise of hotel rooms and weekend getaways. Worst of all, you knew your partner was living a parallel life to yours. You could have ended your relationship, but things were just never that easy. Especially when consciously, or subconsciously mister Miller was part of the mix. 

You reached in the oven and pulled out the pastries. Looking between the custard you’d put into your piping bag, and the strawberries you’d cut lengthways laying beside the powdered sugar. The clouds were closer than they were five minutes ago. Your backyard was no longer the lush Eden of green and purple it was in the morning. You thought of Mister Miller– spending the night alone at home, sitting at his desk, with no dessert to enjoy after dinner. 

You reached for the piping bag and sighed, beginning to assemble the sweet treats and lay them in the pink paper box you’d picked out for him from your kitchen cabinet. 

—

By the time you got to his house thick droplets of rain were already coming down from the sky. It was about three shades darker than it was when you left home, and the minacous clouds had caught up with you. You glanced at your phone. 

7:00 pm 

You felt a drop trickle down the side of your cheek as you ran up the front staircase leading to the main door. You rang the bell. It sounded full, and new. He must have fixed it recently. 

Mister Miller opened the door. He always wore some variation of the same flannel shirt and dark jeans. Like a cartoon character. It was quite charming. You liked it. It was soft, and smelt like his perfume. Tobacco, Sandalwood. He rubbed your back soothingly when you hugged him. 

You handed him the pink box. It had a darker pink ribbon wrapped around it, folded at the top into a big bow, with a small card wedged in between the loops. 

“To Joel Miller :) ” 

He chuckled, then smiled. “Thank you, sweetie.” You didn’t need his gratitude, he was nice enough to you as is, but you did appreciate it. In the past months he had become your only real excuse to bake. 

He welcomed you inside, and soon enough you were settled in the dining room. He’d hung up a new painting since you’d last visited, and changed the light switches on the wall. Every time you were over there was a new addition to the home. You figured he liked having something to do. 

By the looks of it he’d lit the candles there a while ago, and laid the table. He’d butterflied napkins in their napkin rings, and set out glasses for red, white, and dessert wine. You felt a lot better about not canceling. You noticed the brand new table runner against the table’s wood. He told you he bought it that morning. He sounded excited. 

You helped him bring in the pot of stew from the kitchen, as well as a plate of cheese and a loaf of warm bread set on a wooden board. He served you some stew, then cut a few slices of the bread he’d baked and placed them on your side plate. It was surprising that he’d taken up an interest in baking. He always said he preferred to cook on the stove. He did it well. 

“Taking after you.” he’d said, reaching for the wine decanter. 

You wondered if he ever taught his son to cook, and if he did why the latter never liked to do so. You recognised the cheese on the platter. It was from the shop beside your house. You’d served it when he came home in February, with berry jam, marmalade and grapes. He hadn’t been back since then. 

He was mostly quiet during dinner, as always. He listened to you ramble about the show you were watching, and how you found your grandmother’s recipe book in your attic. You assured him you’d be trying every recipe in that book. He said he hoped so. Other than that it was quiet. A comfortable quiet. And you watched wax dribble away from the candle wic, and pool at the base of the candelabra. 

He cleared up while you brewed some tea and placed your pastries on the hand painted porcelain tray you’d gifted him for Christmas. You padded across the hardwood floors to his office, and it was only then you noticed how heavily it had been pouring outside. 

You peeled back the white lace curtains to find a sheet of rain clouding your vision. You made out the dim, golden lights coming off the neighbor’s porch, and the street lamps flickering gently. You were glad you came. It was all quite welcoming, and warm and golden in the Miller household– far more than you would be if you decided to stay back home. 

The door clicked open, and you felt him walking up behind you as you stood at his bookshelf. You pointed to the clock on the wall above it. “It stopped.” He exhaled heavily, with his hands on his hips, and looked up to the pathetically stuttering hours hand. It looked like it was fighting for its life within the confines of the glass– spluttering, struggling. 

“Fixed it two days ago.”

You peeled your eyes away. 

He eased himself into his leather office chair, reaching below the mahogany table to lift a large cardboard box filled to the brim with film. Used, unused, polaroids, disposables. It had red electrical tape around its edges, and the words ‘32, spiral cord and wire’ scribbled in black sharpie. 

“Gotta sort these.” He looked at you apologetically, but you reassured him with a smile, and poured him a cup of tea while he inspected the box. Your eyes wandered to the wooden clock, the hand still pleading for help. You heard it's garbled tic. The contents of the box clattered to the desk, rhythmically with a crack of thunder outside. 

You placed a plate and cup in front of him, then took your seat on folded legs across the table. The white curtains momentarily set ablaze, followed by another hard, violent thrum. You foredged through the pile, lightly covered with residual dust. The rings on your fingers sparkled when they caught the light of his table lamp. 

Amongst the many treasures were some polaroids of the lake mister Miller liked to fish in, the cabin he built upstate, and the back end of Tommy's Miller’s orchard. They looked like test films to you. Not as fixed on composition as Joel was. The settings on the camera all over the place. 

In the pile, under an oversaturated photograph of an apple tree, two familiar eyes peered up at you– much of the face covered and lost to the clutter. You reached for it. Bound together with a thin, blue paperclip were three separate photographs flimsily hanging on to one another. 

You felt sick to your stomach.

The eyes were familiar, because they were yours. 

A mangled torso, waxy, glossy legs, a chest glazed with the sheen of sweat. You looked more like a deserted mannequin than you did yourself. The dark gray “lighting” rendered your body and its surroundings lifeless– ironically, you remember quite enjoying it in the moment. But the polaroids were far more reflective of what you felt of them at present– plagued with regret and shame, and lifelessness. 

How long had he known? Importantly, How did he find them? It hurt you to even think about it. The sound of the stuttering clock was deafening in your ears, ringing like an ominous, cruel joke. 

You distinctly remember taking those pictures. Worse, you remember thinking of mister Miller as your partner had clicked them. You thought of what he’d think if he ever saw them. You could have never guessed you would actually find out. 

“How long, sweetheart?” You forced yourself to look up, finding his eyes already boring you. He was upset, and angry, and there was something brewing behind his eyes. But worst of all he was disappointed in you. And out of all the possibilities, somehow that was the worst. You’d rather him be yelling, because there was something about that soft, gentle voice of his that unnerved you. 

“Why didn’t’ ya say somethin’?” It was like a car crash, you just couldn’t look away from the polaroids in your hands. Your spread legs, bare breasts, panties thrown to the side. You opened your mouth to say something, but you just couldn’t manage it. 

“Really shouldn’t let just anyone take those kinds of pictures.” Your eyes welled with hot tears as he reprimanded you. The whole ordeal had you feeling like you’d been sent to the principal's office, sitting across from him at his desk, both his forearms leaned on the table as he threatened you with consequences. He continued to speak, despite being met with your silence. 

“You’re lucky these ended up here, would be a shame if he found out about it before you did.” While your little affair hadn’t ended well, you surely hadn’t expected whatever this was from your ex partner. He must have still thought your boyfriend lived at his childhood address. Boy did he make a miscalculation. You didn’t know which outcome you preferred. 

You wanted to explain yourself, wanted to assure him you weren’t some cheating, lying piece of shit. That you and his son were just not working anymore, that you felt guilty, and never did it again, that the man who took those pictures was the last one you slept with. That you couldn’t just end things with his son because you didn’t want to lose him. “Mister Miller- I-” 

He cut you off, snatching the images from between your fingers. You watched with burning eyes and your heart hammering in your chest as he inspected them. The man would never look at you the same. He sighed, his downturned, disappointed eyes catching yours. That look, it broke your heart. 

“I mean, look at these babygirl. Ya’ look dead.” 

With your palms cold and sweaty, and cheeks set ablaze, you sure felt like it. The burning in your chest and neck had become almost unbearable. 

“Such a cute lil’ body ya’ got there. And this-” he shook his head, his unblinking gaze forcing your eyes to his. “This boy fuckin’ ruined ya.” He tossed the polaroids on his desk, and leaned forward. 

It took you about ten seconds to realize that mister Miller’s real quam with the pictures was, for better or for worse, not the fact that they existed, or worse, weren't taken by his son, but that they were bad. Not morally, or ethically, especially considering how they’d landed in his possession, but artistically, formally. 

“Would be a shame if my son were to say, find em, layin’ ‘round.” The room began to spin in slow circles. In a second a flash of lighting struck through the curtains in the window behind Joel, his frame completely backlit by the blinding light momentarily. You winced as another harsh crack of thunder descended upon the quiet office. 

“No, mi- Please-”

“‘Specially to see ya like this, catch ya like this. In these god awful pictures.” He took your chin between his fingers, eyes filled with faux concern, brows furrowed. But behind the obvious facade there was something sinister and cruel. Something you wished you had seen before. Because you were sure it had always been there. 

“How ‘bout we fix ‘em, huh babygirl?” your eyes widened at the realization, at the weight of his implication. His grip on your chin was unrelenting, a warning, a little taste of what was to come. Had he forgotten somehow that you were in fact his son’s girlfriend and not his? A girl who was to him, until about ten minutes before, his future daughter in law? 

“You gonna help daddy fix ‘em for ya?” Time seemed to lose its cadence, every moment  stretched endlessly as you remained trapped under his dead eyed, unwavering gaze. His words sent a jolt between your legs, that name sent a jolt between your legs, and had you squeezing them together shamefully as you struggled to blubber out a response. 

He raised his brows in question, once again offering you the artificial choice before you were sure he would take what he wanted himself. You swallowed thickly, and nodded. It was a lot less difficult than you let yourself believe. What were you going to do? 

“Hmm good girl. Get on ya knees sweetie.” Still gripping your chin he reached for the camera on his desk. A polaroid SX 70– the one he used to click a picture of you blowing out your candles on your birthday. In that same office, where he sang to you alone, because his son was on a work trip. 

He pinched your cheek, and got up to round the table. You knew better than to talk back. You were reminded when you saw how his frame towered over you, like that first night you’d met him. Except this time his broad shoulders and muscular arms were threatening, intimidating, and undeniably making you weak in the knees. 

Pushing your chair back you got on your knees on that once thick, soft Persian carpet. It’s weave like a thousand needles piercing your skin, and no longer the cloud on which you liked to sit. 

“Would’ve expected more from a smart cookie like you. Didn’t I teach ya better sweetie?” It was sick. You knew he was talking of not only your carelessness, but those pictures. You should have known to come to him. He would have helped you figure it out. Your relationship troubles, and how to take those photographs. He squatted down to your level, eyes raking over your body like you were already on display for him. 

“Lemme see ya sweetie.” You wished he would just rip off the bandaid and do it himself. It would feel less humiliating. Reaching for the buttons of your sweater you undid them one by one. He watched your every movement, eyes trained on your chest as you exposed the swell of your breasts. 

He reached forward, and brushed his thumb over your skin, hushing you soothingly when you shivered. Your hot skin burned further under his feather light touch. It was like you’d always imagined– gruff and rugged, but skillful. Just like him. His fingers were rough, and reminded you of the photograph of him and Tommy on his desk. He suddenly looked a lot more like the man in that picture.   

It was like he was eating you up with his eyes with each bit of clothing you discarded on his floor. He hummed when you got to your white, daisy print ankle socks, and caught your wrist when you reached to pull them off. 

“Keep em’ on.”

Once brimming with vitality, his brown eyes turned lifeless, devoid of any flicker of emotion or human connection. You found yourself questioning whether you ever really knew him– the gentle, unassuming man you adored. If he even existed in the first place.

Left in nothing but your bra and panties you sat on your knees in front of him, unable to meet his eyes. Pink lace. You’d worn them on purpose, because your little dates were always a special occasion. You weren't planning on him seeing them. 

By the looks of it he seemed quite pleased with your choice. 

“All f’ me, babygirl?” His voice had dropped three octaves, almost slurred thanks to his smooth southern drawl. You swallowed thickly, and nodded your head. As much as you hated to admit it, he was, in some convoluted way, one hundred percent correct. 

Excitement defiantly swirled in your tummy as he let his hands roam your mostly bare body for a few seconds. Like he was examining and inspecting you. He lifted your limp arm to get a better look at your bare waist, then let it fall by your side and reached for the straps of your bra– loosening them to the point they were barely hanging on to your shoulders. 

The room began to spin a little faster when he gently pushed you back against the carpet, one palm planted firmly on your stomach to hold you there, the other hand folding your knees and planting your heels on the ground. The cup of your bra slipped off your chest, your breast now bare to the cool air. You felt exposed, for reasons less obvious than they really were. 

You heard the violent swish of the wind outside. It felt far and distant, and like it was right in that room, all at the same time. 

He began inspecting you again. It was odd, surely he liked the sight of your body, you could tell when you eyed the obvious bulge in his pants, but he was looking at you like you were some prop– like a little sex doll for his little photoshoot. He was moving you around as he pleased, positioning your limbs and tilting your head like an inanimate object. You didn’t fight back, let him take control of your body. It made your stomach churn, your core tingle. 

He nudged and then kneeled between your legs, fully clothed, looking at you methodically. You felt the cool air brush the wet spot that had formed on your panties as you gazed up at the ceiling, far too ashamed to meet his gaze. 

You watched him reach upwards towards his desk, and shift the lamp there till it was barely hanging on to the edge. The light hit you in the face, and forced your eyes shut till he turned it away and towards your chest. You tilted your chin to get a look at him, despite your better judgment. 

He hummed, swiping your dripping seam with his thumb, only stopping to eye you in warning when your body understandably jerked at the contact. The dark look in his eyes reminded you you weren’t really there for your own enjoyment, and more for his. It was like your natural movement was some sort of inconvenience to him, something that was hindering and interfering with his creative process. 

It was nauseating. But despite the fear that bubbled in your chest, you couldn’t deny the thrum of excitement that ran through your system when he began adjusting the settings on his camera. A part of you, a much bigger part of you than you'd like to admit, was enjoying the entire experience. 

“Look at that.” He chuckled, presumably at the way the fabric of your panties clung messily to your wetness in spite of your seemingly unwilling demeanor.  You felt a drop of sweat roll down between your breasts in anticipation. 

He teased your clit over your panties, switching between watching your face intently and finding the best angle. Leaning backwards and forwards. You knew better than to move around this time. “That boy doesn't know a thing about angles does he?” He was mumbling, excessively concentrated on properly composing his shot. 

“‘S’ okay sweetheart, we’ll fix it.” Hooking two fingers under the seam of your panties he pulled them aside, exposing your bare cunt to the chilly air. “Daddy’ll fix it.” He watched himself run his fingers through your wetness, and you watched him swallow thickly at the view. You chewed on your bottom lip, summoning all your restraint not to wiggle your hips in his direction. 

“Thought ‘bout this cute lil cunt all fuckin week.” 

Your disobedient mind encouraged the desire that pooled in your core, and you turned your head side to side to rid yourself of the disturbing thought. 

He must have noticed your strained expression, the way you were so clearly begging to be touched, but refused to admit it. Your creased brow was not one of intense pleasure, but anxiety, uncertainty and perpetual frustration. His shoulders dropped defeatedly, and he looked at you like he was about to unleash on you another set of debased instructions. 

“Gotta look like you’re enjoyin’ yourself more than that babygirl.” 

Caught slightly off guard, but admittedly thankful nonetheless, a breathy sigh escaped your lips as he began drawing soft circles on your aching clit. “That’s it babygirl” His praise licked between your legs, going straight to your core. Fingers wet with your slick he rubbed your throbbing pussy, and you let your head fall back against the carpet. 

“So fuckin’ wet f’ daddy.” 

Increasing his pace ever so slightly his fingers moved to tease your aching hole, just barely pushing in. You felt a moan bubble in your throat, forcing its way out of your mouth. It was more than embarrassing to admit you were enjoying his attention. 

“Let go babygirl. Daddy’s gonna make ya’ look so pretty in his pictures- like ya’ really are, like ya' deserve.”

He bit his lip to keep from smiling when he heard the soft moan slip past your lips. “That's better.” You didn’t know if he was more pleased with your pleasure, or the fact that you’d look better in the photographs.  

As your chest rose and fell with his movements you were more and more convinced. It was undoubtedly better to play along and give in. There was little point resisting by the time the thought even occurred to you. Admittedly, embarrassingly late. At least that's what you told yourself when you moaned and sighed below him. 

“Shit sweetheart. Wish you could see what ‘m seein’.” You imagined what Joel could see through the lens. It felt dirty, and contrite, but also exhilarating, and warm and right. 

You felt the tension build in your hips, between your legs. He had been resisting fucking you with his fingers, and your need to be filled was only increasing with each touch to your sensitive clit– your aching hole clenching around nothing. Your mind wandered to the way you’d undoubtedly seen his cock twitch in his jeans at the sight of you. How you’d been wishing secretly for him to fill you up. 

The coil in your belly tightened, and tightened, and you felt yourself reach the edge, the very peak of your pleasure. You made out a beam of white lightning through your half closed, lust clouded eyes. 

He brushed his thumb over your clit, ever so slightly. You were so so close, feeling the tension reach its highest point in a split second and then dissolve entirely. You gasped, back arching off the ground. 

In the deafening silence you heard the shutter and click of the camera. The sound was menacing. And it made your tummy flutter.  

“That's it baby, good girl” 

Your slick pooled at your entrance, running down your thighs and making you shift uncomfortably. You felt numb in your toes, something in you prompting you to kick your feet just a little. At the lost pleasure. The word was leaving your mouth before you could even register it. 

“Daddy” 

“I know, I know-” Fuck. He sounded so gentle. Like the Joel you knew. The Joel you loved.  “just a little longer sweetheart, you can take it.” He rubbed the inside of your thigh. 

He rested his camera on his knees and reached forward to cup your cheek, stroking your warm skin with his thumb. His fingertips were ice cold, and made you wince. “Just think of how pretty they're gonna turn out-” The look in his eyes was pleading, like you even had a choice in the matter. You wondered if he thought you did. Either way it seemed to work on you. “How pretty you’re gonna look.” 

“C’mon be a good girl f’ daddy.” His words made you mewl. Joel pinched your hip in warning, but kept his voice steady. 

“C’mere” Hitching both your legs on his shoulders and on either side of his head he scooted forward on his knees. Your skin tingled in anticipation, and you wondered what it would be like to have his head between your thighs. 

Admiring your white ankle socks he ran his thumb along the base of your foot, making your squirm in his hold. He engulfed its arch in his large palm, placing a kiss to your soul and then your ankle, moving forward to nuzzle your calf with his nose. 

“Goddamn, such a cute lil thing.” 

You watched him palm his bulge through his jeans, then undo his belt with his eyes still trained on your messy, wet pussy. As if he’d caught you staring he reached forward and tilted your chin back up towards the ceiling. Surely, you straining your neck to get a good look at him was doing nothing for his shot composition. 

You felt him let go of your shin in favor of guiding his cock along your throbbing seam. His tip bumped your clit, making you mewl and inadvertently lift your hips in his direction. You wished you could see him, on his knees in front of you, his cock teasing your dripping cunt. 

“Poor thing, can feel how bad ya’ need it.” Exhaling heavily he continued to rub his cock against your wet folds, eyes fixated below him. He cursed lowly under his breath, and lined himself up with your entrance, pushing in just a little. 

Your mouth fell open in a wordless cry at the slow stretch of him, and you attempted to grab fistfulls of the carpet beneath you. He’d barely put it in , but it was enough to send your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Cute lil pussy can barely take my cock, baby.” 

He fucked you, giving you just the tip, over and over and over, unwilling to burry himself in you to the hilt. You felt him twitch inside you, the slow pace and minimal contact enough to keep you both on edge, and not enough to provide any semblance of relief. 

You whined in protest. 

“Shh babygirl, I know.” He fucked you in slow shallow strokes, hips barely moving. You felt his eyes glued to your face, as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to snap his shot.

He thumbed your clit, his own breath quickening when your walls clamped around his cock. 

You’d never reach your peak this way, and it looked like he noticed. It seemed to be quite a large part of his artistic vision, and you were more than glad. 

He groaned and thrust himself to the hilt in a single slow push, picking up his pace just enough to where you could feel him hit that sensitive spot inside you. His cock throbbed against your aching walls, the drag of him sending your eyes rolling back into your head. His hands gripped your thighs, lips dragging across your calves every now and then as he fucked your warm, wet pussy– slow and deep. 

You felt full, unlike you ever had before. With the way he was making you feel it was difficult to think of who he was, and how he’d got you into this position. Neither your boyfriend’s existence, nor the reality of his intimidation took away from the soaring pleasure that made your body sing. 

It was all too much to bear, and you could feel your orgasm building in your core once again. 

The ominous sound of the wooden clocks garbled tic found its way back to your ears, this time in rhythm with your pounding heart. It sounded oddly comforting, like it was pushing you closer to the edge. 

“Daddy-” you reached for his hand, bringing his large palm to squeeze your breast. He obliged, his free hand moving from there to tug and pinch at any part of you exposed to him. 

“Daddy, gonna cum-” Joel sat back just a bit, still fucking into your soft cunt. “Cum ‘f daddy babygirl, fuck, that’s it.” It was all you needed, the tension that had been building in your core for what seemed like forever finally snapping. Your body went rigid, eyes screwing shut and back arching off the ground once again, legs tingling. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he slowed his pace, coaxing you through it. He hit that sweet spot inside you over and over, seemingly enjoying the many waves of your orgasm just as much as you. 

Between the ticking and Joel's labored breaths, and ringing in your ears you barely heard the click of the camera, but the soft sound sent a jolt through your body, like an electric aftershock. 

You took more than a moment to catch your breath, face tingling and head buzzing. 

When your eyes fluttered open you noticed Joel had abandoned his camera on the ground beside him in favor of grabbing your thighs. Still sensitive you shivered as he fucked into your pussy, fast and hard. You looked up at his face, twisted in pleasure, the little wrinkles on his skin accentuated thanks to his frown and furrowed brow. 

“So fuckin tight babygirl” You felt him pulse and throb inside you, emptying himself in a few final, sloppy thrusts. 

He looked so handsome, with his hair just slightly out of place, and flannel wrinkled and messy. The thought of being filled up by him had your tummy erupting with butterflies. 

Still catching his breath he reached for his camera, pulling out ever so slowly. With your legs still on his shoulders he tucked himself back into his jeans and fixed his belt, slowly easing himself on his stomach in front of you, and dropping your legs on either side of his head. 

You couldn’t see him, but you felt him chuckle against your bare thigh, his breath tickling your skin. “Show me how full ya’ are of me babygirl– how messy ya’ are f’ daddy”. You bit your lip as you pushed, and heard yet another click of the camera echo across the room. 

“Fuck. look so fuckin’ pretty, full’ve my cum” His spend leaked out of your fluttering entrance, and you felt him swipe his finger against the cut of your pussy and push anything that escaped right back in. He shifted your panties back in place, the material already dampening once again, this time with both your and his juices.

He sat up with his legs stretched out in front of him, back resting against the legs of his couch beside you. He pulled you to rest your head on his lap. You watched him intently as he reached beside him for the photographs. They must really be something, because mister Miller sure looked impressed with himself. 

When he turned to you you were probably met with his most wide and genuine smile yet, the three fresh new polaroids pinched between his thumb and index. You watched as the white light from outside invaded the room, and struck his face, illuminating it for a split second. The garbled tic of the wooden clock had subsided into the white noise of the background, along with the steady hum of the rain. You relaxed into his embrace. 

“Make the prettiest little model, don’t ya think sweetheart? Daddy’s gonna have to use ya’ more often” 

And no, I'm not a jerk

I would ask if you could help me out

It's hard to understand

'Cause when you're running by yourself

It's hard to find someone to hold your hand

You know it's good to be tough like me

But I will wait forever

I need someone else

To look into my eyes and tell me

"Girl, you know you've got to watch your health"

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

Going to hell for this one. Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs keep me writing. I also want to re iterate please be careful about who you send or let take explicit pictures of yourself. Never show your face and stay safe. Dividers by @ saradika and @cafekitsune 💗🐝🫶

[fredwkong]

Angus, Beef

Dr. Angus Jacobson was a prodigy. At just 35, he was on the tenure track at a major university, researching intersectionality and climate justice. Some people thought it was strange that a straight white man from a middle class family had gone into the field, but Angus just laughed and said he had felt a calling.

Not only was he a great intellect, Angus was also always impeccably dressed in semi-formal or formal clothes. He loved wearing suits, or a polo shirt if it was hot, and keeping his hair short and professional. He thought that being presentable was a huge part of getting ahead in life.

As one of the foremost experts on climate justice in the country, Angus consulted with several large corporations on their eco-friendly projects. Often, that meant touring sites and giving recommendations on how to improve the design or the worksite conditions to better help people. He was always unfailingly polite to any workmen that he met while on his tours, but he found them hard to relate to. They just didn’t seem to have very complex life experiences compared to him. And even if they were working out in the heat all day, he couldn’t help but feel like they enjoyed being all sweaty and never using deodorant. The thought made his skin crawl.

One day, Angus was touring a site where a development company was building carbon neutral high rises. He had just finished speaking to the foreman and was walking away, taking notes on his tablet. The drainage system was going to need a big upgrade if the facility was supposed to stand up to the storms that occasionally came through.

Suddenly the foreman called after him. “Hey, Mr. Jacobson, you forgot this!” he yelled. He was a big, burly Black guy, and his voice carried across the whole site. Angus turned, surprised and a little scared. The foreman held out a small, folded piece of white cloth. Angus was sure he hadn’t dropped anything or handed anything off, but he took it anyway. He didn't want to say no to someone like this. It was strangely damp to the touch.

The foreman grinned at him. “See you ‘round, Mr. Jacobson,” he said, and walked away without another word.

Once he got into his car, a little European EV, Angus unfolded what turned out to be a white undershirt, wrinkling his nose at the thick scent of stale sweat and body odour it gave off. It certainly wasn’t his. Maybe it was some kind of prank? He could just throw it out when he got home. Angus tossed it on the passenger seat and started driving.

The smell was impossible to ignore. Even once he was back home, the shirt safely in the trash, Angus felt like it was following him from room to room, infecting everything he touched with the smell of unwashed man. Even after showering, applying fresh deodorant, and changing into his silk pyjamas, he swore the smell was still on him. He stalked restlessly from room to room, sniffing his pristine loveseat, his freshly ironed slate grey sheets, and his immaculate suit closet to try and find the source. Finally, he gave up, resolving that it was psychosomatic. He would just call the company tomorrow and complain about their foreman playing a prank.

The next morning, Angus was walked out of his bedroom confidently in his usual suit. He had completely forgotten the incident from last night. That is, until he walked into the living room to see a beat-up leather sofa in the place of his rarely-used loveseat, the white undershirt draped over the back of it. “What the fuck?” he breathed.

Angus never used his living room. If he wasn’t in his office, he was in his bedroom. He’d only used it for the few times a date had gone well, and a guy wanted to come watch a movie… Something about that line of reasoning felt wrong. He thought it through again.

Angus spent plenty of time in his living room. He had spent good money on a quality sofa to relax on. Guys loved it, too. They loved the feeling of leather against their backs while Angus pressed down on top of them.

Angus frowned. He was versatile, but he wasn’t the kind of guy to fuck on the first date… was he?

Anyway, he looked proudly at his sofa. What the hell was that grimy undershirt doing on it? He must have dropped it there on his way to put it in the garbage yesterday. He snatched it off—how was it still soaking wet with sweat?—and mentally promised that he would clean the couch after work. The shirt went back into the garbage and Angus headed off to the university.

When he got home that evening, he swore that his house still smelled like sweat. He found the shirt in his office, where he must have left it this morning. It was right where his antique phonograph had been… Where his weight rack was, draped over the back. Angus threw the shirt into the garbage, disgusted, then did his lifting while watching a lecture on climate stewardship. He was so glad he’d thought to put a rack of free weights in his office, it let him multitask so much better. He could tell it was having an effect, too, since his arms were looking bigger these days.

Once he was done his work, Angus found himself feeling horny and bored. It was unusual, since he usually ended his workouts grossed out by his own sweat, needing to shower and lie down… Of course, it was normal, exercising always energised him, and it was too early to shower. He headed out to a bar, and a few hours later Angus found himself lying on his couch, grinding against some hunk whose name he’d forgotten. After they came, Angus gave the guy a goodnight kiss and sent him home. He barely wiped the cum off his skinny chest before he fell asleep, forgetting to shower.

Things continued this way for a few days. Angus kept on finding the shirt, still wet, sitting on a his furniture. He kept on getting hookups, at least one a day. After a few days, he couldn’t smell the sweaty shirt anymore. Between his lifting bench, sofa, unwashed sheets, and dirty laundry bin, there was too much of his own smell in the house anyway. One morning, he found the shirt in his medicine cabinet, and he couldn’t find his deodorant… He had a big tub of curl cream, one of his hookups must have fixed their hair and forgotten it.

Angus found himself hooking up with Black guys more often. He’d never had a strong preference for any one race… He’d always loved big, thick Black men. He knew it was just a fantasy, but something about big, dumb Black guys appealled to him. He downloaded Grindr, found himself drooling over pics of thick men in construction gear.

Somehow, the undershirt was in his car one morning. In the place of his nice, planet-saving EV, there was a manual truck Angus had no idea how to drive... Angus loved his truck. He loved to feel like a real man on the road, even if the gas-guzzler did conflict with his morals. It was fine, though, he would just make sure his next car was an electric truck

One evening, Angus found the shirt on the floor of his closet. His precious suits were gone! Instead there was… The shirt had been hard to find, since most of Angus’s clothes were similar casual wear, half of it dirty on the floor of the closet. Even his work suits weren’t washed nearly often enough, giving off a bit of a stench. Every once in a while, Angus would see someone’s nostrils flare when they walked past him, catching his manly musk on the air. It gave him such a feeling of power and masculinity.

Lounging on his leather sofa in a pair of threadbare boxers, Angus was scrolling Grindr when he got a message. “Hey man, you ready yet?” It wasn’t from anyone he knew, except… It was from the foreman of the work site. His profile was full of pictures of him in hiviz gear, sweating in the hot sun. What could he mean? Maybe he wanted to do some roleplay. He was so hot, exactly what Angus loved imagining.

“Always ready for you, baby ;)” Angus messaged back. A few minutes later, he was texting the foreman his address, excited to see him again.

Just before he let the guy in, Angus realised he needed to put on a shirt. He had nothing clean. There was an undershirt sitting where his bedside table should be… Over his bong. He should wipe that down, see if the foreman wanted to smoke up after sex. He threw on the shirt and went to answer the door.

The foreman looked approvingly around Angus’s apartment. “Looking good,” he said, half to himself. He fisted a hand in Angus’s shirt, almost like he owned it, kissed Angus hard, filling Angus’s mouth with his huge tongue. “Seems to me that you’re way too white and educated for this house. Mr. Jacobson. You live like one of my labourers.”

Angus looked around. The foreman was right. For some reason, despite being a university professor, his house looked nothing like it. He didn’t have an office, just a home gym. He had no suits, no bookshelves, just casual gear and porn DVDs. Maybe it was all in at the university? That didn’t make any sense.

Before Angus could get too confused, the foreman grabbed him. He whispered in his ear, “Seems to me like you want to roleplay. You want to tell me you’re a big, dumb, sweaty construction worker, right, Mr. Jacobson? You want to fuck me with your big Black cock while still wearing your shirt?”

Angus did.

“You like that?” he growled a few minutes later, getting between the foreman’s legs. “I’m gonna open you up with my tongue. I didn’t get any fancy schooling to use fancy words, I just eat guys like you out like you've never been ate out before.”

He drove his tongue into the foreman's ass, enjoying the taste of his unwashed ass. As he did, Angus’s tongue lengthened, his lips darkening as his nose became wider. By the time he had the foreman moaning, his hole starting to gape, Angus’s face was black-skinned, his features strong and masculine.

“Yeah,” he grunted. His voice was deeper, slower. “I work hard in the heat all day, and I fuck hard all night. I sweat and leak so much I basically don’t need lube.”

Angus’s cock seemed to get even harder as he bottomed out in the foreman. He felt a burst of sensation as his foreskin grew back, a continuous stream of precum starting to leak from the tip. The skin around the base darkened, his hair growing in thick and black.

Angus started to rock back and forth as the foreman moaned underneath him. Having this burly Black man at his mercy made Angus feel even more confident. He continued roleplaying. “I’m such a thick Black construction worker, your cock gets caught between our sweaty bellies when I suck your neck. You’re gonna get off with your cock trapped between us.”

He leaned down and started to bite and lick at the foreman’s neck and collarbone as his chest and belly expanded. Angus’s skin darkened as hair grew thick over it, sweat beading as he fucked harder. Just like he’d said, the foreman’s cock was caught between their muscle guts, the foreman’s precum mixing with salty sweat to create the perfect friction.

Angus could feel the orgasm coming. He barely understood the words coming out of his mouth as he said, “Gonna pick you up and fuck you against the wall. I’m a big Black muscle bull, got no brains, just a big muscle ass and thick legs, so sweaty, dumb, smelly…” He trailed off, rocking back as he picked up the burly foreman like he was nothing, slammed him against the wall, and kept fucking.

He felt the foreman’s hands on his juicy muscle ass, tense and round as he rutted against the wall. Yeah, Angus’s body was the product of hard labour, a temple of Black manliness. He was glorious, a fucking god, he was… he was…

Angus came, filling the foreman up with shot after shot of thick Black cum. The foreman came too, his cock still pressed between their bellies, his cum soaking into Angus’s sweaty undershirt.

In a haze, Angus stumbled back from the wall, still holding the foreman off the ground. He collapsed onto the bed with a huge crash. Something had changed… Everything was fine… He was a beast… Angus fell asleep without pulling out.

The next morning, Angus “Beef” Jacobson woke up slow, enjoying the feeling of a mouth on his musty cock. Boss was so good with his tongue. “Morning, Boss,” grunted Beef.

Boss pulled off Beef’s big black cock with a pop. “Morning, Beef,” he growled. “Ready to head to the site?”

Beef grunted. He reached down, grabbed Boss by the shoulders, and dragged him up. “Not yet,” said Beef, lowering Boss onto his slick cock. He started moving his Boss up and down like a fleshlight.

Beef wasn’t the smartest guy. That was how he’d gotten his nickname, ‘cause he was like a big, sweet cow who loved to fuck. He was like a walking stereotype of a Black construction worker: burly, sweaty, musky, and totally dumb. Hell, he’d pretty much worn the same shirt for a week, an undershirt Boss had given him. It was so musky and smelly Beef was pretty sure anyone who touched it would be smelling him for weeks. That was a hot idea.

He didn’t really know much other than the physical stuff, but Boss told him he was helping to save the world, some shit about green buildings. Beef thought that was funny, since the building was grey concrete, not green. He was such a dumbass sometimes. Just a big piece of dumb Black Beef.

This story was part of a trade with @artificial-transmutations. See his half of our trade here.

[amuseoffyre]

Thinking again (thanks to the dead bird site) about Stede rebooting his worst day ever, aka the traumatic flashback he has multiple times across both season, only this time he gets the acceptance and approval he has craved for his entire life.

The Worst Day Ever is the day his father teaches him to kill, slaughtering a goose and spraying blood all over little Stede's face. He then grabs his son by the arm and drags him out to verbally excoriate him and tell him he is worthless and useless, "a soft-handed, weak-hearted, lily-livered little rich boy".

Faced with the prospect of killing for the first time sends Stede into a panic spiral including that flashback.

It's referenced again throughout the season, but especially in 1x02, loosely in the fever dream in 1x04 (he was scared of geese for Christ's sake!), and 1x09, when Stede is struggling with his guilt, self-recriminations and self-doubts and also being confronted directly by Chauncey.

But the most significant return of the Worst Day Ever flashback is immediately after Stede kills Ned Low, his first real deliberate kill.

Our man is very much Not Okay. The fact that this memory is front and centre shows exactly how much that day - that moment - impacted on him decades on.

He does his usual thing when he's upset - isolates and closes himself away somewhere else, shutting himself down and using the tried and true conceal-don't-feel approach.

The difference this time is that someone comes after him to offer him emotional support, comfort and care (much like Ed did on the beach in 2x09, and this time, more kisses as well). So for a little while at least, Stede is distracted and wrapped up in Ed's affections and can put Ned's death to the back of his mind.

But the trouble arises when they get to the Republic and suddenly, for the first time in his life, he's being praised and celebrated. And, of all the people for him to gravitate towards, he ends up choosing to spend his time in the company of Blood-bucket Bill, an older man in a blood-smeared leather apron, who keeps telling him how cool and amazing he is.

And, after Stede kills in front of him, we get another twisted up mirror of the Worst Day Ever. Instead of his dad dragging him out to humiliate him, Bloodbucket Bill grabs him by the arm and hauls him up and tells everyone "the Gentleman Pirate is the fuckin' dude"

And as the episode continues and Ed leaves, Stede retreats to the bar with Bill, trying to take comfort from the man who has been telling him how good he is all day.

"At least you like me for me," he says to the deranged blood-smeared groupie. "Bonnet, I'd fuckin' die for you" Bill tells him and you can see that it isn't bringing the assurance Stede thought it would.

And to ice the cake, even when he's holding onto those last little vestiges of "yay I'm cool", Izzy shows up and dismisses Bill with three words and Bill doesn't even try to stay. "I'll fuckin' die for you" becomes "yes, right away, Mr Hands".

And the framing. omg the framing in the scene. It is, once again, a deliberate and pointed call back to Stede's Worst Day Ever. Once again, an older man is looming over him and Stede is just waiting to have emotional strips ripped out of him again ("have you come for your victory lap?"). This is the first and only time I can think of Izzy looking taller than anyone, especially Stede.

But unlike the horrendous abuse he got from his father, the abuse Stede expects yet again, the same old patterns happening over and over, Izzy changes the script and tells him "I think you're good for him. You balance each other out".

And if not for a group of his crew - his family - choosing to leave him as well, it might have been enough. But when he's already fragile over the loss of one person precious to him and reassured that he's good for people after all, the threat of losing more of his beloved people pushes him straight back into the reckless behaviour that has filled the rest of his day.

(brb wailing into a pillow that we won't get to see him have a chance to process any of this stuff)

[emporium]

Tumblr Frog Earrings

Edit: They brightened up a bit in the sun. What do you think about this color now? Charlotte was so excited she went into full production mode. Last night the fantastic Charlotte from The Goode Karma Co came to me with an idea for these earrings. She sent me the idea at 9pm and by 1am she already had the prototypes made. I think they look so cool and we were thinking of selling them as a set of four that you can mix and match. Is this something you'd like to see in the shop? There are well-founded concerns about companies taking advantage of Pride month to make money and I wasn't going to launch anything this month due to those concerns but I had an idea that I hope would belay those fears. Tumblr will donate 100% of the profits from these to the Trevor Project. I'll provide complete transparency with screenshots and such on how many we sells and the donations we make. Users have also expressed concerns that I'm a character created by a corporation or that I'm a master manipulator who is just trying to get a sale. I'd love for people to know that I'm just a regular person who is being himself on the only site he feels comfortable doing so. Since talk is cheap in addition to the donation tumblr will be making, I'm pledging to match every donation the company makes. By that I mean me, Nick (last name omitted, don't want to get swatted :) ), will take my own money and match any donations that Tumblr makes. I bet you're skeptical, people lie all the time on the internet. You're right to be skeptical but I'm serious and to prove it I made an advance donation of $500 (which was matched by Jimmy Choo, lululemon, and NASCAR as part of a Pride month promotion) as a down payment on my matching pledge (proof below with what I hope is enough personal information redacted).

I want to make sure people know that tumblr is a safe place. It’s a place where you can go to be yourself, share your passions and take a breather from life. I support people being themselves, in whatever form that takes. You do you and let everyone else worry about themselves.

I’m an old straight white male. I have no idea of the struggles many of you go through, I won’t pretend I do. I may not know the right things to say or do but I do know that I support you, all of you unconditionally. I want you to educate me, I want you to rely on me, I want you to help me get rid of anyone who is making others here feel unsafe, unwanted or just simple bad about themselves. My asks are open (even anon), as well as my DMs.

[therobotmonster]

So... Shapeways is going bankrupt.

This is particularly irksome for me, as that's a good 1/3rd of my monthly income, so I'm crossing my fingers while I start setting up a new store on cults. I have literally thousands of items so getting them all up is going to take ages.

But why did this happen?

Well I'll fucking tell you what I think happened.

It was a company run on arrogance and cowardice.

Shapeways made its mark as the cafepress of 3d printing. The weight of this was their marketplace that let people sell prints directly to customers without having to do the printing themselves. At its peak, I made more from Shapeways than from my day job.

The problem was that Shapeways put zero effort into the marketplace. They'd send some of us to a con to promote the idea of 3d printing game minis a couple of times, sure, but when it came to actual site maintenance and design every suggestion and request by sellers was roundly ignored. We asked for better search and categorization options. We asked to be able to name variants in our stores. We asked for better communication from the print techs. We asked for accurate subcategories that actually reflected how customers looked for items. None of it was done.

As such, the site was baffling to customers and difficult to understand. This was made worse by Shapeways' continual renaming of their materials. So after a couple of years Shapeways announces that they're not going to do anything for the marketplace because it's underperforming, and are going to focus on B2B, and in doing so they buried the marketplace in a tiny little link on the front page.

Overnight sales plummeted. We complained again, nothing was done. We asked for a different URL that went straight to the marketplace (something that would literally cost them $80 to do) that we could direct customers to, we were ignored.

The marketplace is underperforming, so we won't put in the effort needed to make the marketplace perform. Makes perfect sense.

Prices go up. Shipping goes up substantially, and then it was a thousand little cuts. The auto-checks were altered to make it impossible to verify anything manually with any accuracy, so it became harder to design for the limitations of their printers.

The site slowed down substantially so every click had a several second pause, making shopping and maintaining frustrating and unpleasant. Shipping costs to many areas of the world became insanely high, effectively cutting off entire markets.

Want to not be Shapeways? Then remember this:

Your users know more about your site experience and their own needs than you do.

If you have a sales site, and the people selling through it say "this isn't working, we need this" then maybe you should listen to them and not just say 'you're wrong' to their faces.

Oh, and also, if goddamn Rolls-Royce comes in filing false DMCA claims over the use of the word "Phantom" in any context on your site, you don't take every item through a multiple day review for every edit and say "LOL, we can't do anything"

You take them to court for abusing the system on behalf of your user base, you fucking bootlicking cowards.

OH, AND I ALMOST FORGOT!

I HAD TO FIND OUT ABOUT THIS FROM A DM ON TWITTER.

They've sent me a check every month for half a decade and they don't even send a "We're closing shop" email.

Look upon my prints, ye mighty, and despair.

If you want to help me though the meantime, here's my paypal.me and my gofundme.

[autumnmobile12]

I like to think that 10+ years into the ghost hunting career, Mai and company are all scarily efficient in a crisis.

The anime takes place over the course of a year, and there are three separate fires that take place:  the kitchen fire in the dollhouse case, the fire that broke out at Yasu’s school, and the fire at the Yoshimi house.  There’s a high probability that those fires weren’t the last ones they ever had to put out.  Combine that with various injuries, the ambulance rides, the near drowning of a child, a murderous family, a horde of drowned corpses, and other assorted emergencies, there has to come a point where a crisis is just another Monday.

...

“There’s a fire?  Is it small enough that a fire extinguisher can handle it or do we need to call the fire department? Fire extinguisher it is. I saw one in the hall, I'll go get it." If the site doesn't have one, they grab the one they keep in the company van.

...

“Naru’s gone into cardiac arrest again?  Call an ambulance and find the AED kit we saw earlier.” (If they weren't all trained in CPR or BLS (Basic Life Support) after the Yoshimi Case, they probably were afterward. At this point, I imagine all of them have done a round of CPR on him and it's not even weird anymore.)

Everyone's medical information is probably on file and/or memorized. Every investigation briefing goes over the nearest emergency room locations, makes sure the first aid kits are stocked, and goes over if anyone is taking any new medications that may or may not react badly with anesthetics, anti-inflammatories, etc.

...

There is a sign on the door that says, "Unless your life is in immediate danger, do not leave the base unattended under any circumstance."

...

Basic self-defense became a necessity after too many close encounters with a violent, possessed person. That and carrying pepper spray. Masako straight up has a stun gun.

...

And the poor client's just standing there all like, "Um...can I ask how you people are all so calm about this?"

Mai: *casually trying to decide if a serious-looking cut is deep enough to warrant a hospital visit* "Listen, when you've been doing this as long as I have, there isn't much left that's a shock anymore."

[hayleysayshay]

CR twitter having a normal one and deciding CR is the end all be all of targeted activism

I have seen these posts get like 500 likes asking CR to donate and then Matt’s response where he talks about poor mental health but says that he’s given 15k of their own money to Gaza is like, clear they align with a pro Palestine position. And this response has got 28k likes. It’s a very online bubble talking to each other, and they cannot see that they’re posting the same information to each other and aren’t changing any damn minds.

Very high possibility CR can’t say anything on the Critical Role accounts because of their contracts with Amazon. So what if they never post for these people? Maybe just give up and move on?

When I first got into the fandom I saw all this cool clothing merch so I looked for their code of ethics. Couldn’t find one. Emailed the shop/site about it, never got a response. Gave up and moved on.

My genuine position it’s nice when they do do something good, but I have no expectations otherwise, they’re not an ethical company they’re a business.

And it’s totally normal to be disappointed and want to spend your money and time elsewhere, I’m not here to tell you you’re wrong, but I think some twitter activists people have lost sight of a bigger picture by being in a bubble. I just don’t care to centre a damn media company in my activism and have better things to worry about than fucking Critical role.

Like I donate monthly anyway and adhoc donations. I wouldn’t donate to a fundraiser unless there was something amazing offered during it, as a) I prefer to just give straight to the charity as I think that avoids processing fees b) it probably wouldn’t even be in my timezone? Idk people can just donate anyway, people are already well organised and you don’t need Critical Role to do it for you.

Support who you want, but turning other fans not boycotting critical role, the DnD media company, into a litmus test if you’re a good person or not a bit ridiculous here, and a bit unserious.

[jarchaeology]

i really appreciate your work archiving jensen’s run on days of our lives, i am having a blast watching sammi’s wedding lol

is days of our lives considered lost media in any capacity? it seems crazy that there is really no way to watch previous seasons on DVDs or streaming. you have preserved literal YEARS of television, are other eras of the show that are just gone?

yay i’m glad you’re watching it!! sorry this took so long for me to answer. it was a super interesting question, which means it sat in my drafts forever.

old episodes of days are really fucking hard to get a hold of, but they do exist. they aren't sold in dvd boxsets or on any streaming service, but generations of soap fans have managed to capture a huge chunk of them on vhs. they just aren't accessible to everyone.

when i started this blog, i couldn't find more than a handful of jensen's episodes. the playlists people used in the past were all nuked for copyright reasons, and most private sales were just straight up scams. i finally found a site that i trusted, but it wasn't cheap. once i was able to raise enough to buy the episodes, i was determined to make them STAY available. that's why the youtube playlist is private. and even if that gets taken down, i have everything on the drive and have encouraged people to download and make their own copies. nothing lasts forever, but my collection has lasted longer than most.

all that being said, there are chunks of days of our lives that might truly be lost media. take a look at the "complete" days collection from the site i used. 1984-2024 is all accounted for, but 1965-1983 is pretty sparse. fans might have copies of those "missing" episodes in their private collections, but that's a whole new research question when you consider the fact that most homes didn't have the ability to record tv until VHS came around in the late 70s.

also, i do think that the network has some, if not all, of this footage. that's kinda the case with most "lost media." we presume it's lost, while also acknowledging that these giant companies probably have scrooge mcduck levels of storage somewhere. there is a time limit on how long material can last in the format it's recorded on, so i hope those archives are at least being well-taken care of.

[honorthysalad]

Some people on tiktok are saying they feel hgns is turning into queerbaiting, because in 25-1 yoshiki is basically the reincarnation of the wife that was brought back to life and so its like the 2 of them are just the modern day equivalents of the husband and the wife, whats your thoughts on this? I probably didn't explain it very well but do you think the story is also going to take that direction or do you think its an over reaction ? I don't have the best analysis abilities so i was curious what you thought

I'm going to preface that I have not seen the original video making this point, and so I am working off talking points I've seen other people using.

I think hgsn has always had a problem with this. Not queerbaiting, but instead that when people are recommended this manga by other people, they are told it's a horror BL. Hgsn is not a BL. It was, but then after chapter 3, Mokumokulen removed the BL tags, and the official website where hgsn is hosted has not had it listed as a BL for a long time. It is currently listed as outsider, horror/bizarre, mystery/thriller. However, English sites continue to list it as a BL, probably for lack of an LGBT tag. Hgsn has not been a BL in a long time, and while yes, the pilot (<- btw the pilot has no bearing on the current manga. A lot of things have been changed from the pilot aside from the BL elements) and first three chapters have a lot of BL signaling, Mokumokulen has clearly changed their mind on having a romance between Yoshiki and 'Hikaru'.

Does this make it queerbaiting? I'd say no because the characters are still visibly queer. There have definitely been retcons, but Yoshiki being gay has gone unchanged. I've seen a few people pointing to Ch21 as proof that Yoshiki is heterosexual because when he looks at 'Hikaru's collarbone, he says "I don't feel anything in particular anymore". I feel the important part of that being is 'anymore', meaning he once did. This part of the chapter is a reflection on their sexualities, wherein 'Hikaru' tells Yoshiki he doesn't understand romantic or sexual attraction and Yoshiki, while he refuses to say outright, isn't straight. He was attracted to Hikaru's body and says he has feelings for Hikaru that 'Hikaru' wouldn't understand. This chapter makes it clear that Yoshiki is gay and 'Hikaru' is aromantic and asexual. They are still queer characters, the story is still fundamental a queer story of feeling othered in a small town and the terror of discovering your sexuality, and not having a romantic relationship between Yoshiki and 'Hikaru' doesn't take away from that.

I think an important part of queerbaiting is that despite being promised queer characters, the media has none or features them very little. Think of The Rise of Skywalker where the queer representation the director claimed was in the movie during press interviews is actually a kiss between two women limited to a background shot in a crowd shot. That two-second scene wasn't representative of anyone, was hidden away in the background, but then touted as a LGBT+ representation because the directors and company wanted the movie to be seen as progressive. That's queerbaiting and that's definitely not what hgsn is doing. Queerbaiting is not expecting a romantic relationship to develop between two characters and never having it actualized in canon. That's just being disappointed, which is still reasonable but not really grounds to accuse the author of something greater.

(I'm not going to touch much on that ancestors point. I think that Yoshiki actually being straight because he has the soul of a woman is a strange conclusion to come to, especially when we don't know if he even is a reincarnation of Hichi yet, and has really weird implications. And then the original sin being trying to bring someone back from the dead is the only thing that makes sense narratively because the danger of refusing to accept death as a natural part of life is a key theme in hgsn.)

So to just wrap it all up- is changing your mind mid-story about the genre messy? yeah, definitely. Is hgsn perfectly written? no- oh my god, no. Is hgsn queerbaiting? No, because Mokumokulen might have changed their mind on a romance, but they did not change their mind on having queer characters, and non-romantic stories of queer people are still important stories to tell.

And then if you disagree with people who are disappointed that hgsn isn't a BL, don't just start insulting them or their intelligence. They were picking up on exactly what the author wanted them to at the time. The introduction sets up the tone for everything that follows and hgsn changed its mind mid-introduction. Being told by the manga 'look at all these romantic implications!' and then a few chapters later getting told 'actually nvm' is going to be confusing for any reader. I think mokumokulen has put a lot of work into making this a gradual change (the real breakdown of a possible romantic relationship comes in vol2's bonus chapter and concludes in ch21), but it doesn't removed what was already there in the first chapters. And like- if you don’t like someone’s take, block them. Easy way to not see takes from them anymore. Or just like ignore it. Complain to a friend about it. Draft up a reply and delete it. No need to be a dick to them.