#there's so many fucking problems‚ I have anger issues already‚ so all of this is getting to point where nothings fucking worth it anymore

[squid--inc]

......

[netherfeildren]

Pink : Part I : Humanist Seeking Person in Love

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Humanism: an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.

The story of a son who won’t love you, and his father, who will.

-OR-

the father-in-law AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Possessive behavior; Jealousy; Slow burn but like not really; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms

A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!

Word Count: 7.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

1. Humanist Seeking Person in Love

The video you’d watched had said that the differences between a jamb nut and a coupling nut should have been obvious. A jamb nut, which was what you were currently looking for, was typically half as tall as a standard nut, or a coupling nut, and would be of a small, stouter shape compared to the other options. As you stare at the wall of overwhelming stock, the incomprehensible mess of steel, PVC, aluminum and plastic hardware you feel, a little bit, like you’d like to start screaming as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can. Just a rip roaring and rageful, top of your lungs, screech. Maybe it’d scare the leering men around you. Maybe they’d desist from the ogling of your ass in the tight confines of your ratty leggings, or the mildly pitying glances as your frustration and confusion becomes more and more obvious.

You try and take a deep breath, glancing down at your phone again and the screenshots you’d taken of the parts you need to fix your leaky kitchen sink. Zooming in, you hold the picture up next to the pipeware currently gripped in your sweaty hand and wonder again if what you’ve chosen is the right piece. You don’t understand why the hardware store, a local business, isn’t as neatly and efficiently organized as the larger chains, and why they make it so damn hard for someone without experience to come in and shop. You don’t want to buy the wrong thing and waste the money you already don’t have, you don’t want to have to make the trek back to this God awful fucking place. You hate the hardware store, you hate the way it smells, dusty and wooden, the cavernous hollow echo of it, the leering gazes of the men shopping, looking at you as if you’re some helpless child, something soft and easy to snap up and eat. You hate the memory of following your father around on many a Sunday morning after he’d forced you to come with him in some false attempt at bonding, at spending time together when really all it was, was another instance of you cowering behind him, trying to make yourself as silent and small as possible so as to avoid his anger and irritation. 

You look back down at the piece of PVC in your clutch, at the picture of what you’re supposed to be buying again, back at the other option, a copper bolt you think might look right but can’t really tell the difference, and you feel the backs of your eyes pinch and go hot and achy. A sharp, throbbing pain starting up behind your left eye and spiraling out like a stain to cover your forehead. You want to go home. You want your kitchen sink to stop leaking. You want the past year to never have happened. For your marriage to not have so irrevocably unraveled that the husband you’d so desperately fought to keep had left you out in the cold, divorced, very nearly penniless in a new apartment that you couldn’t make feel like home no matter how many fall scented candles and throw pillows you stuffed into every nook and cranny. You want to not have to make decisions like these and take care of things like this. You want very, very badly for someone else to come and take care of you, help you, make the choices that seem very hard in the moment but that, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t really so difficult, but that still sometimes call for a second opinion, wiser, more experienced hands. 

And in that next blink, in a soft, deep voice that should not be as easily recognizable in your mind as it is given the handful of times you’ve actually heard it, your name, being murmured from behind you. The lilt of a question, the gruff of shock coating the syllables as it pushes against your bare nape. Soft as a sledgehammer, like ice water down your naked back, your shoulders hitch up to your ears, going tense and frightened, a hot flush of shame spilling through you, the keenest desire to run away from that soft voice as fast as your stupidly October flip flopped feet’ll take you. You hiccup the half sound of his name, not turning around, lashes fluttering quickly to prevent the dry heat of your eyes from spilling over, nerveless fingers going listless around the plastic nut. You don’t want to turn around. This is a cursed place, this hardware store, and you should never have come, and you really do hate it here. Deep breath, deep breath. Be polite, be succinct. You don’t need to talk to him. You don’t need to think about the past. Fuck the sink, fuck the pipes. You’ll just move apartments. You let a long stream of air out of your mouth, and then turn on the ball of your foot to face him. 

“Mr. Miller,” you breathe with a limp smile you know isn’t going to fool anyone. 

He frowns, the line of his mouth wavering as he tries to contain his displeasure. “We really back to that?” You shake your head, looking away from him as the last shopper in the aisle you’re inhabiting walks away, leaving the two of you alone. The store suddenly seems to exist in a vacuum echo, all other patrons seeming to disappear, all sound going out. You even feel the imitation of a hollow pop in your ear drums. When you look back at him, he’s really scowling now. His strong brow pulled down over those too pretty, thickly lashed hazel eyes that you know so well on another man, a younger version of him. 

It was the first thing you’d noticed about him, the first time Sam had introduced you to his father, they have the same eyes. The same but different. There was a coldness to Sam’s gaze that you hadn’t recognized until it was too late for you, but you recognized it now, with a painful sort of awareness, recognized the lack thereof in his father’s eyes, how different they were even in their similarity. 

He raises his brows at you, a pressing gesture, “Joel.” His name feels like salt on an open sore in your mouth. “What are you doing here?” And he looks at you, just a little bit, like you’re an idiot, or maybe that’s only you, for his voice is gentle when he says, “Pickin’ up supplies with some of the boys on my crew. What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart? Sam with you?” Your heart beats like that of a small and hunted creature, pounding painfully against the confines of your ribs while a hot, humiliated flush washes through your entire body, heat suffusing your face so intensely there’s probably steam rising off the surface of your skin. You shake your head quickly, a barely there jerk. You’re suddenly trembling so hard your throat aches as if it’s been pierced by a lancet straight through. Another sharp jerk, and he steps forward a concerned look marring his face. 

“You haven’t spoken to him.” It isn’t a question. 

“He’s been feildin’ my calls for months. Assumed I’d done something– something else, last time to piss him off again. What’s wrong? Everything okay?” He pauses, head tilting, and you can’t look him in the face as you say it, gaze falling to your fingers twisted around the nut. 

“We’re not together anymore. He– he left me. We got divorced six months ago.”

Shocked into silence he takes another step towards you, the toe of his heavy boot coming into your eye line. The ends are thick and rounded, and you wonder if there’s a casing of steel within, how much a kick in the ribs would hurt delivered by a boot like that, and the violent thought startles you, your eyes going wide, shooting up to his face as if worried he could read your thoughts. Ashamed that something like that in reference to him would even cross your mind, for looking at him, the gentleness in his gaze, the utter concern, a man like this would never hurt a creature softer than him, you know that. 

It’s funny, or strange, or a phenomena not easily understandable or explainable unless you’d had a certain type of experience with a certain type of man, but there was a sort of sixth sense instilled in a person who’d dealt with cruel men that made it easy to recognize when one had the capacity to hurt you and when he didn’t. There were, of course, those who were good at masking it, but there was always something, a way they held themselves or moved around others, the cadence of their voices, clues that spoke of the sort of man he was. And from the first moment you’d met him, you’d thought Joel had something that spoke only of gentleness. Despite his size and seemingly rough aspect, there was something about his voice, and the way he carried himself, the way he moved around those who were smaller or weaker or less, less alive, less potent than him, that was always careful and always aware. 

“What?” He moves as if he’s going to reach for you, and you flinch back, the curve of your spine bumping into the framing of the shelves behind you, face turning away quickly. He goes tense, forcing himself into stillness, the white of his teeth flashing in a grimace, but he puts his palms up in a staying gesture, it’s alright, easy, he murmurs, I won’t touch you, hands lowering to fist in the pockets of his jeans into tight balls of false restraint. As if he’s afraid of what they might do of their own volition otherwise. “What do you mean he left you? What happened? He–”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you. Call him again or– or I don’t know. It’s not my business anymore. He was never happy with me,” you stupidly add, finally braving a look back at his eyes again, a bitter laugh scratching up your throat, “You know this. Call your son, Joel.”

You move to leave, to get away from him, but he shifts, blocking your escape, sending your heart up into your throat. “Honey, wait–” but you’re spinning on your heel the other way, stumbling in your flip flops, and you think he says something about the wrong way, but you’re rushing, blindly trying to get away from him down the aisle as fast as you can. You’re going to cry, you can feel it, any second now. You weren’t expecting to see him, the reminder of everything that had happened, your marriage and its failure and the part Joel had played in it. A painful and jarring shock to your nervous system that you’d not been prepared to receive. You blindly scramble through the aisles of the hardware store, losing yourself to the gloom of the dimly lit back rows where plywood and carpeting are stocked, that detested dusty hollow smell intensifying. You take another blind turn, another, until the sounds of the store have gone faint and then a frightening pressurized silence. Bracing your palms against one of the eye level shelves you let your head fall between your shoulders, your bag sliding down your arm to hang and sway at the bend of your elbow. You watch the slow back and forth pendulous movement, eyes wide and blurred. If you don’t blink, you won’t cry, and you’re so fucking tired of crying over this. 

“If you were tryn’a get away from me, exit was in the opposite direction,” comes his voice again. Your eyes flutter shut, a single tear drips from the line of your lashes onto the dusty concrete floor. 

“Please, go away,” you croak.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“He– he’s a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart–”

Your stomach lurches, “Don’t call me that.”

But he doesn’t listen, continues on unheeded. “There’s gotta be something we can do. I’ll– I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him see that–” You let your head fall back the opposite way now, looking up at the high, cavernous ceiling of the store, another bitter laugh. It’s the only kind left to you now. 

“I don’t want him back, Joel. Be serious.”

“He needs you–” And oh, that makes you angry. 

“Fuck you.” You spin around to spit the words at him, rushing forward to shove at his rock solid chest. He doesn’t budge even half an inch. You shove again, again, a humiliating sob making its way up your chest. You blink then, you can’t help it, the tears fall unrestrained. It’s a specific type of humiliating, facing the estranged father of the man who you’d been married to, who’d been unable to love you, who’d abandoned you. 

Sam and Joel had been unaware of each other’s existence for almost twenty eight years, but two years ago, Sam’s mother had finally told him about his father, his name, where he lived, how they’d gotten together when they were too young, and how she’d split, scared and vulnerable, without telling him a thing. The two of you’d gone looking for the man, and you’d both been varying degrees of shocked at what you’d found. Sam, faced with a man so unlike himself he’d immediately resented him more than he already had for the fact of his absence his entire life. You, as well, faced with a man so unlike your husband that it had made you resent your marriage even more. Immediately welcoming, loving, patient, gracious and generous and forgiving of the fact that a son had been kept from him for almost three decades. Despite the severity of his character, his serious reservedness, he’d done everything in his power to open himself to this long lost son. Not once had the news been met with cruel anger or outrage. Joel had accepted his son immediately and without question, listening to his mother’s reasoning, accepting the fact that a mistake had been made, forgiving, willing to move on and embrace Sam in all the ways he’d been denied for so long. Sam hadn’t been able to fathom it. He’d been mistrustful, hostile, angry, all the things he always was but compounded and heightened to a terrible degree he eventually started taking out on you. 

And it was funny because the fraught, or lack thereof, relationships with your fathers had been the thing that had initially bonded the two of you. Too young and alone and without direction, you’d met him in your last year of college. The relationship had immediately developed without boundaries or reason, you’d been obsessed, a little desperate, unquestioning, and then married a few short months later. Two too young, too lost people, burdened with daddy issues. A terribly sad cliche. You’d never had a chance. You never should have been. And there’s a part of you now, looking up at this man, your ex-husband’s father, that wants to feel angry at him, that wants to spit in his face and say this is all your fault, everything that happened to me, everything that was done to me was in your name, and I blame you for all of it, but you know it’s without reason or countenance. And worst of all, anger, blame, resentment, it’s not anything near to the things you feel when you look at him. The memory of a small, dark restroom flashes in your mind’s eye, his eyes gleaming above your face, the thick slope of his shoulder, the patterned wallpaper behind him, sickening comfort. 

You go still and frozen, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt, jerking with a painful shiver from the top of your head, down the length of your vertebrae, to the tips of your toes that cramp and spasm. Looking up at his face, you can feel a pulse throbbing in the muscle beneath your right eye, and the way he looks down at you, as if he’s never felt as sorry for any other creature in his entire life as he does for you in this moment, so embarrassing. You let your head fall forward again, landing with a soft thump against his chest, an uncontrollable tremble moving like fire through your frame. “Fuck you,” you say again, whispered, soft and weak and without any sort of force behind it. “How dare you say that to me,” another tear. “He’s always needed you. It was never me he wanted, never me he needed. It was always you.” You watch as one hand withdraws from its pocket cage, lifting to push a soft tendril of hair back behind your ear. And there’s fire left in the wake of the brush of his skin at the hollow there. Another shiver of a worse kind, one of desire, one of lust, moves through you. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it – I’m sorry, honey.” Stupid southern charm and their stupid pet names. You clutch at his shirtfront more tightly, press your forehead harder into his sternum, and he brings his hand to your shoulder, tucking you into himself more securely. He’s huge and warm and smells faintly of salt and sweat and laundry detergent. Something clean and fresh and masculine. He smells alive. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, moving through your hair. Fucking, Sam, he murmurs above you, and you’re sure he’s shaking his head in that disappointed fatherly way. “Tell me what you were looking for. What had you lookin’ so confused and irritated in the plumbing aisle?” You’d laugh if you could, a non bitter sort, but you don’t have the ability anymore, and that makes you so angry. Angry and irrational.

“My sink’s leaking, and I can’t afford a plumber because your son divorced me and left me with no money and no house and nothing for myself, and I hate this stupid place. I hate the way it smells, and I hate that nothing’s labeled clearly, and I hate the way you men,” you shove at his chest a little bit again, “look at me like I’m some dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right.” Even if that’s what you kind of feel like, a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right anymore. Slightly out of breath, you go limp and exhausted against him. His palm flattens at the center of your spine, supporting you, and it’s so fucking inappropriate. You should move away. You don’t know him well enough for this, he’s your ex-father-in-law, you shouldn't let him touch you, but should and should not and right and wrong and inappropriate or not has never really mattered to you where Joel Miller is concerned. “This is the worst place in the whole world,” you mumble, voice muffled from where your face is squished against the annoyingly hard and delicious muscles of his chest. You feel, keenly, like you’re being a little bit ridiculous, a little bit embarrassing, but his big hand is slowly moving up and down the length of your spine, soothing and comforting, and you can’t bring yourself to care. He’d been kind from the first second you’d met him, and then, at the worst moment, he’d been understanding, and you’d never really stood a chance against him either. 

You’d never had a chance with the son, you’d never stood a chance against the father, there had never really been much choice or possibility for you as a whole where either of them were concerned.

I was such a little person. Tiny in my insignificance, naivety, hope. Desperate to be as good as I could be, and pathetic in my failure to make myself into what I thought the world wanted of me. 

“You can’t afford–” He breathes out roughly through his nose, stopping himself from continuing. “Do y’know what it is you’re looking for? What part?” And you nod your head, still buried against him, unable or unwilling to pull away. “Let me help you,” and he says it so, so gently that it makes you want to stomp your foot and cry and throw a fit at the unfairness of it all. 

“Don’t want your help,” you can’t help the muffled whine it comes out as. All you want is for someone to help you. 

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” he soothes. “But let me anyway. S’the least I can do for talkin’ out of my ass.” You finally pull back, looking up at him, and he brings his thumb up to catch the wetness at the fine skin beneath your eye. “Please, don’t cry,” he whispers like it hurts him. 

And even though he’s currently catching the salt of your eyes with his fingers, you lie obstinately, “I’m not,” whispered back just as quiet. 

After he helps you find the correct piece for your sink, finally, which ends up being neither of the options you’d been previously weighing, a fact that almost sends you over the deep end again, and paying for it at his aggravating and overbearing insistence, he walks you to your car. 

“Is he still in Austin?” He asks as he holds your door open for you, your shopping bag still clutched in his hand. One of the guys on his crew had come to find him while you were checking out, but he’d sent him away with a shake of his head, said he had something to take care of. 

“I don’t know, but he sold our house.”

“Fuck– Where’re you living?” The sound of his spit curse has a wet flutter moving through you, shame following bitterly in its wake. 

“I got an apartment in the East Side.”

“And he just left you to fend for yourself? Took your fucking house?” He’s getting angry, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get angry. Something foreign like excitement jumps within you. 

“Well, that’s the point of divorce, Joel. You separate and are left to your own devices.” You reach for the little plastic bag, but he jerks it out of your reach. 

“He has a responsibility to you. He–”

“Again… the point of divorce.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that boy,” he mutters, shaking his head. And that’s the thing of it, you think, that’s always been the crux of the issue. Sam was always a boy, has always been just a boy… there had never been any chance. “Let me come help you with the sink. Let me fix it for you.” Something to take care of, that’s what he’d said, that’s what he’d called you, what he sees you as. 

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish getting the words out, full of regret, and a wish that it could have all been different from the very start. “You know that isn’t a good idea,” and he goes silent because he does, he does know, he’d known since the first time probably. It had been obvious in the way that a secret thing can only be between the two people involved in the unsaid. “I can do it myself. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

“You still got the same number?” He asks.

“Please, don’t call me. Call Sam. He’s the one that needs you. He’s the one that–”

“And who’s taking care of you? Who’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart? You need someone too, we all do.”

A flash of that earlier anger again, and you reach forward to rip the bag out of his clutch now, angry because he’s right. Because he’d always seemed to have a grossly misplaced ability to read you exactly as you are. He’d read you for what you were from the first second he’d laid eyes on you, naive and hopeful and falsely in love with a son who’d never loved either of you in return. “Maybe,” you tell him, “But that can’t be you.” He looks away from you, gruff sound of irritation passing through his clenched teeth, and he drags a heavy palm down his bearded mouth. Fuck, again that provoking spit curse. The wallpaper in that dark restroom had been covered in little blue motifs, butter yellow details sparsed throughout. It had surprised you, the pretty and delicate design in the home of a, for all intents and purposes, bachelor. It spoke of intention and attention to detail, to his space, to care of his home. That dim moment was, strangely, sickly, the brightest memory of the entire two years of your marriage. 

“You still got my number?” He presses anyways. Unheeded or uncaring of you trying to push him away, and there’s something about that, that’s pleasurable, his inability to let a thing go where you’re concerned, his unwillingness to allow you to hold him at arms length. Like he doesnt care to be kept away from you, and so he won’t. You nod your head once, face burning, molars grinding to keep yourself still and in place. You’d felt, for two years, trapped, running in place, and now left limp and exhausted and colorless, and you hope that he can’t read that exhaustion in you. For some reason, that would be more embarrassing than everything else, for him to see just how defeated you’d been left. He gives you one of those looks, those direct, piercing, aggravating looks that you’ve seen from him before, aggravating in a way that is inciting, like a relentless tongue against a slick swollen cunt, God. Your hands are shaking, and he bends his head down to your level to look at your directly, “You promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, doesn’t matter what it is – that you’ll call me. No matter the hour, no matter what it is. Promise me.” Another sharp jerk of your chin, if you talk you’ll scream or make a sound not wholly belonging to the body of a girl, woman, whatever you are. Another nod, the mute shape of an okay passing through your lips. And his face is so concerned, his hand almost lifted in the imitation of what you have to tell yourself, as a form of self preservation, is an ill intentioned caress or hug, but that you know he’d mean as nothing more than genuine comfort. You deflate in relief when he doesn’t touch you, right here, out in the open for the whole world to bear witness to. Things like that, after all, are only meant for dark, wallpapered bathrooms. He’d already taught you this. 

-

The relationship had not been what either of them had expected, Sam and Joel, from the get go. There was a smallness to his son, a pettiness and a cruelty and a spoiled rotten vein through the core of him that was incongruous with who Joel was as a man, something that was glaringly obvious to all involved. And try as he might, in those early days, they could not overcome the disparity in their personalities. The attempts from Joel at closeness had been fraught with tension and unsaid resentments, and eventually Sam had given up, stopped answering his father’s calls, evading his attempts to connect. Your marriage had spiraled into dissolution shortly after that. As if the failure to find whatever it was he’d for so long hoped for in a relationship with his father had highlighted all of the things you yourself lacked, all the ways in which you were so specifically dissatisfying to him and always would be. 

The marriage had not ended up being what either of you had hoped for, the honeymoon phase quashed and dead early on, no brightly lit halcyon. Reality had set in quickly when confronted with the disjointedness of your pairing, a bone out of place, your specific inability to please him in the ways he’d thought you would when he’d first met you. There was something about you that had always been a little bit lacking, something ascetic and cold natured about your personality at times. Since you were a child, trying to appease an unappeasable father, to emulate a singular mother. Always impossible, always falling just short of utter failure. Not so terrible that you were outwardly obvious in your mediocrity, but never everything you could be. Painfully, succinctly average. Sam had come to realize this quickly. Perhaps, unaware prior to tying himself to you because the only thing you’d ever been not average at, was being a little bit of a liar, of being placatingly complacent when the moment necessitated, manipulative in a way that you found protecting. But you see, that’s what happened when you had a cruel father who always needed appeasing, something Sam, in his abject fatherlessness, couldn't understand. Funny, you’d said that to him once, near the end, called him abjectly fatherless, his weakness a consequence of his lack of a paternal role model, and oh, how he’d hated that. Endings could bring out such cruelty in people, you’d found. 

But the manipulation of a moment had become, in some ways, your only talent. The art of superficial gratification at a moment's notice as a way to keep the people around you falsely happy and calm. Like all small and frightened creatures, you’d learned your strengths well, but as all truths do, yours had eventually surfaced. The fact that you weren’t really so appeasing in the ways he desired, not so nice, not so perfect, not so subservient. That the persona was all just a way to keep him happy as a means of getting someone to love you, to stay because you didn’t know how else to be. 

Your mother always said you could’ve been nicer to him. She was a kind, soft, patient thing. Quiet and easy and always, always, above everything else, understanding. It was the worst thing about her. A detriment, a weakness, and she resented you for your resentment, for seeing her as such, but you could never help it. Always asking you why you couldn’t just be a nice girl, a good girl. 

You didn’t think you had not been nice, not been good. You had only been yourself.

Your father had always hated that about you, you being yourself. The man you’d chosen to marry didn’t seem to like it very much either. And she’d tried to instill her better qualities in you, your mother, so you weren’t all bad all the time. There could be a brightness and a lightness and a sweetness to you sometimes, it’s true. You weren’t always all bad. But there was – is still – also a bitterness and a resentment and an anger, a screaming that you could not quell no matter how hard you tried. And so you’d attepted to give him everything you could, your husband, everything you had at your disposal in all ways, to do and be all he could have ever asked of you during those two small years of marriage. Because truly, they had felt so very small, made you even smaller. 

Everything except for sex. You’d never been able to give him that the way he’d wanted. 

At first, it had been normal, sweet, soft missionary in the darkness, tepid insinuations of orgasms, always hushed, always exactly how he wanted it. But eventually, when the other parts of you began to fail, he got mean and callous and casually cruel. And as you pulled away physically, he called you frigid, a prude, boring, cold, bad in bed, didn't know how to make a man hard. And it had made you so agonizingly insecure, already a sensitive and anxious thing when it came to your physical form, he’d beaten you down, embarrassed you, belittled you.

With time, you’d realized the truth of it which had been nothing more than that you’d never really wanted him. He had never made you desperate, he had never made you wet. It was his character, his attitude, yes, but it was also him. He just wasn’t it for you, and it wasnt that you were a prude or frigid at all, only that you needed patience and understanding and care, gentleness. Things he possessed none of. 

You just needed a little time to warm up and someone who wanted to give you that time. 

The reality that your life had not been full of varied and foolish adventures, and that time had seemed to simply slip away like an echo in the brain from one moment to the next was duly painful. A handful of months of wan and false lust, two years of cold, bitter marriage, and now, six months of barren aloneness. Too many mistakes had been made, too many regrets, three big ones that could be held like stones scorched to burn by the sun in the palm of your hand so that even if you let them go eventually, their imprint would still be scarred into your flesh afterwards forever.

So, perhaps the divorce had been painful in the moment. Or not perhaps, there was nothing uncertain about it, you’d fought tooth and nail to make it work, to keep him with you. Prostrated and humiliated and debased yourself. But with time, it became obvious that it was a fantasy you decided you should finally cast aside, as all children do childish things at a certain age. And then, it had been the easiest thing in the world. After all, and let’s be honest now for a moment, the reckoning had come in the shape of his father. That is, at the end of it, the reason you’re really here. 

Sat now, before the open cabinet below your kitchen sink, leaky pipe drip, drip, dripping monotonously in front of your glazed over eyes, you think of him. He’s a large man, intimidating and dark and stoic. Taller and broader than his son. Lush, mahogany curls streaked with silver that speak of age and experience like the smile lines around his eyes. Deeply grooved when he laughs that beautiful laugh of his. He looks exactly like the opposite of whatever his son is, like he’d have the ability to make the opposite of you, to pull out of you whatever the antithesis is of what his son was able to. It had been immediate, the nature of your thoughts towards him. The desire, the desire, the desire, you had wanted like you’d never wanted before — like an illness, like dying. 

Your marriage had been circling the drain, and then you’d met him, and it should have been innocuous. He’d been kind and polite and welcoming, but also, aloof. Holding himself at a distance, something afraid that he carried within himself, like he didn't want to hope, like he was just a little bit scared of what it meant now to have a son, something to lose. You knew a little bit about that, the worst part of it all is never the cruelty, it’s the hopelessness. Everything had become so much worse after meeting him. An unbearable sort of awareness of something that your listless, frigid self recognized as man, man, man, something like hunger. Something slanted about the desire, wrong, sure, for he was your husband's father, and yet, you wanted him. You wanted to know what he smelled and tasted like, and what the weight of his cock on your tongue would feel like. If it was bigger than his sons, you were almost positive of that, if it would stretch the corners of your mouth to near splitting, the hinges of your jaw to aching. 

You’d met your husband's father, and had realized, painfully, with uncompromising clarity, all that your husband could be, all that he was not, all that he would never be. There was no comparison between the boy and the man, and it made you hurt. 

Your eyes flit back to the screen of your open laptop and the instructional video there, popping another fuzzy peach gummy onto the flat of your tongue, mouth full of sucking sugar. You’re going to fix this sink if it’s the last thing you do, and you’re not going to think about him again. But tomorrow, you’ll start not thinking about him tomorrow. The talent of a liar never really wanes.

The apartment is quiet, nothing but the cheerful crackling of your sweet pumpkin candle and the mocking splish splash of the drain pipe. You had, in recent weeks, come to think of your abandonment as something of an accomplishment. Perhaps, your loneliness is a good thing, you’ll tell yourself as a comfort, a sort of friend; you can’t be used against yourself again in this solitude, and oh, how you’d been used. That anemia in your character, the ascetic thread of your personality had been weaponized and wielded against you until you couldn’t tell up from down and left from right. You were certain there’d been cheating, even if you’d never had any proof to confirm it, merely grateful you’d never gotten sick as way of evidence. But you knew. And it could've been so much worse for you, of course, of course it could have. But he’d left your mind so off kilter, broken and confused and not yourself. Utterly damaged in a way that was humiliating and devastating when you thought of the way you’d been, such a little person. So often, not a woman, just a little girl. 

And then his father. Joel. Seeing him today – you had never felt the way you should have felt towards him. Like your eyes were open, awake for the first time in your entire life. A man like that – he was changing. And you wanted, needed very much to be changed. Seeing him today, being presented with that reminder of what he was, how he made you feel, how he’d always made you feel. There’s something ghoulish about you concerning him – about this desire. That ascetic or anemic or under-grown, illformed thing about you, exterminated in the thrum of how alive he is. How unlike his son. You’d never known what it specifically was, never been able to categorize it, and then there had been that moment, brought so low, six feet beneath the ground sort of debased, and he’d been there and you had been – unburdened from the weight of his own son, by him, and you’re not even sure he knew the extent of it. The power he’d wielded over you in that moment in the dark. And you can’t say it out loud, what it is you’d want from him, you can’t even say out loud what it is about him that changes you as it does – not a woman, just a little girl – but you think that if you could just see him, then you’d know, or maybe you could be brave. You don’t know what it is, but you’d know it then, with him in front of you, you’d have the answer to this question that’s plagued you for so long – how to be yourself in a way that is good.

You’re pushing yourself to your feet, fueled by the thought, fingers gripped over the ledge of the counter to pull yourself up, sink forgotten, stumbling to your front door, shoving your feet into your shoes and fumbling for your keys. How to be yourself in a way that is good. 

When you were seventeen, your father had been at his angriest. Angry in that way that all angry father’s are. Loud and brutish – an anger that is cowing, a sign of true weakness. Brute force in the shape of the man who gave you life. When you think of it now, even as a grown woman, you still feel that phantom limb of fear, and you know that it isn’t normal for a grown woman to be afraid of her father, and yet you are. And then to think that you’d gone from your parents home directly to the bed of the same sort of man, one even crueler, if possible. You’re forced to laugh your singular terrible, self deprecating laugh at the irony of it – even worse, if possible. For what’s worse than a person who constantly needs to be soothed into kindness and patience and calm? 

Once, in that terrible seventeenth year, funny and strange and unknowingly perfect, you’d been gifted the Farmer’s Almanac by your elderly neighbor. She’d said that she’d read it since she was a girl, liked the peace in knowing that the year had been predicted by experts and put down on paper. It made life seem more secure, more in control in a small way. You’d needed that during that turbulent time, locked in your teenage bedroom, lulled to sleep by the sound of your father’s anger and the year’s long-range weather predictions before your blurry eyes. It was so comforting to be able to read the future in text, catastrophe or sunshine, at least it was there. You still read it to this day. And there’s no congruity to the thought now, as you crawl into your car, a ghoul in the night, banging your knee on the hastily opened car door, sprouting gooseflesh in the cold; this desire, desire, desire that is the worst thing you’ve ever felt in your whole life, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop because there is something about control in this moment also. Control like knowing what the future will be like on paper, control like a man who is entirely grown into himself, who knows who he is and who he is not and is not uncertain, who will not yell, who will not hurt you. He has this – your husband’s father – you know he does. There is something about control, there is something about knowing how a thing will be, there is something about being yourself in a way that is good. 

-

You’d picked up the wrong wine on your way here. Rushing, trying to fix your makeup in the car, you’d gotten confused, chosen the one he didn’t want instead of the one he did. And it was nothing, or an accident, surely nothing to incite his ire, but he’s so fucking angry hovering in front of you. He looks at you, now sometimes, like he hates you, like you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He said you’d humiliated him in front of his father. That he was going to think he didn’t have good taste, couldn’t afford a decent bottle of wine. And you don’t know Joel very well, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man to care about such things. Calling you an idiot in that poisoned shrill tone he takes on when he’s delivering a set down, and you’re trying to tell him to please, please keep your voice down, Sam, your father is going to hear you. You’d heard someone say once that a truly powerful man never feels the need to raise his voice, it simply isn’t necessary for him, and you’re reminded, terribly, of your father, with the sight of your shrill and seething husband in front of you.  And then a low toned that’s enough, son from the mouth of the kitchen, and it’s so much worse, entirely catastrophic in a way, and you’re rushing away so humiliated, face on fire, tear caught over the trough of your lower lid, trying the doors in the hallway for the nearest restroom. You hear the murmur of voices, one struggling to maintain composure, the other, cool and steady, then the slam of the front door, and finally, the silent din of his house settling around the two of you as you find a restroom to hide in. Your heart beats so fast it makes you nauseous, knees strangely aching, listening to the heavy steps of Joel’s boots, as if he’s trying to warn you with those measured, weighted thuds that he’s coming, coming, coming for you. Turning to face the far corner of the restroom, you press your palm over your mouth, face slippery and burning and so stupid, the soft swoosh of the opening door, a paused breath as he takes in your form huddled into the wallpaper, and then the muted snick of the door closing behind him, shutting the two of you away together.

Part II

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

[fan-goddess]

I need for kinktober aemond with daddy kink x innocent!reader so badddddd :((

my birthday’s on the 10th and I would love to see it there :))

Authors Note: Happy Birthday! Please do take this as my present to you I hope you have a nice day! Also, I changed daddy to kepa, just as I thought the Valyrian word would suit him better.

Warnings: P in v smut, corruption, daddy kink, innocent reader, power imbalance, (if I miss any let me know)

Taglist: @mochi-rose, @valeskafics, @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @sofiyathecunt, @marvelgirl123, @sylasthegrim, @blue-serendipity, @omgbrcat

The newest maid was nice to look at, Aemond thought. You were nice in general too. You’d always make eye contact with him and never stare at his eye with disgust. Whenever you knew he was sad, you would always sneak an extra lemon tart to him at dinner. He could never dare tell you how he found the dessert a little too sweet on his tongue.

Yet there’s other things he could never dare tell you. He couldn’t tell you how he dreams of taking you in the middle of the night, when he could not sleep and only had his hand for company. He could not dare to venture to the silk street. Not after what happened those many years ago…

“My prince? I’ve brought you those books that you requested.” You say, bringing him from his inner turmoil.

“Ah yes thank you dōna riña. I appreciate the effort.” He says, turning his head to look at you as you place the heavy looking books on his desk.

“It is no problem my prince! Besides, I will soon not be doing these tasks so I’ve decided to take as much joy as I can in doing them as of late.”

“What do you mean you won’t be doing these tasks soon?” The statement makes his head jerk to stare intently. The grip of his chair has tighten and Aemond already knows his face has turned stern to hide his shock.

“Well, my parents back home have decreed that it is time I marry. So they have found a nice man for me and have decided in a months notice I’ll return to them and he’ll take me as his bride.”

The anger Aemond feels at that moment is greater than anything he’s felt in his life. Even more than when he lost his eye. His fists force themselves clench at his side to stop himself from taking ahold of you and keeping you here by his side.

As there’s another, more satisfactory way of doing that, which’ll no doubt be better for the both of you.

“Do you like this man byka mēre?”

“I cannot say my prince. For I have never met him. All I have been told is his name, and what it is I should do for him as his wife. Although, I must say I was confused as I read them.”

“Oh? Why were the words so confusing?”

“Because they told me of giving him pleasure, and about how I should lie on my wedding bed and allow him to ‘take me’. But the thing is my prince, I have no idea what it is my family is saying to me…”

Any words Aemond had thought of using to reply to your confession does the minute he attempts to speak them. His fists, which once clenched as his side with anger, now clench with self restraint. How could this, creature made by the mother herself, be married to some old fuck of a lord who will show you an unfulfilled life?

Maybe that will be his reason when he claims you tonight for himself…

For whilst he has always fulfilled his duty as a second son, he has been making his worth known his whole life, and it is time he indulges on it with someone of his choosing.

Aemond rises from his chair for a moment before leaning to you and carefully brushes a strand of hair from your face. He feels the urge to grin when he sees the way your face has changed to a light pink.

“What if I was to show you these acts? Then you can be sure to know what to do on your wedding night?”

“A-are you sure? I’m not sure-“

“Do you not trust your prince byka mēre? Is that it?”

“No no no my prince it is not-“

“Then I do not see the issue. So be a good girl byka mēre and get on that bed, and lay on your back for me.”

“Yes my prince…”

“No. Do not call me that. I have heard your lips say that title long enough to commit it to memory. I think I’d like to hear something new spring from your lips byka mēre. Call me kepa.”

“O-okay kepa…” The words make all the blood rush to his cock, and it only worsens when he sees you laid out for him, looking at him with hooded eyes.

“Good girl…” He mutters, as he stalks towards you.

When he gets close enough, his hands travel up the length of your naked legs, and stops at the skin of your upper thigh.

“I’m going to pull up the length of your dress now byka mēre. I need to reveal your cunt to me for me to help you.” Maybe he should feel bad about how he’s effectively taking advantage of you. But it being bad felt this good, how could he ever resist?

His mouth kisses slightly the soft skin of your upper thigh, just a little below where your smallclothes are, sucking small bruises to hear the whimpers you seem to be unable to contain.

Aemond has to try to contain his satisfied grin when he swiftly tears your smallcothes clean off. Yet even he cannot contain his groan of arousal when he feels the slight wet patch that had formed there.

“Such a good girl…” He groans, leaning in to lick a thick stripe of your cunt and practically moaning at the taste. It’s sweet to the tongue, possibly due to the strawberries he sees you consume at least three times a day. But it’s easily one of the best things he’s had in his entire life.

It gets even better when he hears your broken moans above him, and the feeling of your hands gripping desperately at his hair and the sheets. When your legs try to close around his head, his hands grip at your naked thighs tightly to keep you still.

“Kepa please! S-somethings happening!” He hears you whine. The sound of you begging for him makes him want to grind against the bedding for any sort of available friction, but he can’t risk cumming already and wasting his load. Not when it needs to be taking root inside of you…

“You want kepa to pleasure you more huh?” Aemond grins, relishing in the sad noise you make when he takes his mouth away from your glistening heat to lazily suck at the skin of your thighs.

“More?” You whisper. Your eyes a glazed mess as the look at him.

“Yes byka mēre. I can make you feel even greater pleasure than the small fraction you felt now. Would you like that?”

“Yes…”

“Yes what byka mēre?”

“Yes kepa…”

“What a good fucking girl I have in my bed…” Aemond groans, smiling at the sight of you preening at his words before striping himself nude in front of you. His ego certainly swells when he sees you can’t take your eyes of his erect cock.

“W-will it even fit kepa?” You murmur as you eye him in anxiousness.

“Even if it doesn’t at first. I’ll make it fit…” He says, taking his cock in his hand and positioning himself at your entrance.

He slides himself in slowly. Taking the time to make sure you were comfortable and not in pain. Though by the amount you were leaking when he was licking you, he guessed you were wet enough for what he was about to do.

When Aemond got halfway in, his impatience took over and made him thrust the rest of his cock in. And as soon as you gave him the nod of approval, he was officially a man possessed.

He couldn’t stop himself from thrusting as hard and deep as he could inside you. The sounds of your moans seemed to spur him on as-well, the high pitched whines ringing all throughout the room for him to hear. He almost wishes he could put a hand over your mouth to make sure only he can hear you. But then that would push you away, and he can’t have that not at all…

“O-oh Aemond! S-somethings happening!” You shout, digging your nails into the skin of his back and tilting your head back so much he gets the temptation to place a bite on your neck.

Which he does with a grin as he pinches at your clit with his pointer and index fingers. The sound of your surprise as it blended into a sound of pleasure was one Aemond doesn’t think he could ever forget.

“Don’t worry about it byka mēre… it’s just your peak.” He says, pinching your pearl harder as you clench more and more around his cock as it throbs at the feel of you.

As you do peak, he can feel the warmth that surrounded his cock get tighter, and its what brings him to his peak to. He can feel the warmth of his cum entering you, and when he pulls out finally, he can see his cum dripping out of you in thick drools. It almost makes him want to fuck your all over again.

Yet he doesn’t for your sake. The sake of his pretty little maid who has no idea what they’ve done. Still, he sits beside you still naked as the day he’s born and moves you to rest your head on his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, and he intertwines it and with his own.

[jeff-rees-jones]

Have a happy, healthy new year...

My older brother only made it to 38 and he would have been 65 now. None of us know how long we have left and most of us are waiting until the time is 'right' for us to do whatever it is we think we'll enjoy doing in the future, and then we're gone.

Over the years I've taken many courses, from various modes of counselling to all kinds of therapeutic work as both a student and a tutor and one thing I have discovered to be true is that each and every one of us has issues, some large, some small, we are all a little fucked-up in one way or another and more importantly, it's all about how we deal with those issues that will decide how we function in life.

Find someone to chat with, share your feelings, but after that you have to be prepared to make some changes, otherwise the same old behaviours will bring about the same old problems, and it isn't always other people, sometimes it's you.

Here are a few tried and tested small things that have helped me along the way, things you can do to improve your days and the quality of your life and your relationships, small steps but they work very quickly if you can stick with them.

So far I've failed at every single one of these more than once but hey, let's not make it all about me! This stuff works...

Happiness is a choice every single day.

You are perfectly free to be who you are and to love who you love.

Whatever age you reach, you will never feel grown up.

Learn to be alone and learn to love, or at least like who you are.

Try and feel gratitude for even the smallest stuff in your life.

Lower your expectations of people, no one can live up to your ideals.

Set your boundaries from the start in any kind of relationship.

Judge Love and friendship by what people do and not what they say.

Don't take shit from anyone, speak up and let them know how you feel, but do it kindly.

Try and choose being kind over being right.

Do not... Repeat: Do Not let anyone bully you.

No response is a response.

If they wanted to, they would.

Let them go.

Be good with your word.

Be consistent.

You don't need to be skinny to be attractive or to be loved.

ALWAYS keep secrets that a friend has shared in confidence, even if they turn out to be a *shit-bag.

*(Other words are available)

Never make someone a priority if they only think of you as an option.

Sometimes chocolate and wine can be the perfect food choice.

Don't ignore red flags in someone's behaviour, they're showing you who they are.

When someone shows you who they are...believe them, don't make excuses on their behalf.

The best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour. (read that again)

Sometimes punching someone in the throat is an option.

Don't carry the past with you, it's too heavy and you're not going in that direction.

You are never too old and it's never too late.

Holding onto anger only hurts you.

You are already good enough.

You deserve love and respect.

Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is to include someone.

Everything changes, everything.

It eventually gets better.

Stay hopeful.

[sweetbunpura]

No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK (Word count: 857)

Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.)

“What do you mean you can’t find her?”

Crowley sweats as he’s met with the various glares of the dorm leaders. He had called to give them all important information, which turned out to be the fact that Yuu was missing.

“Y-you see.” Crowley clears his throat. “After a talk with our dear prefect, she left my office and disappeared. I have no idea what could’ve caused it.”

Leona’s eyes take in the office, Crowley hadn’t had much of a chance to clean up given that there were things thrown all over his office in what looked to the beastman to be in a fit of anger. A chair was missing and judging by the splintered wood and hole in the wall, Leona could piece together what happened.

“It’s unlike Yuu to do something as dangerous as this.” Riddle spoke. “What did you tell her, Headmage?”

“I was just handing her the weekly allowance I allotted her with.” The fae speaks as he nervously clicks his metal finger accessories together. “It was-”

“Listen.” Leona interrupted him as all of their attention turned to him. “Stop dancing around the subject and tell these guys what you’ve been doing to Herbivore.”

“W-Why, Mr. Kingscholar, I have no idea-”

He let out a low growl. “I ain’t got time for you to be pussyfooting around the issue of starving her right now.” Leona turned on his heel and marched out of the room just as it exploded to demands to tell them the truth.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, his ears were pinned to his head and his tail lashed angrily behind him. Leona already knew for a fact that Yuu wouldn’t have stayed anywhere in NRC if she ran... but he had a clue as to where she might be going. Wordlessly, he started on the path towards the front gate, where he opened it and departed from the school grounds. The woods surrounding the base of the school were massive, birds and other animals fled upon seeing a very angry lion making tracks through everything.

“She wouldn’t be in the woods, even if she does love nature...” Leona grumbled as he flicked a piece of foliage off his tail. “Too many places to hide and she ain’t one to turn tail.” He paused as he heard the sound of a river flowing nearby. “By the water maybe...” 

Leona followed the river to where it led out of the dense thicket and sloped down to a medium sized lake nearby. He stood at the top of the slope, his eyes scanning the ground until they locked onto someone sitting at the edge of the water. Quietly, he approached them and lowered himself to sit down next to them.

“This is fucking bullshit.” Yuu speaks as she glares at the water. “He cuts the money every time someone new joins Ramshackle. He did it with Rollo and then he did it again with Fellow and Gidel.”

“What excuse did he give?”

“He said they had money to pay and thus I didn’t need a full check anymore.” Yuu’s hands dig into the grass and she tears out clumps of them. “Rokudenashi Tori.”

Leona glanced over at her as she started muttering in her native language, his eyes shifted to her bloody knuckles that had splinters in them. The beastman gently took her hand and started to pry the slivers out.

“Don’t do this to your hands.”

She viscously tugged her hand back. “Fuck off.”

“Can’t do that.” He pulled her hand back and continued. “You’re too proud of what you can do and you’re letting someone tell you what you can’t.”

“Leona, I don’t have any money to feed Grim, or Rollo, or Fellow and Gidel.” Her voice is soft. “Anytime I ask him for anything, he skirts around the subject. And then I’m supposed to help everyone out with their problems, I don’t have time to myself. I can’t say no, or he holds Ramshackle over me, reminding me of the fact that he so “graciously” let me stay.”

Yuu starts sobbing. “I’m so tired, I want to go home, I don’t want to be his worker ant anymore. I want to rest for once and not worry if part of Ramshackle is going to break while I sleep. That I won’t have to be called on to fix another one of Grim or Ace’s mistakes. I’m tired of spending a majority of my money on a bottomless pit of cat who only way of thanking me is getting into more fucking trouble!”

She suddenly stands up. “Overblot after overblot, scar after scar. When is it going to be e-fucking-nough? Is this going to be the rest of my life here at this shitty excuse of a school?! Cause if this is what I was handed, then take it the fuck back!”

Leona gets up and silently watches her, Yuu digs her hands into her hair and sobs out. His heart tightens as he wraps her in a tight hug, they both fall to their knees as Yuu clutches onto Leona’s vest and sobs into his shoulder. 

[rentsturner]

You're a Sinking Stone - AT

Professor!Alex Turner x reader

Summary - Alex is acting strangely in class, you make a rash decision, a punishment goes wrong and angst ensues. Don’t like it = don’t read it. 18+ only, please read the warnings

Warnings - daddy kink/daddy issues, teacher-student relationship, Alex being mean, Alex fucks up, Alex is a hypocrite, nipple clamps, punishment, bdsm undertones, subspace, bad experience with subspace, jealousy, insecurity, miscommunication, pain kink, use of safe word, serious aftercare, pet names, angsty conversations, cuddling.

a/n: Ok so this is a JOINT piece written with my bestie @martinipoliz. We both contributed to this, I just have the privilege of posting it. She is an amazing writer and I think everyone should you check out her other AMAZING fics. Send her some love. We've been working on this for weeks, it means a lot to me. So thank you for reading!

Usually, class with Alex is the highlight of your day. Spending a few hours sending each other flirty

looks and admiring how animated he becomes when explaining a topic he is passionate about is something that you love.

But today, it’s not the same as usual. You’ve done something wrong, and you really don’t know what. 

Alex is ignoring you, completely ignoring you. He’s never been this dismissive before. Your shy eyelash bat doesn’t work on him. Even your puppy eyes, which usually have Alex melting, has absolutely no effect. You really don’t understand what his problem is, he hasn’t mentioned anything to you and now he’s acting like you don’t even exist, you may as well have not turned up to class. 

Your last straw is when you tug on the end of his suit, a common affectionate gesture between the two of you, but Alex just pulls his hand away and brushes you off like you're nothing. That’s when tears start to form in your eyes,  you let your gaze fall back to your desk.

“Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry,” you mumble, gripping your pen dangerously tight as you try to avoid looking around as much as possible, especially trying to avoid the sight of Alex. Your mind starts racing through all the things you had done that day and you wonder where you’ve gone wrong, but nothing comes to mind. Perhaps you are forgetting about something. Perhaps you said something bad that got you into trouble and now he – you don’t even want to think about it, just the thought of upsetting Alex edges you closer to tears.

Then, you turn slightly to the left and see Alex praising another girl in your class. He’s bent over her shoulder, smiling brightly as she asks him questions, a complete contrast to the dismissive gaze he’d sent your way earlier. You don’t even want to attract Alex’s attention anymore, it makes  you feel pushy and clingy, and it’s just turning your mind to chaos, too many emotions fighting for space. A haze begins to descend onto you. 

As the tears begin to fall, something inside you snaps and you do something irrational. You get up and walk straight out of the class. 

You leave your books and pens sprawled out across your desk, walk past the other students gazing curiously at your shaking form and slam the door behind you. You can’t see Alex’s facial expression but you can imagine the shock spreading across his features. Never have you done something so insolent. 

But as soon as you lock yourself in an isolated toilet cubicle, you can tell you are already in subspace. You want nothing more than to be cradled and babied and held by Alex but clearly, he was too busy praising another girl to even pay attention to you – and it hurts. Your mind is swimming in confusion, thoughts and emotions clashing and whirring, you want the ground to swallow you up. 

After many deep breaths, the emotions in your head began to streamline, just a little, into something that feels a lot like anger and resolution.  

You pull yourself together and head back to the classroom, ready to just get on with the work, but Alex has already dismissed the class and is waiting by your desk, arms folded, glaring at you. 

“What’s gotten into you?” he quirks a brow.

“What’s gotten into me – no, what’s gotten into you,” you jab a finger his way accusingly, another wave of tears already forming in your eyes. So much for your resolve. “I don’t – I don’t know what I did to – to deserve this treatment but i would very much a–appreciate it if you just tell me, da–”

“Enough,” Alex snaps, unfolding his arms from his chest as he stands straight and tall, fixing the tie around his neck. “I don’t want to hear it. Go to your next class, and I expect to find you later in the bedroom naked and kneeling on the floor, alright?”

Your lips quivered. He didn’t even hear you calling him daddy. He doesn’t understand, he won’t even look at you. “But–”

“That mouth will seriously get you into further trouble, little one, so I suggest you shut it.”

You sit through the rest of your classes like a zombie, barely even concentrating on the work being set. You’re still trying to run the past few days through your head, trying to figure out where you’ve gone wrong, but again come up with nothing - the past few days have been domestic bliss living with Alex in his flat. The fog descending on your mind again doesn’t help you focus either, it’s like running through thick mud in the pouring rain. Eventually you give up and completely zone out for the rest of the class. 

When you finally leave, you consider going back to your flat, but then decide to head to Alex’s instead and follow his instructions. You’re already in deep shit, you don’t wanna piss him off any further. You at least want to plead your case and show him that what you did back in the class was justifiable and hopefully have the voice to ask him to consider your actions.

You trudge alone back to Alex’s house with blurry vision, shaking, partly from the cold and partly from the ache in your heart. You can only hope that pleasing Alex will make things right, so once you’ve unlocked the door (with the spare key Alex had cut for you) and kicked off your shoes, you head up to the bedroom. You strip and fold your clothes neatly, the way Alex likes it, and take your familiar place at the foot of the bed. The sensation of your bare knees on the plush carpet helps to ground you. You close your eyes and wait.

The click of the front door breaks you out of your daze and alerts you to Alex arriving home. You hear him fumbling around with keys and then the clang of a glass before his footsteps finally echo up the stairs. 

His figure comes into view - his suit jacket must have been discarded somewhere downstairs, now he only wears his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, veins prominent along his pale arms. He holds a glass of whiskey in one hand. His dark eyes meet yours, and you see then he’s in the same mood as earlier. 

“Have you been crying?” 

You can only sniffle, then nod your head.

“Well, that’s too bad. Looks like you’re going to be crying more tonight.”

Alex throws the amber liquid down his throat in one easy gulp, then sets the glass down firmly on the bedside table. He reaches down to the top drawer - your ‘entertainment’ drawer. 

When his hand pulls back from the drawer, some dangling slivers of metal come out with it. The anticipation of what Alex might do to you sits heavily in your stomach and you crane your head to get a better look at what’s in his hand. Fuck. Nipple clamps. You shiver at the mere sight of them. You’ve only used them a few times before and, sure, they made you feel amazingly sensitive, but it hurt like hell at the start. 

The thought of the pain about to be inflicted on you makes your pulse race in excitement, but you also doubt if you can take it with everything that you’ve already been through today. Really, all you want is for Alex to hold you and tell you you’re ok, that he never meant to dismiss you or shout. You heave in a deep breath, trying to make sense of the emotions clouding your head. It’s so hard to see through the fog. 

You’re tempted to end it there and then, before the scene can go any further, but out of desperation to please Alex, you remain silent. You choke back the sobs threatening to spill, and you obediently keep your hands behind your back as you kneel silently on the floor. 

There’s a beat of silence when he stops in front of you, letting the metal clamps dangle in your line of vision for no reason other than to taunt you, and you swear you almost fail to keep your tears at bay when you hear him chuckle at the pitiful sight of you.

“Think those nipples deserve to be clamped tonight, don’t they? For the shit you pulled earlier, I think you deserve  much worse than nipple clamps, but as I’m feeling so kind and generous, I’ll just do this instead.”

Alex’s mean words don’t help your situation at all. 

You let the mask slip a little bit when a sob escapes from your lips, but it’s ignored by Alex, who’s now settling down to kneel in front of you. You’re both in the same position, kneeling opposite each on the floor, but it’s so obvious who’s in charge here. Alex hasn’t even taken his loafers off, whereas you’re entirely stripped, only the chain that Alex bought you to match his adorning your neck. Your gaze lowers to Alex’s crotch, a tent becoming increasingly obvious in his pants. 

His free hand moves to grab one of your breasts, running his calloused fingertips over your nipple, coaxing it to get harder. He leans his head down before running the flat of his tongue over the same nipple. You gasp at the sensation, your eyes widening as Alex then takes your bud between his teeth and nips, before running his tongue back over it. 

“Got to get these nice and hard for me, so responsive, you love this, don’t you? You fucking love me punishing you,” he mutters around your skin as he repeats the treatment on your other breast. 

You whine helplessly, arousal pooling in your stomach, mixing with the fear and anticipation.

Finally, Alex pulls back from your nipple with an audible pop, his eyes even darker than before. Your teary gaze meets his and for a moment you think he sees you, sees how quickly you’re dropping, how much you need his love. You’re so caught up in his stare that you fail to notice his hand bringing the clamp up to your chest. As the metal clips harshly around your first nipple, you scream.

You almost get up from the sheer pain, your hands flying up from your back to hold Alex by the arm, so desperately needing his  support, but he harshly pulls his arm away, “Bad girls don’t get to touch. Hold still.” 

He clips on the second clamp quickly, before giving both of them a firm tug, making sure they’re secure. A jolt runs through you as he does so, going straight to your cunt, and straight to your head and that’s when you let the tears fall. It’s all too much, you don’t know whether to moan or scream again. Instead you just sob pathetically and shake your head, trying to avoid Alex’s inscrutable gaze. 

If you weren’t so stressed, confused and deep into subspace right now, you would be turned on by the sheer humiliation and pain from the nipple clamps, but right now you just can’t. 

Your hands itch to pull the metal away but your lips only quiver, knowing you can’t do anything but endure it. Your face is wet with tears, and you’re already drooling down your chest from the way you’re sobbing hysterically.

Your mouth opens to speak, but before a word even comes out, one of Alex’s hands flies to tap you on the cheek. It’s not hard, but it’s firm enough to make you sink deeper into subspace. You let your gaze just fall back on the floor and try to let your head float away. 

The pain your nipples are feeling is immeasurable. Your fists curl tightly into your lap, but that only makes Alex chuckle. “Aw, you’re mad at me, baby? You’re mad at me for punishing you like this? Like you deserve?”

Every word just cuts deeper into the already open wound in your heart and sends your mind spinning further into chaos. You can’t stop your head from shaking in disagreement.

“No, you know you deserve this. Fucking swearing at me in my classroom? You think you’ve got the upper hand now, huh, baby? You think you can just walk out of the room and have me worry in there for the rest of the hour? You think you’re in control now? Well, just in case you’re forgetting, baby, I’ll gladly show you who’s really in charge now.”

As Alex goes to unbuckle his belt, your eyes go wide. The sound of the metal clanging together sends your mind into even more panic, wondering what the fuck he’s going to do.

One, he’s going to fuck you until you cry even more. Two, he’s going to belt your arse until you won’t be able to sit properly for the next week. 

These options that would usually have you weak at the knees and dripping wet, are sounding just - awful. They both sound awful. You can’t do this, not in your current state of mind. You just want a hug, you just want Alex. 

Your Alex.

Your head cranks up to finally let the word tumble out of your mouth, out of pure fear and pain.

“Peaches, Daddy– peaches, please, p–peaches – I don’t want – I don’t want anymore, Daddy, peaches –”

As the words repeatedly slip out of your mouth, Alex’s face drops. Shit. Now he sees, now he realises that you weren’t playing, you weren’t winding him up on purpose, that all this time you were upset and in subspace and now he feels so guilty, so awful for not noticing. His heart just sinks.  

Alex’s hands go to pull the clamps away immediately, not caring about gentleness, just knowing that you need them off, right now. He drops to his knees to grab you by the arms, letting your head fall forward onto his shoulder as another wave of tears comes crashing down. This time, you don’t hold them back. Alex knows he can’t panic, not when you’re in pain like this, when you need him to help you, but as he looks at your pure state of desperation, eyes glazed with tears, whole body shaking, too deep into subspace for him to just be able to pull you out with one snap of his fingers – Alex’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach.

“Baby, baby, shit–”

“Daddy, peaches, please – please, don’t want i–it anymore, Daddy, I don’t want it –”

“It’s okay, baby, I got you, I got you –” he says breathlessly, pulling you into his chest as he buries his face in your hair. “Daddy’s got you, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry – Daddy’s sorry, okay? I didn’t – I didn’t mean it, baby, please –”

Never once in his life has Alex stuttered, but right now he can’t care less. Right now all he cares about is you. 

You pant and cry into his chest, soaking his dress shirt with your tears but you’re too far gone to care. The emotions that have been building up all day finally pour out of you. 

Alex holds your shaking hands in his larger ones, rubbing your skin gently with his thumbs, back and forth, back and forth, the familiar rhythm calming you a little, but you’re still sobbing and hiccuping into his chest. Alex is really worried now, the guilt churning in his stomach, regretting his lack of care earlier. He wishes he could take it all back now, he really could. He never meant to hurt you. But it’s too late.

Alex pulls away slightly and you grab onto his shirt in panic, trying to bring him back to you, but he shushes you gently, placing one strong hand under your thighs, the other holding you to his chest. In seconds, he picks you up and walks you to the bed, setting you down carefully by the pillows, lying down and letting you curl into his chest. 

“It’s ok, baby, it’s ok now, I promise.”

You still don’t have the strength to talk, all you can do is let a whimper slip out of your mouth. Alex presses kisses to your hairline, then a kiss  to your nose, then your cheeks. When he pulls back and you look at him, you think you can see tears in his eyes, but you can’t be sure what you're seeing through your own blurry gaze, tears still trickling slowly down your cheeks, so you ignore it. A small voice in the back of your mind tells you that Alex must still be annoyed with you. You bury your head back into his chest. 

“What do you need, baby? What do you need me to do?”

“Just – just hold me, Al, please, sir, need you to hold me.”

Alex pulls back, unwrapping his arms from you, and you look up in horror – you just told him that you need him to hold you, and now he’s moving away? But then you realise he’s hurriedly undoing his shirt buttons and pulling the material off his shoulders, before standing up to pull off his trousers, shoes and socks, until he’s left just in his boxers. 

You sigh in relief. He does know what you want. 

As he pulls you back into his chest, you breathe in his familiar scent - woody, spice, smoke and Alex. You relish in the feeling of his warm skin against yours, letting him wrap his arms around your shaking form. 

“I’m here, love, I’m right here.”

You feel his heartbeat thud in time with yours, fast and rapid from panicking from the use of your safe-word. You must’ve scared the shit out of him, but then again, he scared the shit out of you too. 

You two stay like that for a moment. Head on his chest and arms wrapped around his torso, and the heat radiating from his body calms you down to a different level you can’t quite put your finger on, but it’s calming and it's Alex and that’s all that matters. 

“You okay now, baby?” His deep voice snaps you out of your headspace and you feel his large hand carefully threading through  your hair. “Can you take deep breaths for me, darling? Can you do that?”

You slowly peel your head away from his chest. You’re calm now but still hiccuping from the sobs earlier, so Alex takes a hold of your hands in his, engulfing them whole in his palms. 

“Okay. Take deep breaths with me, alright? You follow me, hm?” Then he sees that familiar glint in your eyes when it takes a second for you to nod and it shows that you’re still deep in subspace. Alex sighs softly. “Baby. Can you hear me, baby?”

You only nod again, eyes feeling droopy and heavy, and Alex frowns.

“What do you need to do?”

“Deep breaths, daddy.”

“That’s right, good girl, you take deep breaths with daddy, alright?” He praises you in a soft voice, a small smile creeping its way on his face to know that you’re still listening despite your head being somewhere else. “Alright, let’s do this. You ready?”

Seeing your small smile as you nod is enough to bring reassurance to Alex. 

“Inhale,” he says, and you obey, taking in a deep breath. “Exhale.”

You breathe out slowly, still hiccuping, but no longer shaking. 

“Good girl, you’re doing so well.” Alex’s small smile encourages you to keep going, breathing in and out. Alex grabs your hand and splays it flat against his chest, so you feel his chest rising and falling in tandem with yours. “I’m right here, yeah? Right here.”

Alex lets you breathe slowly with him for a few minutes. He’s no longer panicking, but he is worried – how did he manage to misread the situation so badly? It’s not like he hasn’t ‘punished’ you before and you’d both agreed before that it was something you both enjoyed. But today went wrong, badly wrong. 

Now the fog is clearing from your head a little, each deep breath in and out helping ground you a little, along with the feel of Alex’s hot skin pressed against yours. You feel a rumble in his chest as he speaks.

“Baby? You back with me yet?”

“Yeah, yeah,  I think so.” You look at him the best you can while your bodies are still squashed together. His face looks pained, the stress lines on his forehead more pronounced than usual, his eyes dull. 

“Al?”

“Yes, darling?” He knows what’s coming.

“Why–” You have to stop and take in another deep breath. “Why did you act like that before?��

Alex sighs and rubs a hand over his face. 

“I’m so sorry, baby, I really fucked up, I really did. I saw you talking to that guy, the one that you used to go out with and I just –”

Oh.

Ryan, that guy. He approached you earlier in the hallway to ask for your opinions about his paper, and you didn’t think twice of agreeing. He’s a nice guy, really, and you respect him for that. But you still can’t ignore the fact that he still tries to shoot his shot with you despite turning him down several times.

You two shared a past, sure. You agreed to go out with him several times in your first year, but only because you were naive and desperate to experience what going out with somebody feels like, and Ryan was the first ever guy to make that dream of yours come true. But one thing led to another, you realised that you two just aren’t… compatible.

You didn’t have anyone after Ryan, not until Alex came in the picture. 

You respectfully broke whatever was happening with Ryan then, but even now he still struggles to hide his feelings whenever you’re near – and really, you’re flattered. Even though he knows that there’s no chance of getting back together with you, he still tries. 

Like earlier, for example.

He ran into you in the hallway, arm around your shoulder and bodies close together. He was showing you his paper and asked for your opinions, and you really didn’t think much of his gestures other than being friendly. Ryan was always like that, touchy with everyone, and you aren’t an exception.

“You really outdid yourself with this one, Ry,” you had smiled, patting him on the shoulder as he held up the papers in front of you.

“Thanks. I learned from the best, you see.”

His fingers went to pinch your cheek lightly and you froze. Not because of the action, but because in the corner of your eye, you saw Alex standing still outside of his classroom, hands inside his pocket and staring directly at the two of you.

You couldn’t see his face or his expression so you didn’t think much of it, but if you were to see it, you would’ve known that his face held a snarl and he was fighting every urge to stalk towards you and pulled you away from Ryan’s grip.

Disgust, is one way to put it – what Alex was feeling in that moment. Disgust, then anger. He was already pissed about certain things; the amount of essays he had to mark and pressure on him from the governor’s board, and seeing you getting smooched at by another guy made him want to bash someone’s head on the wall.

Specifically, Ryan’s head.

But then again, Alex is a teacher, and Ryan is a student – so are you, but you’re not just any student – and he can’t really pull a student aside and whack him on the head for flirting with his fucking girlfriend.

You realise now what had happened, though, you just wish that Alex would’ve told what the problem was earlier rather than making you figure it out yourself. 

“But, Al, we were just talking about homework, and you know what he’s like, so touchy with everyone. You know I wouldn’t ever–”

“I know, love, I know you wouldn’t, but I just saw it and it went straight to my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about it and I just got so…so angry. I shouldn’t have, I know, but I did. And then I was so caught up in my own emotions, I didn’t see how uncomfortable you were. I’m sorry, so so sorry.”

He buries his face into your neck, letting out a strangled sob. You run your hand through his hair soothingly, before tugging it a little to get him to look at you. His gaze meets yours and you know then that he really is sorry, you can see it from the pain in his eyes.

“It’s ok,” you whisper, Alex goes to protest but you place a finger on his lips, shushing him. “Honestly. It’s ok now. I can’t say I haven't ever felt that way watching you talk to other girls, so I know how you felt. But please just. Don’t do that again. Be so dismissive. I hated it.”

“I know, I realise that now, I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. Ever. I’m sorry.”

You chuckle quietly. “You’re gonna have to stop apologising at some point, you know? I forgive you.”

Alex gives a small smile and you’re relieved to see his eyes have brightened a little. “Can I make it up to you another way instead?” His hand reaches up to stroke through your hair gently, teasing out some of the tangles and smoothing them down. 

You reach up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I can think of many, many ways that you can make it up to me, don’t worry about that.”

You both giggle, Alex’s hands moving down to your sides to tickle you playfully, but you slap his chest gently before it can go too far. 

“None of that now, I just want to cuddle.” You pout at him, giving him your best puppy eyes.

“That I can do, darling.” Alex murmurs with a smile, pulling you back into his chest with strong arms and tangling your legs together. He pulls the blanket up over the both of you, making sure you’re tucked in comfortably.

Alex hooks his chin over your shoulder and you  nuzzle happily  into his neck with a whine. All is well again.

thanks for reading, hope yous enjoyed :)

[chiliconsharls]

“𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞”

2.8K, explicit, post China Sprint

Read on AO3 or bellow the cut

He’s still fuming even when the roar of all engines has shut off. Absurd move, and for what? Fucking out of the podium and pole again. He yanks the balaclava as he seizes the ‘55’ of the garage, each step he’s taken has slowly made the anger subside but still sits in his gut like lava.

Everyone turns to him with their eyes wide and unblinking and Charles breathes. So, they’re waiting for a scene. A screaming match or maybe blows but it’s not the stuff he and Carlos are made of— apparently. He bites his tongue in his mouth when Carlos comes, eyes deep and gone.

“What the fuck was that?” Charles repeats himself, but his tone is far lighter than he intended it.

“Not right now, okay?”

And just like that, he flips the switch. Just like that, Charles’ fire dies and he thinks anyway. He thinks whatever. He thinks good riddance.

Because it’s always been like this with Carlos. Always half-measures and stolen glances and mixed messages and never enough. He should’ve known better than to hope their last year would’ve been different.

If anything, this might just prove to be the worst one yet.

By the time he’s done with the media circus, smiling in the absurdity of his frustrations, he’s ran out of fuel to keep him fired up, and when Carlos approaches him –fucking finally– he’s only greeted with a tired, heavy sigh. “I have to speak to the stewards because of the shit with Alonso, listen—if I was too aggressive—”

Charles taps his chest and through the layers of fabric, he can still feel the heat coming off Carlos, the steady pumping of his heart and the hard carcass that surrounds it. “It doesn't matter. I've been there, too, haven't I?” he relents and it's pathetic. He knows.

But Carlos squeezes his fingers and looks at him puzzled, as he's often done lately. Half-here, half-somewhere else. One foot out, Charles remembers.

And he doesn't say anything else before he disappears from his grip again, Charles also doesn't stick around to listen.

Instead, he replays the sprint idly in his mind after he's showered, revisiting all the missed twists and turns and convincing himself that his fight with Carlos didn't fuck up his chances for a podium. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. What counts is tomorrow, anyway.

But then a flash and he's pushed out of the track like nothing but a bug and his head is spinning and it's a hundred degrees but his gut is boiling with more than just that. His heart is racing for more than just racing. Fucking see me, I'm right here.

I'm yours to push and shove.

He doesn't have to open his eyes and look down to know what he knows already. His shaft's hardening as he lies and overthinks, great. It's not the first time he's gotten hard after a fight on track, it's not even the first time he's gotten hard after a fight on track with Carlos. But it'd been a while, and it'd been a while since the race, too.

He bites his lower lip and eyes his problem. His cock is nestled only somewhat uncomfortably inside his briefs. He could leave it there, he's only halfway into hardness. But then it's also just 10 p.m. in Shanghai so he's got a few more hours to kill before he's ready to rest. Social media seems like a good idea for a minute until he watches one too many videos of the race and his minor issue goes right to considerable.

It's starting to itch, the fabric. But when he moves his hips a little bit the constriction provides friction and Charles' interest is piqued, then. Fine, he'll stoop lower. It's one sprint video that leads to interviews with bullshit excuses that make Charles lose himself in brown eyes like he's done for the last three and some years that then lead him to a myriad of Sainz footage and he's gone.

And Charles could call him up, could get the whole actual show. But Charles was weak enough already to turn down his apologies when Charles very much deserved them, Charles was weak enough already to just let him fucking push him over, he'd been weak enough lately.

This was still weak, of course. But it was at least between him and God. Did he mention he was the bigger man earlier already?

He throws the phone to his side when Carlos' smile begins spinning in his head after three or so photos. It always took so much of his face, but Charles noted that it didn't matter because his laugh was contagious. A lot of aspects of Carlos were like that, could make you feel whatever he wanted in just a flick.

Charles palms himself, just a press of the heel of his hand to his bulge and he breathes heavily. Inhaling deep as his teeth trap his lower lip. He turns over and pushes a pillow between his legs, just to keep the pressure subsided.

Except that Carlos' fingers earlier linger on his, in his mind, and Charles eyes his hand like it's foreign to his body. He's washed off, it's been hours already; there's no trace of Carlos' smell or his heat at Charles' fingertips but it doesn't hurt to imagine. It doesn't hurt to rub himself softly, index finger moving from his clavicle to his chest to his navel until Charles breathes heavily again before he pushes down the briefs and ends the charade that he's wishing this away. He squeezes the pillow harder between his legs to keep his cock from flinching at the cold of the dead darkness of his room. The nearly dead emptiness of the life he carries. And his finger draws faint circles on his body again. Aimless, odd-shaped figures across his arm and his torso and his shoulder just like Carlos would. Touch and graze him like Charles was made of the most precious marble.

And kiss him. Carlos would kiss him breathless. Would kiss him like his life depended on it, would kiss him like he'd fight him on track. Like he did today.

This is all that I've got— can you take it?

Charles bucks into the messy lump he'd already made of the pillow as a yes echoes in his head, chanting, nearly. Yes, I can fucking take it. You want to fight me harder than the rest? I'll meet you halfway there. I'm no coward. Crash into me if that's how bad you want it. We'll give them a bloody show.

He grunts when his tip grazes the silky fabric of the pillow just slightly enough to sting and he comes to think that maybe he ought to just get on with it and use his hand, instead, but the rough friction is good. The rough friction reminds him of calloused, big hands, tanner than his. Musky smells and hairy wrists that always manage to twist right how Charles needs. It's unbearable, really. How perfectly they piece together.

And now Carlos wants to fight me.

All because they have left us in these ruins.

It's not my fault they didn't pick him.

He whimpers as his rhythm picks up, back arched as he's shifted to topple the pillow that's now under his belly. He no longer worries about the cold because his many efforts now got him glistening in sweat and panting, just like he was inside the car earlier.

Riled up because of Carlos fucking Sainz, albeit in two entirely different ways. Or were they? Wasn't their predicament the entire cornerstone of Charles' current frustrations?

They couldn't love each other, they could never love each other. They couldn't even have each other, because they didn't have a say in that.

And they couldn't hate each other, either. They couldn't go at each other's throats.

Well, at least that's what I thought. But he didn't give a shit about that, did he? Maybe that could mean…

“Merde,” he moans when he starts rocking his hips easier because he's started leaking. The moist spot he's made gets slicker with each roll of his hips and soon he just thrusting wantonly into the misshapen lump.

He supports himself a little on his elbows on the mattress, back arched just enough to make room for him to thrust back in, and so he repeats in a frenzy dance. He imagines himself squeezed into nothingness like the pillow, and bucks harder, relentless. Carlos wouldn't lose the pace, not at least until the very– very end. But he wasn't Carlos. He was only the mess Carlos had made of him, whimpering and moaning into his mattress and about to come untouched like a fucking teenager.

I bet he's smiling. I bet this is what he's wanted all along. To see me lose my damn mind like this.

He curses and he can nearly taste the bleach they used to clean the sheets; his tongue dries in the cotton as he lets go of the fabric, and adjusts himself a little. Legs a little spread, this time just pressing on his knees and he moves his hips in circles. Charles breathes at the slight change of pace but his mind provides more reasons to keep him going. Flashes of Carlos meaty lips dropping wet kisses all over his back before he claimed him, the way his bushy eyelashes would flicker before he came, mouth slacking in a soundless ‘o’ that Charles always needed to stick his tongue into.

Carlos' breathy laugh and silly jokes and big hands, crowding all of him both in public and private. Did he even know? How easily can I be undone under his fingers? He picked up his pace again as frustration started filling him once more.

“Charles?”

Yes, he'd fucking say. Sharl all soft like nothing's ever been wrong in the world. Like they're not caught up in the shittiest situation. Like Charles isn't absolutely dreading the end of the season. Like Charles doesn't lo–

He freezes when a hand wraps around his nape and Charles feels like an exposed wire, ready to electrocute. But the hand holding him knows him all too well, and it is as firm as it is tender. So Charles breathes and leans back into it.

“Vai avanti,” Carlos whispers in his ear and Charles wants to kick him out, kind of. He also wants to turn around and kiss the living daylights out of him.

It's always a bit complicated after a race, anyway. Carlos is the one he has to beat all the time, no matter what, but he also needs to have Carlos do good.

And they can't fight, so they don't fight. They make love instead, which is its own kind of fight, if you ask Charles.

He moves slowly — slower than he was a second ago— and the hand at his neck is so hot suddenly the pillow is too cold and rigid and Charles is no longer interested in it. He twists his face to see him, but the room is pitch black and the angle isn't right anyway.

“Carlos…” he whispers. It's not a plea, he wouldn't call it that. He's still got some dignity left in him.

But Carlos answers like he's made to answer, and Charles reflects on how bad he's been to him for the last two or so hours, until he reflects that he's in fact been soft. They both have.

“Shh, keep going. I got you,” Carlos says, and the hand around his neck rolls down his spine slowly to sneak under and wrap around him and Charles moans louder this time because it's what he's wanted the whole fucking day, since that stupid stunt he pulled.

Touch me the way it fucking matters.

“Venga, amore,” he prompts again, in the weird mix of Spanish and Italian he can muster, just towering over Charles somehow. Here and there and all around and Charles is dizzy in lust and something as intoxicating. He pushes himself up, pressed fleshed against Carlos, who's still gripping him loose and Charles knows this is what he'll give him this time. Just this, not more.

You get one piece of me this time. You'll never have me whole.

Charles loves a good challenge.

But he wasn't aiming to win this particular battle, so Charles just moves against the hand holding him firmly, Carlos rubbing his thumb on his tip so the precum would make the grip pleasant while Charles lost himself to the sensations and soon he was bucking erratically into Carlos' fist before spilling his release all over it.

Carlos supports him through the wakes of his climax, holding him to his chest as he stands just right near the edge of the bed, dropping soundful kisses on Charles' shoulders that make him shudder while he's still coming down from his high, Carlos still milking him through.

After the lights have stopped sparkling, Charles finally looks up at him. “I’ve been texting you,” Carlos says at the side of his face, but he sounds amused.

Charles half shrugs, before turning around fully, arms thrown over Carlos' shoulders. “I've been busy.”

“Clearly.” Carlos' right hand is sticky on his hip.

“How did you get in here?” Charles inquires, after he finally gains some clarity.

“Asked Nicolas for a spare key. Told him that if he's gonna tell the media you and I kiss then he might as well help me give it a shot,” Carlos says but there's a trace of amusement in his tone.

Charles still frowns. “Seriously?”

“‘Seriously’ did I ask him for the key or ‘seriously’ did he tell the press we kiss on the mouth?”

Charles rolls his eyes because he didn't really care that much about the answer. The world wasn't burning, so, who cared if his manager joked on international TV about something that may not be a joke? Who cared if Carlos outed them to his manager in response?

He leans forward slowly and drops a kiss on Carlos' lips only to realize he still smells like gas and sweat and tastes like their energy drinks. “Are you still dirty from the race?” Charles blurts, almost absentmindedly.

Carlos slaps his cheek in response and it makes a slick sound cause it's still covered in cum. “You're one to talk about being dirty.”

He chuckles, head falling on Carlos shoulder and trying not to giggle too much but the embarrassment is slowly getting to him. When he stretches his neck again, big brown eyes are looking up to him like he hangs the moon every night.

It's hard to imagine this is the same Carlos that would force him out of the track. The same Carlos that will fight tooth and nails this year to prove Ferrari that they should've chosen him instead of Charles. But, then again, they were all different people once the lights went off.

Charles could never begrudge him.

“Wanna take a bath with me?” he offers. “You can do your hair routine on me so I can have amazing hair after a race like you do,” Charles adds, playfully.

“Anything for Lord Perceval,” Carlos jokes in the same nature.

“You know it isn't personal, right?” Carlos asks after they sit in the tub for a while. His fingertips are drawing circles on his scalp and Charles lives, however long this moment lasts, in a world where none of that matters.

For this fleeting, miniscule moment, he's just having a bubble bath with the most beautiful man he's ever been near.

“I know.” Does he wish it was? Does he wish Carlos wasn't lying?

“It's not easy, though. It's not what you and I are used to,” Charles says, honest, too. Carlos is the longest teammate he's ever had so comparisons are dull. But, still…

Carlos stares at him unblinking as he does, and his eyes sparkle with sadness and wonder alike. It's a weird mixture that only Carlos can pull off, Charles reckons. “I'm afraid we're heading into territory that's gonna have us outside of what we're used to, amor.”

Was it a threat or just a bad omen?

“I can't say I won't be aggressive again for the rest of the season. You know why this one is more important than most to me, Charles— but… but I can promise that I'll come back to you still after. And we'll sort it out.”

The corner of Charles' mouth draws up as he looks at him. Yes, he knows. Ever since Carlos joined him, three years and so ago, Charles has known.

The only place Carlos would ever serve him is the bedroom and the only way Carlos would ever be gentle with him is like this.

[superbat-lmao]

Bruce is off world and Cass snaps.

She cuts the feed to the cave, traps each of them in a separate holding cell, and truth serums them.

She is sick and tired of them lying to each other, lying to themselves.

Once and for all, she wants them to just talk to each other.

Jason is the easiest one to start talking, he’s been the only one talking about anything close to honest the whole time. Sure, usually it’s yelling about it on a rooftop but now it’s yelling about it in the cave. He fights talking about the good memories because they hurt more than the bad ones.

Damian has the fewest grievances. He hasn’t been around long enough to have years worth of issues, and most of it stems from the same problem.

Dick and Tim are actually the biggest problems.

Tim has the most to talk about. He’s angry with all of them. Jason and Damian are the most obvious, but he has just as many grievances with Dick if not more. They have all hurt him, not accepted him, rejected him. He isolates rather than talking to any of them about this because every time he objects to how he’s treated it’s like he’s breaking the family. He should be thankful Jason’s back at all or that Damian isn’t trying to kill him. If he says anything it sends them both into spirals that makes them avoid the family and then it’s his fault, so he leaves as much as he can.

Dick is the most brutal. They all look up to him, even if they don’t want to admit it. He proved it could be done. And every single one of them got a Bruce that already used him as a practice run of having kids. He is expected to handle it, to leash his anger, to be more open than Bruce. And he does it, but the level to which it’s a performance? Only Cass and Bruce have a real inkling to how much he’s acting. Jason saw more of it than he should have before he died, but even he wasn’t actually prepared for Dick’s honest thoughts on all of them.

Jason: Dick never wanted me here, Tim picked up the mantle as though nothing had changed, and Damian is the most judgmental and least experienced. I no longer have the innocence I did as Robin because the world has proven that morality doesn’t protect you. I cannot give up my ideologies for emotional vulnerability with people who do not care, it got me killed once and it’ll kill me again.

Damian: I was told my worth here was based on my sole existence. To have to unlearn my upbringing while surrounded by others that challenge my worth and place in this family is a level of vulnerability I will do anything to avoid.

Tim: Jason tried to kill me, Damian tried to kill me, and Dick doesn’t care. Every single thing I have accomplished has been in spite of my supposed brothers, who have only distrusted or hurt me. If I point this out, it is my fault for driving them away no matter how much they hurt me.

Dick: Jason died, Tim asked me to be Robin, took it for himself, Jason tried to kill Tim and Bruce, and Damian lashes out at every available opportunity and somehow this is my fucking problem. I did not sign up to be a parent or even a brother. I am not responsible for their decisions. I agreed to be responsible for teammates and missions, not the emotional vulnerability of a family I never asked for. I handle myself and they should be capable of dealing with their own problems without dragging me into them. They aren’t. I was an only child and had the responsibility of being a parent thrust on me when I never agreed to it. I have my own life and my own problems that take a back burner to anything else in this godforsaken family. I moved away and am still fucking here.

But even talking to each other like this can’t solve everything. Because for as upset as they are with each other, it’s Bruce that they’re actually upset with.

[sapphoscorner]

Edit: please reblog this with some information about demisexuality, I did make a mistake here by saying "Cove doesn't understand sexual attraction" he does, so my bad on that part

SO, I usually don't get too involved in fandom discourse, but with how Baxter fans are acting about the loss in the MDDB I snapped and decided we should have a talk.

(This turned out longer than expected so more under the cut. I BEG YOU TO READ THIS AND TOP UNDERSTAND WHERE THE ANGER AND FRUSTRATION COME FROM.

This is all over place, I tried my best to make this as comprehensible as possible)

Specifically I want to talk about this fandom obsession with him and how, is getting to a point where people are legitimately re-writing the game and erasing Cove existence to have this fucking man instead.

And look, I want to say that I get the appeal, I do, but I don't because Baxter's route is genuinely the worst written one out of the three; Compared to Cove's and Derek's (and Derek treatment in the fandom is a WHOLE OTHER ISSUE) is really not. I'm not here to judge one taste, I am here to tell you that your love for him is ridiculous.

It is genuinely ridiculous how much popular he has gotten and so many of you are forgetting about Cove and how important he is to the story, and generally how he is important to a lot of marginalized people. Some of you keep forgetting that Cove is autistic and demiseuxal and that is such a rare representation to see and it is already erased in the fandom (especially his autism), but now is even more erased because people are grabbing everything that makes Cove Cove, and are applying it to Baxter.

That is also not touching the fandom treatment of Derek and how overly criticize his route his compared to Baxter's, like...DEREK'S PARENTS ARE GETTING MORE SHIT THAT BAXTER CANONICAL BIGOTED PARENTS LOL, WHAT IS THIS?? Are you guys serious?? I've seen a fanfic with Irene being transphobic, why the fuck would someone write that when Baxter's mom is right there?

And Derek shitty treatment doesn't end here because people are straight up erasing the guy and not ?? talking about on how well written he is ?? He is not erased sorry, he's forgotten, no one cares about him. And when people care is a) rare or b) so criticize to the point where is no longer a criticism but just you bitching about it.

And it doesn't end there! Baxter is so talked about that people are more interested in him making a cameo in OL:N&F than the main characters of that game, THAT'S HOW THINGS HAVE GOTTEN, We've gotten to a point where people cares more about some white man than Qiu or Tamarack, which are way more interesting than him as characters but neither of them are white skinny man so lol, who cares about them.

AND TO TOP THIS SHITSHOW IT SOMEHOW GETS WORSE FROM HERE BECAUSE PEOPLE DON'T EVEN ARE CARE ABOUT THE INTERESTING ASPECTS OF BAXTER'S CHARACTER!!

Everyone is molding him like clay to create this, confident rich white boy when he is not?? and that's...the whole point of his route?? That he shouldn't need to put up this mask and to actually be a fucking human being?? THE FACT THAT HE IS A QUEER KID WHO HAD TO CUT OFF HIS PARENTS AND HAD TO BE INDEPENDENT FROM THEM AND LEARNING TO NOT DEPENDENT ON HIS PARENTS? (monetarily wise that is)

And like, people forget the man is queer, he is queer, he's a queer person who had to hide who he is to his parents and then had to cut them out for his own sanity, and no one mentions it.

The fandom as a whole erases queer identities,when this game is literally made FOR queer people don't you love it when straight people come into our spaces and erase our identities lol, that is a problem that more people should acknowledge, alongside the fact that Baxter's stans have taken over this safe space, overtook the main love interest, and ignore the genuine interesting aspects of Baxter's character to make him their own little doll they can play with and not appreciate a guy who is trying to learn how to stop being that mask everyone in the fandom has fallen over.

And I know, I know , I will get shit for daring to go against your favorite white boy, but consider that some of us played this game because an autistic character was in it, consider that this game is queer friendly and the fandom is also erasing that queerness to make horny fan fiction**, consider that some of us fond comfort in Derek and Cove's story and now we see everyone overtaking their stories by a white boy (that you can find in every other game), consider that his talk is tiring, consider also the fact that Baxter is technically queer and no one ever talks about it, consider that this game was a safe space for marginalized people and now it no longer feels that way

.

.

.

**with horny fanfiction I mean people re-writing Cove whole personality (and sexuality if we're being honest here) and making him this...horny big man when...he is not? He got stressed out by simply having to share a bed with MC, he's extremely shy around the subject of sex and he gets incredibly nervous about it.

I personally think that is due of both his queerness and autism (and yeah his personality, but autism affects ones personality so lol, sue me) since demisexuality means he genuinely doesn't understand how people can feel sexual attraction, and mixing that with autism means he probably doesn't understand the SOCIAL pressure around sex and having sex.

Granted that's speculation on my part but as someone who is (probably) autistic and asexual I can tell that, at least a majority feels this way and Cove is literally is the type to have this kind of mentality, he does not understand how Baxter can flirt with him after mere seconds of knowing each other

[stabbyfoxandrew]

Vampdrew please :) my favorite guy ever <3

WIP Wednesday (9/25) | Vampire Andrew AU (Part 182)

Wymack lets out a cross between a groan and a sigh. "Eyes on me, assholes.” Once he has everyone’s attention again, he nods. “Yeah, they're coming down. They're coming for Kevin, that means they’re coming for us. I don't have a pep talk handy, but we don't have to play these fuckers for a while yet. And Neil's got a lot of potential."

"Can he score on Andrew?"

"Not yet." Kevin answers.

"Can you, Gordon? It's been a while since you've tried." Andrew says, all smiles. When Seth's expression flickers with anger, Andrew smiles wider. Kevin wonders exactly what Seth's thinking. By Andrew's face, he knows. "Aw, don't get grumpy on us."

"Shut up, fuckface."

"You know I think Neil could give you a run for your money. He's quick as lightning and twice as bright. Hell, he's probably halfway back to the dorms by now."

"Wait, he's running back to the dorm?" Nicky asks.

“I’m sure he is. Renee is quite the meddler,” Andrew says, just as Renee steps back into the room. “See! She scared him off. Boo hoo.”

“I tried to get him to stay. He said he needed to run off some energy.” Renee says as she sits down in Neil’s chair. Allison curls a finger in Renee’s hair.

“So, he’s cute and fast and a prodigy, huh?”

“No one said cute.” Seth growls.

Allison smiles, “I just did.”

“I said it a month ago,” Nicky chimes in. “Glad to see someone agrees with me. Even if it is you.”

Seth mutters something under his breath that Kevin can't hear. Andrew does. And he doesn't like it. He points his finger at Seth, then taps it to his lips. 

“Gordon, just out of curiosity, how many exy balls do you think would fit down your throat? I bet three. Why don’t we find out—”

"Minyard!”

"He started it, Coach. Don't play favorites."

"You know I don't. Seth, shut the fuck up too." Wymack says, jabbing a finger in Seth's direction. He receives an eye roll in response. "Back to the issue at hand—"

"But there is no issue, Coach. Kevin's my problem. Neil is yours, for the time being. So if you're through playing circus, I would like to get my herd through their physicals and back to the dorm before Kevin starts growing feathers."

"I'm not growing anything," Kevin starts to argue. He's not willingly going back to Riko. That's up to Andrew. As long as Andrew will have him, Kevin will stay. That's been the deal since he found out Andrew was a vampire and Kevin plans to keep it that way. He will stay, Andrew will protect him. Everything will be fine.

Even if the Moriyamas have all the money and resources and guns, they don't have Andrew— who will hear them coming. Kevin is safer than he's ever been with Andrew by his side. Even if Andrew wants to drink him dry. Even if he wants to rip his throat out for lying to him for the past few weeks, he won't. That's the difference between Andrew and Riko. 

Andrew won't hurt Kevin.

Riko already has.

[winn-schott-throughtheheart]

Since you mentioned her in the last post, what are your feelings/headcanons on the whole Winn/Lyra situation? I’ve always wished people talked about it more, I hated them together but I was also hopeful that it would turn into a really insightful plotline that would bring in some of his past trauma and give him a little more to do than comic relief, but, well, we know how well the show did with literally anything about his character depth 🫠 I have some fics I wrote about it but it always felt like too oddly specific a subject to publish since she was such a minor character, so now that I’ve found someone who likes Winn as much as I do I figured asking for your thoughts would be the next best thing!

oh my goddd don't even I hate her so much.

she had NO problems hurting winn at all, but the moment she gets captured she's suddenly all "I never wanted to hurt you, you made me do this." SHE FRAMED HIM FOR GRAND LARCENY!! and I highly doubt winn had divulged his past experiences with law enforcement and criminal activity to her, but honestly that might make it worse?? he cannot catch a break or a decent partner omg

when winn and james go to find her at the trailer park, she LITERALLY SAYS SHES PREPARED TO KILL HIM!! SHE THREATENS TO KILL HIM! she's sexually domineering and physically violent, which is shown more than once. she completely disregards all the effort winn goes to to make last minute plans for valentines day and, when he expresses he prefers to get to know someone first, forces herself upon him anyways. he mentions her leaving bruises on him, which I admit could have been consensual, but based on literally everything else, i wouldn't get my hopes up, especially considering just how quick she is to anger. if the roles were reversed, and a woman went to the effort of getting her boyfriend's favourite dessert so she could let him down as gently as she could, only to have him fly off the wall, smash a bottle in her face and threaten her with physical violence in a public setting, he'd be the most hated character in the show! but because he's a guy, it's fine, right?? it's funny?? AND JAMES IS AT FAULT HERE TOO BECAUSE HE WITNESSES THIS, AND STILL THINKS ITS APPROPRIATE TO GET THEM BACK TOGETHER!!!! and the fact that winn goes right back to her after is actually so upsetting, i would hedge the bet that he's never had a good relationship in his entire damn life.

and I don't know if you've heard of the analogy with cats, wherein if someone expresses hatred or disdain for cats (usually on the basis that they're "unpredictable" or "can't love you back" or "difficult") then it's actually just an issue of them not respecting the cats boundaries and consent. lyra. eats. cats. or at least she thinks it's funny to joke about. im so fucking glad she wasn't a recurring character, 5 episodes or however many she gets is already too many. anyway tldr I fucking hate lyra <3

also pleaseeee please send me any fics you have if you're comfortable!!! I'd loveee to read them!!! obviously as long as it's not painting lyra in a good light lmfaooo

[n4talia-chaparro]

"Omg 5 days without posting?! Lmao so funny."

Yeah I get it >|:/

I wanted to make this post cuz a lot of you were so "CoNcERnEd" about me and the allegations made by the anons. And well in case people wanna find "info". I kinda don't care if people wanna keep attacking me and shit but yk. I have to speak up and explain.

So I wanna start by saying that what I did last Thursday and Friday was very retarded and dumb of me and I highly apologize once again. I was not in the right mindset and it was never my intention to ignore anyone's advice. I have been mentally unstable and stressed that I couldn't focus. Yeah. I was having anger issues and a meltdown. I couldn't control them so I'm apologizing for the way I acted that time without thinking straight. It's not easy to be a CU artist because of what's happening and I admit it's not easy for me to be perfect like you guys wanted me to be. I tried everything yet you guys seem to judge and shove words in my damn throat.

About the allegations... the anons were also after one of my moots so I wanted to explain and debunk them. It's giving me a headache and overwhelming the living shit out of me.

(BTW pls I do NOT encourage harassment or any sort of threats to anyone mentioned in this post)

The grooming: this allegation is false. I'm sick of seeing them throwing the allegations around like it was some sort of volleyball-type shit. (I'm A MINOR !!! Not a adult-)

The reason why they were spreading those is because of my grooming situation I had a few years ago when I had 9-11 (and UNSUPERVISED). It all started on amino and I met my groomer. (I'm calling them M cuz yea). M and I were close friends and we used to talk. My groomer was a Krupp x Melvin shipper, a pro-shipper obviously, they would force me to do NSFW roleplay and art based on their favorite ship. (Keep this in mind I was younger at that time and I never knew how to say no to them) and they even guilt-trip me and stuff just make me feel bad and well. They would often force me to ship them too...yikes...

One day we argued and their friends decided to cause drama in the group chat. They pointed fingers at me and called me a predator. Again I was 9. I wasn't aware of what proshipping is until age 12. A lot of shit happened. I got threats, harassment, etc. And at the age of 13-14 I was groomed by someone different um yayy...:/// I was never taught about the internet safety.

And that's where the "Natty is a groomer" bullshit came from :/

I'm 16 now and to this day I keep receiving those rape threats and stuff over my past and then seeing people spreading those is dumb. The anon even went to Linavloger's blog to send a rape threat and told her I was gonna groom her. This is fucking disrespectful. Lina is Younger than me, she's fucking 13. I find it disgusting that you guys choose to tell her that. It's gross for fuck's sake. What is your problem????? For the love of God stop spreading that allegation. Not only you are making me uncomfortable but also the others who were involved. Literally, stop.

My trauma is not for you to joke with it or use it as a shield. It's gross that people are making fun of me for that. No I mean yeah. My past wasn't great because I met people who already sexualized me too many times but it doesn't mean you have to bring it up and tell everyone about it. :"(

The sexualization: The anon mentioned that I sexualized Harold in one of my videos which is again funny yet bullshit because according to them it was because of a pride month pin and small accessories..

When I say pin i meant this- 😭

Like I'm so sorry but how is this sexualizing him? It's a Pride Month pin. A PIN. How the fuck can yall be this stupid. It was an old video and you took it so seriously????? Like what???? Have you read the 12th book??? There's no way you think it's sexualization when it's Harold with an MLM pin.

This also goes to the AGERE subject. I do NOT normalize nor promote ddlg. There's a difference between ddlg/ageplay and an ACTUAL coping mechanism and I'm tired of hearing this bullshit over again like stfu so uh.

Ddlg/ageplay is where random ass adults roleplay as children and do weird shit.

Agere on the other hand is where someone reverts to a young mindset to cope with trauma, stress, severe illness, or disorders. (Mainly a safe way to cope ofc)

These are the differences between them. You cannot just tell me it's the same shit dawg. 😭

The "ripping off" thingy: another thing that I wanna address is about the au :/

The anons that I dealt with were just infini-tree fans/supporters and tree house members. Well idk. They may sound like whiney little cunts but still-- my AU does NOT have any similarity with THAT. Why would I steal ideas from someone who BLOCKED me for no reason and sent her fans after me??? No really how? How can a blocked user steal ideas if they can't see, or interact with the post (like & reblog)? Be real y'all. You may seem ridiculous if you believed those anons cuz none of them didn't pull the evidence out of their ass. 💀

"You need to apologize to her" for what? Dawg I didn't do jack shit to her in the first place LMAO yeah like--- don't get me started on that bs again. I don't wanna hear her damn name, I don't wanna know anything about her aus and shiii-- or anything related to her in my inbox or dm. I do NOT wanna have anything to do with that individual. End of the story. Not trying to be harsh, rude, or anything but like. It's annoying. I don't like to be compared to anyone or deal with the same bullshit.

Mhm yea like man. Idk what else I need to debunk but pls don't believe those anons dawg.

You can't even ask for proof cuz they don't gave any 🥰🥰💀💀💀‼️‼️‼️😭😭😭 LOL IMAGINE FABRICATING ALLEGATIONS Y'ALL ARE SO DUMB 🗣‼️‼️‼️🔥🔥🔥

[compassionatereminders]

So, earlier I got into a fight with my sister. The details aren't important, but it was pretty bad.

Later, after we had both stormed off, she sends me a very, very long text. Talking about how much I hurt her. But also, she was making really, really cruel remarks comparing me to our abusive parents. I did fuck up and was an asshole during the argument, but I felt really really hurt that she thought I was as bad as them.

After I made my most genuine apology, because I did actually cause a genuine c-ptsd induced panic attack. I felt like absolute shit and still do. But I did hold onto some of the anger from her making those cruel remarks.

She rejected my apology, and sent another text talking about how she thought I was the only person she could trust, and that I had just completely shattered her perception of me and now she knows "[I'm] just like everyone else".

This is when I started to think: Hm. This doesn't feel like typical c-ptsd, I would know since we both had the same shit childhood.

I remember reading about BPD, so I look into it. I was already aware that "personality disorder = inherently abusive" is incredibly ableist and untrue, so I clicked away from anything that presented that narrative.

As for the rest? Oof, that sounds exactly like my sister. And then I remember my aunt has BPD.

I'm not one to armchair diagnose someone, even if it is the person I've practically been stuck to the hip with since her birth, and the only person she shares everything with, including confiding in me her intense fear of abandonment and other things that don't necessarily confirm BPD in a vacuum but are potentially indicative of it.

My point is: Although I think it's extremely likely I won't decide to prematurely label her as that until I have a long heart to heart with her about my concern and gently suggest she bring it up with her therapist (who has been good for her so far, thankfully!).

The other point I want to make is that... regardless of if she has it or not, I'm going to stick by her no matter what. She's been so deeply depressed and miserable for the last 6+ years and I felt like I had exhausted all ways I had previously learned about mental illnesses to support her. Medication, therapy, lots of loving support from friends and family... nothing changed. And I began to suspect there's a root issue that we simply haven't uncovered.

If it is what I suspect it is, then I can learn how to properly support her. If it's not, I'll help her in her search for the root issue. I refuse to leave her side in this no matter what involuntarily cruel things she says, because I know it's not something she can control.

I don't want to become like my mom and aunt, who like my sister and I, once upon a time were best friends but now don't talk to each other because my aunt has... well, many of the exact same problems as my sister, and never managed to manage it, plus my mom not understanding her sister, now they're middle aged and are no contact.

I don't want to even think about a world where that happens to me and my sister. Things have been tense with us recently, more than usual. It scares me. She's my best friend. The person I trust most. I love her and want to see her happy.

Sorry this is so long. It's been an emotional night and I'm kinda stoned and I'm very tired which makes me rambly. What's the point of this all? IDK, I just had a lot of thoughts and needed an outlet in what I feel is a safe space to let out my thoughts. But, advice is also completely welcome

This is of course a nuanced and complicated situation where both of you are deeply traumatized regardless of exact diagnosis, which always makes relationships harder than they should be. And while it is great that you are mature enough to step back and apologize when you mess up in some capacity, this does not make it okay for her to throw endless accusations and blame in your direction. Because healing from trauma together is a two-way street, and if only one part is able to apologize and recognize mistakes, it won't work out. And it shouldn't honestly, because one thing is conflict, fuck ups and incidents, but a recurrent pattern of zero accountability is a whole other beast. Wanting to stick by her and figure this out with her even though it's a struggle is a valuable and very compassionate choice, and I really hope it works out - it just shouldn't come with zero conditions indefinitely. You get to expect growth and accountability too.

[butterfly-casket]

Sometimes breaking down and crying to your primary care physician....works

I was desperate for answers at the end of 2023. I mean, it's been 3 years and I still don't have answers. I had lost all hope, as I was gaining new symptoms, and still no one had any idea what could be wrong. Until I read about MS, and it fit nearly all of my symptoms. I scheduled the first appointment I could to discuss it with my primary. After scheduling it, I realized I had only scheduled a 20 min appointment, and spent 4 hours getting all of my symptoms typed out with dates of when they started, how long they lasted, when they got worse. I typed out a script to communicate to my doctor all of the most important/relevant information in the most condensed form possible. I was ready to be in and out, spend 5 minutes getting him the information, and the next 15 discussing with him the plan of action.

Instead, my doc was pissed that I was even there. I had only seen his NP up until this point and he was so upset that I, a person with so many issues, had come in to see him personally the Friday before his Christmas break. He made sure to spend the first 5 minutes of the appointment interrupting me to express his frustration, and I started to feel like he wasn't going to help me at all.

I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop myself as I started shaking out of fear, and then the anger-override kicked in. I whipped out my symptom list, and his demeanor immediately changed. I told him as calmly as I could in the moment "THAT is my symptom list. Are you just not going to help me?"

He started saying "Well its just that you're going to try and make this appointment take 3 hours—" I cut him off to say "No, I wanted to make this appointment 20 minutes but you just spent the first 5 putting your problems on me." *cues the flood gates* "I've had doctors, nurse practitioners, specialists all innaccurately record my symptoms, if they ever even recorded them at all. I have to walk with a cane, I haven't been able to work for a year and a half, I have NO income, I am just trying to survive and I've been dismissed and not believed over and over again, to the point that it's effected my medical records. It makes EVERYONE think I'm fucking INSANE. I just want some help. I just need some fucking help. I just need some fucking answers. Please."

He started getting in my chart and got to business. He immediately ordered about 8 retests and 6 new ones. He got me a referral to Neurology, ordered X-rays, a swallow test, and MRIs to check for MS.

I went to the Rheumatology appointment I already had scheduled a few weeks later. I felt like the doctor was actually listening to me for the first time in forever. He made a point to record every one of my symptoms as I listed them. He seemed to care. I just came back from my swallow test today. The person performing the test acted like he read through my whole chart and was asking me a lot of questions about my other issues. He asked me if I had the MRIs yet before the test, and when going over the results he said "If it does turn out to be MS, come back to us. We will help you, figure out what works for you."

I've been terrified of being too direct with my doctors, I wouldn't even tell them the diagnosises that I thought it COULD be out of fear of them going "You've just been looking up things on the internet, I'm giving you a munchausens diagnosis." But I was desperate. It was a real cry for help. And thank fuck he saw that. Even if I still don't find answers, I've brought to their attention the mistreatment and carelessness I've been dealing with and they have decided to change that. Hopefully I will be treated like a normal human being and get my symptoms recorded correctly.

[shreddeddescent]

in terms of the vagueness of raph's specific sexual abuse, i think ive been a bit wishy washy on how i talk about it (as ive... changed my mind on the specifics as ive gotten into writing more bits, canon and drafts and whatever be damned, i think ive pieced it together)

lemme like write out the timeline for how i think it all went down

uh. warnings for... csa. obviously.

so to kind of cement it out, raph started being sexually abused by his father at 8 years old. he barely remembers it because his splintered personality shit started at 6, when his mother "died". im unsure on if raph is even the original personality. what makes more sense? that raph was being beaten by his father so he'd stop crying over his dead mother and invented a CHILD to take that abuse? or that he invented a new PARENTAL persona to deal with it after? im honestly NOT sure what the answer is. maybe its both, who fucking knows. HE sure wouldnt.

the abuse from his father is what kind of kept him in line, so to speak, but also caused so many of those anger issues he has. the issues he puts ELSEWHERE.... if he fucks up? hes punished. if his brothers fuck up? hes punished. he doesnt remember the punishment, but he knows to stay in line. hes a good little soldier. its not something that happened in front of his brothers, but it might have been loud enough they could hear... something. as little as they would understand.

when hes 12 they realize somethings different about him, because leos puberty has become more obvious than his. maybe he blames leo for his own problems ever being discovered. maybe thats why hes EXTRA mad about leos physical body.

(i also apologize for the way ive overly dramatized the sexual-dimorphism, its gotten a bit out of hand since the start but SHRUG it helps to show things over dramatically)

but when that part is realized, the sexual abuse under his father becomes different. thats when it's less about controlling him, and more about it being his purpose. doesnt happen in beds or in the dojo anymore, it happens in LABS after that, it happens to test him. to see if things will work. hes experimented on in terms of... being under a scope. having his body never feel like his own. hes sexually abused medically after that, if that makes sense. this builds up the phobia of labs and doctors and medical treatment.

and the reason the same kind of controlling sexual abuse never happened to leo is because of the part where he's already been disappointing enough, shredder knew that wouldnt fucking matter. there was never an idea in shredders mind that it would work, so he just takes worse beatings than raph did. and besides, shredder quickly realizes once he cant be used as a donor, leos the best option he has.

but shredder's lack of thinking of raph as a person causes him to say too much, thinking raph wouldnt fucking care what happened to him, let alone his brothers. so he tells raph that leo's going to take over for that. or he tells SOMEONE inside raph that that's what will happen.

but as soon as raph learns that part, its time to leave. hes okay enough to get them all out, okay enough to cope with the complete change in lifestyle, and then he starts to deteriorate.

his mother didnt help the situation, like she tried in her own way, but raphs shitty brain trying to process that the father he barely remembers raping him has also abused and beat and raped and tried to kill her? it makes him lock that shit up tighter. its not about him, in his eyes. to him? his mother saved him. shes the hero of his life. he had a bad parent, he has a good parent. she has to be just as good as he was evil. thats how he sees it.

to his brothers? raph saved them. theres this nice mom here, but... its been 6 years. they dont know the worst shit their dad did to her (cuz they shouldnt, theyre fucking children) but they know they had no adults for 6 fucking years of their childhood. so she does not get the hero treatment from them. which in turn, makes raph resent them.

raph processing all that with his fucked up brain turns him into a fucking maniac who puts all the blame on leo, despite none of it being leos fault. while his awake/most conscious brain has blocked out being raped and being told leo would rape him, he still has that fear and anger and resentment. he feels it, but so much of it goes into slash. and slash processes that shit worse. slash is ready to protect himself at all times, if slash sees leo make a face, leos getting hit. if leo pisses raph off too much, slash is coming out and leos getting hit. its bad. leo doesnt actually deserve any of that ire, he did nothing wrong, he just doesnt help the situation by being a traumatized kid who's only outlet is poking fun at his abusive older brother.

its great when casey comes along, because its a new outlet for raph, hes so much less angry because hes out of the house, hes away from his family, hes letting out years of pent up rage and aggression, and hes in some kind of sexual situation that he actually wants to be in. so he's balancing himself out with her help. she is good for him.

so for about 2 years raph is just... avoidant. and no one minds, because hes better than he was. he still has moments of anger, but the hitting stops. he gets along with leo in so far as they can hang out in a group setting with their brothers. they absolutely both prefer the twins to each other, but theyre... okay. they all kind of know they're an abused family, no one really says it. who would want to? they kind of accept each others quirks, and its lucky theres no adult men in this house to set anyone off. literally no one in that house would be able to handle a man raising his voice.

and then raph remembers pieces. and then it all kind of... clicks into place. and then he realizes its not about leo at all, and he apologizes. and leo realizes why raph's been like that. and then they reconnect, and then theyre finally brothers. leos the only person (other than casey) that really knows about the sexual abuse at that point. so now raph has two people he trusts like that.

and thats kind of where we're at. thats the baseline for everything.

[rockofeye]

the hell is going on with these folks (and the cat accusation is downright insane): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvZTr3F_YZI

This is purposefully targeted hate speech and propaganda, and it is not new to the US political field. This is part of the racist Great Replacement conspiracy theory, and the same statements have historically been said about folks immigrating for Asian countries, from the Middle East, and even folks coming from Central and South America. I hope it's no longer a common thing said, but there were racist 'jokes' when I was young that if you went to a Chinese restaurant, you were getting cat for dinner.

These are tactics attempting to demonize an extremely vulnerable and marginalized community in the same manner that Jews and other 'undesirable' groups were demonized at the end of the Weimar Republic as the Third Reich rose in Germany. This is a tool of a political party that is trying to seize power by fearmongering, which requires a scapegoat to be successful. Recently arrived Haitians are that scapegoat, and it's dangerous.

That video is really sad, and it's a masterclass in how racism is both a class issue and is used as a tool to divide. The statements about how recently arrived folks supposedly get so much money for the government, but we can't...this is manipulating working class, blue collar workers, and folks living at or under the poverty line, and it is exactly the tactics used in the building of race and racism that the United States was founded on. Instead of white folks who fall into working class, blue collar, or poverty categories realizing that the government is the problem in that basic needs of every day persons are absolutely ignored under our so-called democracy, they are being told that it is the people who are leaving a literal war zone to try and stay alive who are the problem. At base, racism is capitalist divide-and-conquer; if working class/blue collar/poverty level white folks united with Black folks, immigrants, and those seeking asylum, this country would be on it's knees...but instead, capitalism has manipulated vulnerable citizens to believe that outsiders are the problem with claims that are absolutely out of hand

Some of this is lack of education and critical thinking skills; basic research can show people that what people claim as fact is not at all true. People who are arriving from the border or arriving via the Biden parole program are in the United States legally but honestly...who fucking cares? It is a factual inaccuracy to believe that individuals who are not citizens and/or have not passed the 5 year mark if they are legal permanent residents have access to federal benefits earmarked for citizens or folks with sufficient residency. They do not qualify for SNAP, most Medicaid, social security, federal financial aid, and on and on. When they work, they pay taxes but they do not reap the benefits--there are no tax refunds and they do not benefit from social security, which means even if they work for 30 years in the US on a work permit, they can never access social security retirement benefits.

The rest is political strategy, wag-the-dog style. This bluster distracts from the fact that the Republican candidate is a fucking lunatic who cannot string together a single coherent thought and who is able to be provoked to anger with a single side eye. This is a distraction to remove pressure and attention.

Moreover, if it was true that recently arrived Haitians were left to steal domestic pets or wild living birds to survive, the shame is on our hands, as US citizens, for allowing people to starve when there is so much food available. How would a country with one of the highest GDPs allow people fleeing terror to be reduced to stealing pets to eat? That would be disgusting and a terrible indictment of who we are as a country, not that many of us don't already see it.

The other statements about Haitians being filthy etc are just poorly informed or purposefully aimed to be harmful. Anyone who has lived with or around Haitians in any significant way knows how a Haitian home is kept. Anyone who has spent any significant time with Haitians understands how, even if someone is living in poverty with nothing, there is still pride in themselves and how they live...and that is a huge reason, all other things aside, why folks are not out stealing Fluffy to have dinner. Those things are without pride, and folks would rather starve.

There is also the purposeful misunderstanding of how immigrants acclimate to a new place. Folks coming here from the border or via the Biden program are on pins and needles because they know their situation is wobbly, and they are smart. No one is going to be knowingly acting in a way that is going to upset where they live or who they live around, and Haitian culture contains nothing that would be super out of the ordinary in the US.

I am glad the reporter spoke to local Haitians and made the effort to get accurate translations of what folks were saying. How some questions were answered gives a clear picture to folks who know that they know they are under a microscope, both in the US and with the situation in Haiti; did you catch how, when questioned about gangs and violence, the one guy knew nothing about nobody? That's not accidental.

This will also target Vodou and Haitian vodouizan as well. I have already seen commentary on social media about how Haitians who are eating all these animals--dogs, cats, ducks, rats, etc--and doing 'rituals' with the remains. This is a dangerous and slippery slope, particularly if the party supporting these statements retakes the White House.

So...pay attention. This is a masterclass in the deployment of classism and racism to create distractions ahead of an election that feels very important to many people. Don't let them control your attention.