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mostlysignssomeportents · 29 days ago

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The US Copyright Office frees the McFlurry

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

I have spent a quarter century obsessed with the weirdest corner of the weirdest section of the worst internet law on the US statute books: Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, the 1998 law that makes it a felony to help someone change how their own computer works so it serves them, rather than a distant corporation.

Under DMCA 1201, giving someone a tool to "bypass an access control for a copyrighted work" is a felony punishable by a 5-year prison sentence and a $500k fine – for a first offense. This law can refer to access controls for traditional copyrighted works, like movies. Under DMCA 1201, if you help someone with photosensitive epilepsy add a plug-in to the Netflix player in their browser that blocks strobing pictures that can trigger seizures, you're a felon:

https://lists.w3.org/Archives/Public/public-html-media/2017Jul/0005.html

But software is a copyrighted work, and everything from printer cartridges to car-engine parts have software in them. If the manufacturer puts an "access control" on that software, they can send their customers (and competitors) to prison for passing around tools to help them fix their cars or use third-party ink.

Now, even though the DMCA is a copyright law (that's what the "C" in DMCA stands for, after all); and even though blocking video strobes, using third party ink, and fixing your car are not copyright violations, the DMCA can still send you to prison, for a long-ass time for doing these things, provided the manufacturer designs their product so that using it the way that suits you best involves getting around an "access control."

As you might expect, this is quite a tempting proposition for any manufacturer hoping to enshittify their products, because they know you can't legally disenshittify them. These access controls have metastasized into every kind of device imaginable.

Garage-door openers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/09/lead-me-not-into-temptation/#chamberlain

Refrigerators:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/12/digital-feudalism/#filtergate

Dishwashers:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/03/cassette-rewinder/#disher-bob

Treadmills:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/22/vapescreen/#jane-get-me-off-this-crazy-thing

Tractors:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#deere-john

Cars:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

Printers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/07/inky-wretches/#epson-salty

And even printer paper:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/16/unauthorized-paper/#dymo-550

DMCA 1201 is the brainchild of Bruce Lehmann, Bill Clinton's Copyright Czar, who was repeatedly warned that cancerous proliferation this was the foreseeable, inevitable outcome of his pet policy. As a sop to his critics, Lehman added a largely ornamental safety valve to his law, ordering the US Copyright Office to invite submissions every three years petitioning for "use exemptions" to the blanket ban on circumventing access-controls.

I call this "ornamental" because if the Copyright Office thinks that, say, it should be legal for you to bypass an access control to use third-party ink in your printer, or a third-party app store in your phone, all they can do under DMCA 1201 is grant you the right to use a circumvention tool. But they can't give you the right to acquire that tool.

I know that sounds confusing, but that's only because it's very, very stupid. How stupid? Well, in 2001, the US Trade Representative arm-twisted the EU into adopting its own version of this law (Article 6 of the EUCD), and in 2003, Norway added the law to its lawbooks. On the eve of that addition, I traveled to Oslo to debate the minister involved:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/28/clintons-ghost/#felony-contempt-of-business-model

The minister praised his law, explaining that it gave blind people the right to bypass access controls on ebooks so that they could feed them to screen readers, Braille printers, and other assistive tools. OK, I said, but how do they get the software that jailbreaks their ebooks so they can make use of this exemption? Am I allowed to give them that tool?

No, the minister said, you're not allowed to do that, that would be a crime.

Is the Norwegian government allowed to give them that tool? No. How about a blind rights advocacy group? No, not them either. A university computer science department? Nope. A commercial vendor? Certainly not.

No, the minister explained, under his law, a blind person would be expected to personally reverse engineer a program like Adobe E-Reader, in hopes of discovering a defect that they could exploit by writing a program to extract the ebook text.

Oh, I said. But if a blind person did manage to do this, could they supply that tool to other blind people?

Well, no, the minister said. Each and every blind person must personally – without any help from anyone else – figure out how to reverse-engineer the ebook program, and then individually author their own alternative reader program that worked with the text of their ebooks.

That is what is meant by a use exemption without a tools exemption. It's useless. A sick joke, even.

The US Copyright Office has been valiantly holding exemptions proceedings every three years since the start of this century, and they've granted many sensible exemptions, including ones to benefit people with disabilities, or to let you jailbreak your phone, or let media professors extract video clips from DVDs, and so on. Tens of thousands of person-hours have been flushed into this pointless exercise, generating a long list of things you are now technically allowed to do, but only if you are a reverse-engineering specialist type of computer programmer who can manage the process from beginning to end in total isolation and secrecy.

But there is one kind of use exception the Copyright Office can grant that is potentially game-changing: an exemption for decoding diagnostic codes.

You see, DMCA 1201 has been a critical weapon for the corporate anti-repair movement. By scrambling error codes in cars, tractors, appliances, insulin pumps, phones and other devices, manufacturers can wage war on independent repair, depriving third-party technicians of the diagnostic information they need to figure out how to fix your stuff and keep it going.

This is bad enough in normal times, but during the acute phase of the covid pandemic, hospitals found themselves unable to maintain their ventilators because of access controls. Nearly all ventilators come from a single med-tech monopolist, Medtronic, which charges hospitals hundreds of dollars to dispatch their own repair technicians to fix its products. But when covid ended nearly all travel, Medtronic could no longer provide on-site calls. Thankfully, an anonymous hacker started building homemade (illegal) circumvention devices to let hospital technicians fix the ventilators themselves, improvising housings for them from old clock radios, guitar pedals and whatever else was to hand, then mailing them anonymously to hospitals:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/10/flintstone-delano-roosevelt/#medtronic-again

Once a manufacturer monopolizes repair in this way, they can force you to use their official service depots, charging you as much as they'd like; requiring you to use their official, expensive replacement parts; and dictating when your gadget is "too broken to fix," forcing you to buy a new one. That's bad enough when we're talking about refusing to fix a phone so you buy a new one – but imagine having a spinal injury and relying on a $100,000 exoskeleton to get from place to place and prevent muscle wasting, clots, and other immobility-related conditions, only to have the manufacturer decide that the gadget is too old to fix and refusing to give you the technical assistance to replace a watch battery so that you can get around again:

https://www.theverge.com/2024/9/26/24255074/former-jockey-michael-straight-exoskeleton-repair-battery

When the US Copyright Office grants a use exemption for extracting diagnostic codes from a busted device, they empower repair advocates to put that gadget up on a workbench and torture it into giving up those codes. The codes can then be integrated into an unofficial diagnostic tool, one that can make sense of the scrambled, obfuscated error codes that a device sends when it breaks – without having to unscramble them. In other words, only the company that makes the diagnostic tool has to bypass an access control, but the people who use that tool later do not violate DMCA 1201.

This is all relevant this month because the US Copyright Office just released the latest batch of 1201 exemptions, and among them is the right to circumvent access controls "allowing for repair of retail-level food preparation equipment":

https://publicknowledge.org/public-knowledge-ifixit-free-the-mcflurry-win-copyright-office-dmca-exemption-for-ice-cream-machines/

While this covers all kinds of food prep gear, the exemption request – filed by Public Knowledge and Ifixit – was inspired by the bizarre war over the tragically fragile McFlurry machine. These machines – which extrude soft-serve frozen desserts – are notoriously failure-prone, with 5-16% of them broken at any given time. Taylor, the giant kitchen tech company that makes the machines, charges franchisees a fortune to repair them, producing a steady stream of profits for the company.

This sleazy business prompted some ice-cream hackers to found a startup called Kytch, a high-powered automation and diagnostic tool that was hugely popular with McDonald's franchisees (the gadget was partially designed by the legendary hardware hacker Andrew "bunnie" Huang!).

In response, Taylor played dirty, making a less-capable clone of the Kytch, trying to buy Kytch out, and teaming up with McDonald's corporate to bombard franchisees with legal scare-stories about the dangers of using a Kytch to keep their soft-serve flowing, thanks to DMCA 1201:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cold-war

Kytch isn't the only beneficiary of the new exemption: all kinds of industrial kitchen equipment is covered. In upholding the Right to Repair, the Copyright Office overruled objections of some of its closest historical allies, the Entertainment Software Association, Motion Picture Association, and Recording Industry Association of America, who all sided with Taylor and McDonald's and opposed the exemption:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/10/us-copyright-office-frees-the-mcflurry-allowing-repair-of-ice-cream-machines/

This is literally the only useful kind of DMCA 1201 exemption the Copyright Office can grant, and the fact that they granted it (along with a similar exemption for medical devices) is a welcome bright spot. But make no mistake, the fact that we finally found a narrow way in which DMCA 1201 can be made slightly less stupid does not redeem this outrageous law. It should still be repealed and condemned to the scrapheap of history.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/28/mcbroken/#my-milkshake-brings-all-the-lawyers-to-the-yard

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

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thatfrailsoul · 13 days ago

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– If you love me, then love me from the heart

tarot pick a pile reading ( → 1, 2, 3 )

pictures from pinterest → one, two, three

Slow down for a moment. Give your conscious mind a moment of rest, allow it to step back. Instead, listen to your subconscious mind, to that inner voice, to the intuition that is guiding you to the pile in which your message hides. A message about the love that your heart is longing for. The one that you are hoping to find…

This is our third reading from our divinatory jukebox, inspired by possibly one of the most beautiful songs that I've ever heard - "Yağmur Yağar Taş Üstüne" by Mustafa Güzel and Batuhan Fırat (feat. Belkıs Güzel). I'm so deeply grateful for the person that suggested this song and gave us the possibility not only to discover it, but also to have such a deep and tender message through this reading. It is difficult to find the correct translation for this song, but I strongly encourage you to listen and read it, as it is simply magical in the softest way. I will leave you the links that were recommended to me here, in case you would like to listen to it. And if you would like to see a pick a pile reading inspired by your favourite song, you can discover more about how to participate here↓♡!

♪♡♪ Divinatory Jukebox ♪♡♪

P.s. This is my first attempt at a longer reading, so if you feel comfortable please let me know in the comments what you think of it! If you prefer the shorter ones, if there is any aspect of the reading that makes it difficult for you to read it, or in case you will take a look at the extended version of this reading, if you would prefer to have something more specific in the additional messages of our readings - I will cherish your opinion and use it to get better with each post!♡

– Pile One,

{ The love that you are longing for }

the magician, the seven of swords, the page of coins

Love… you so often consider it just a feeling. A feeling that after all these years alive you still can really connect only to your own self. To you who seems to be the only one to feel it. To give it. While all that others do is receive it from you. Giving you back some gratitude perhaps, but never something that feels like what you gave them. Nothing that really fills in that part of you that was emptied for them… Making you really wonder if perhaps you got it wrong for all this time, if what you considered love never was it. If you imagined and expected it to be more, made it be more. Giving others much more than any person could ever give you in return, more than you ever should've done…

All that attention, that care, that genuine dedication that you put in, time after time, for every soul that was close, going out of your way to be there, right by their side for whatever might come… But still standing alone when facing your hardships, your difficult moments. Only you on the first line, out there in the cold, just you against this world… You genuinely never thought that this is what love would be. You expected something different from what you always received from others before. A complete opposite of having to do everything on your own, of that fear of what will happen to you if one day things in your life won't work anymore. You thought that it should be different from that because you know for sure that all those years of struggle alone never had even a bit of love in them, not from the people that were all that time around and close to you, but never did anything to help you, apart from telling you that this is how it works and that you should grow and take care of yourself on your own.

You alway imagined it, in those dark and painful nights, a hug, a caressing hand, a soft voice that assures you that everything will be okay, that it won't be forever this way, that you are not alone but you will always have them… So you did your best to be deserving, manifesting those tender and loving ways through your own self. Through the way you looked after others, the way you cared for them. Not only knowing that this is the right way to treat others, the way you genuinely want to be, but that it will be also worth it, that you will one day feel the love you gave, through others that will do the same… But it never came. You never saw your reflection in them, you never saw that part of your heart that you gave away being nourished and taken care of… it was always mostly just appreciated in the moment. And forgotten. Or worst, taken advantage of by expecting or asking more. So after all these tears, all the days dedicated to others instead of yourself, all your prayers for help and support, just a little comfort, that you never received because they are too busy to take a moment to give you back that love that you never declined them…. You started to think that you are in the wrong. That the love you always waited for is just a dream that the real concept of love can’t live up to. No matter how much you can look for it or want it. It is simply not something possible. And you are asking for too much.

{ What this is all for }

the judgement, the ace of swords, the lovers

This world, this life in general… has a really unique way of helping us to learn, of guiding us in or through the right direction and path, of letting us know that everything will be alright… Their language is so different from ours that we really struggle to understand it, those words that come in the form of pure feelings directly from within us. The ones that we should trust the most but never do so. Especially when it comes to love, something that we so much idealise, something that we have so much desire for.

Your heart is so sincerely tired, it went through so many betrayals and wounds inflicted by those that you tried to love. To the point that it simply feels that heaviness, that weight of this experience that you never really wanted to begin with. So you feel like you are ready for something else, for that love that you did all of this for, if it even exists at all. But are you really sure of it..? Of knowing so well the person that you would like to have by your side each day, their character, their behaviour, their values? Are you sure that you really did look for them and not just anyone who seemed to be able to love? Are you sure that you really know your worth and the one of your love, how one must love you in order to really give you all that your heart needs and wants? Or did you think that you knew it before, and now you are settling for much less than you are deserving of, because of the overwhelming loneliness and fear that it will be this way for the rest of your days unless you accept whatever one gives you in return? Are you sure that you are remaining loyal to your own self and your soul, instead of trying to “sell” it to whoever is close and good enough?

Because, even though perhaps you are not doing it consciously, but you are changing. Little by little. Not in terms of who you are, but in the ones of who you allow others to consider you. Leaving it up to them to decide how much you deserve, what is the worth of your love and care that you give them after letting them in, where only the most sincere, genuine and trustworthy should belong. You just give them your all. Every single time. Without any limit or hesitation. Not even when all that you receive is another rude phrase, some judgement, coldness and distance once they got up and healed thanks to your love. You just do it. For everyone. Not choosing carefully, but treating every soul as the right one. And not in a good sense. Instead, you are not listening anymore to your own intuition or feelings, not trusting your own mind that recognises the things that are too off. You are just rushing in this hunt for “the one” as the time passes and you feel more and more scared and alone. You are throwing yourself at every possible connection, all in, wandering each time that it goes wrong what you did too little or too much of. And not realising anymore that it is not about how you love, if it is in the right way or the wrong one… But rather who you choose, even force yourself, to love. And how they are simply not the right one, no matter how much you sacrifice of your own values and preferences, just to make them fit in the place that it is not theirs to hold.

All these bad endings, failures, mistakes that you consider yours to be responsible for… Are just a natural consequence of you settling for less than you really desire and need in order to feel loved. All that sadness, that loneliness… are only your subconscious, your own heart that you willingly ignored at first, but that after some time managed to be heard by you, letting you know that the way you are treated, the crumbs that you accept, will never truly be enough.

Those endings, those coincidences that are never in your favour, those interferences in your connections from the outside world… are just its efforts to protect you and communicate with you, trying to show you that refusing your own standards is not what can help you find them, that right person that you can truly feel safe and understood with… Adapting to another person and changing, it is not what will make them love you like you want. It will only keep you stuck in a play pretend. Put you in situations and relationships that you won’t feel appreciated and cherished in. It will consume you from inside out, slowly but surely, just because that one time you believed more others, than your own self that always knew what was best and right for you, what you really wanted to feel and who you wanted to have with you…

The time already passed, you already got through so much. You can’t do anything about it, and it is alright. But you can do yourself a favour and listen again to your own heart, before following that overwhelming fear and anxiety of being left alone in the cold and the dark. Your heart, your love, they are unique. But not at all the only ones. There is a soul, out there, that is your perfect reflection, someone who resonates so much with your ways of feeling love. And you can and will find them. The moment you stop seeing all that happened and you went through as the mistakes you made, ways that you can be better by being more or less… And start to see them as simply were and when the things didn't feel right for your heart, for who you are. Because those things that you felt the lack of, or perhaps as though it is just too much, are the ones that you need to hold onto, to look for in others. Instead of ignoring them, just so you can fit in the perfect version of love of someone and they can accept you, even though you are not theirs to love…

Although it seems so easy to do through words… We know too well that sometimes it is not enough to just choose to listen to our heart more. It is not always enough when we, in a certain way, forget its language, when we are not able anymore to comprehend it and separate it from the voice of our mind that we learned to follow… For this reason, there is an additional message for you, if you want to, in our extended version of this reading. What you need to know and remember as you continue on this journey, in this search of the right person for you, but also of the confidence and trust in your own heart, that will be the things that will change everything about the situation in which you are now.♡↓

{ a little message for you }

—

– Pile Two,

{ The love that you are longing for }

the wheel of fortune, the sun, the devil

It happened so many times… So often you felt overwhelmed, completely overtaken, by the life of someone you loved… Their problems, their difficulties, their fears that became yours. Yours to resolve, yours to take care of, yours to endure, even though you never could really influence them, not the things that depended on their actions, their decisions. Not when it was something that was purely theirs to create, destroy and live… It happened so many times, truly. You felt so often the urge to be there for someone, just because you knew them, just because you saw their struggle and couldn't help but to try to save them. Because this is what everyone deserves, yes… But with those that had a special place in your heart, those that you felt so close to you, so needed as the air you breathe, there never was a chance for you to say no. Not when your heart so ardently fought for them each day, no matter if it was your battle, your victory to take or not.

One by one they took a part of your life from you, gladly accepting your love, your support and help. And leaving it all to you, to your heart and mind that never were supposed to live so many lives, go through so many situations and emotions, bear so many consequences that were coming from actions that simply weren't yours. And they took it from you. That time and energy, the courage and strength that otherwise would have gone to you, to your own healing, growth and protection. They took it all from you and, worst of all, they were able to do so thanks to you. You who gave it to them, all that you had, in the name of the love that you felt. You that not even once regretted it. Not in the moment at least…

They took so much from you, making you get used to it, to have so little, to give away so much… That now, for once, you want to find someone different. Someone who will not take advantage of your heart. Someone who will understand that, no matter how much you want and try, it is not the right thing to leave it all up to you, to handle their life… Someone who, for once, just knows more, knows better. Someone who can teach you, gently, softly, as they protect you from your own self, from your own urge to disintegrate yourself for the happiness and safety of someone else.

For once… you want to be overwhelmed by someone's joy, their hope, their desire to be here and to live this life. Their strength to choose to see the best aspects of the things. Their strength to be patient, to have faith, to believe that everything will work out in the end. For once you want to receive that strength, not to give it away. For once you want to be protected, guided, as you trust someone who doesn't expect you to lead the way out of the darkness of their days…

It might sound selfish to some, so entitled to look for someone who has it all figured out, who has better and more control of their life… But you are simply tired. And a little lost, if one can say the truth. Tired of figuring everything out constantly, keeping others above the water, as they push you down, never thinking of the air they are taking away from you. It’s not about an easier life, about receiving constant help or guidance, leaving it up to others to make the choice for you… It is about just wanting to have something that is left for your own self too. A little time, a little love, that you can give yourself without being afraid that in the meantime someone would get upset or hurt. You just want to be able to take care of yourself too, not only of those that you love, of your connections, of your situations, that seem to be destroyed each moment you are not looking after them. You just want to have someone that is by your side, living their life, instead of living yours that becomes so scarily about them, their necessities, their dreams, their worry and losses. You just want someone to learn from, or together, how to live this life in the most right and healthy, loving way. Not to teach it. While you yourself don't have any idea of how you are still here, how you made it until now every day.

{ Will you ever find someone like them }

the justice, the eight of wands, the queen of wands

This new and almost desperate desire in your heart now, might feel a lot like frustration, the last realisation of how things should've been when everything already happened, when it is too late to change them… But instead of a tragic end, it is more of a hopeful and promising beginning. The one that you are creating with your each thought, with each moment of understanding of what it is that you really want to feel, when sharing your love. The taste of it, the feeling, the emotions it can give you. With each found answer in your heart you are changing your life, much more than you expect now. Because it really is all about your choices. Your decision of who you will be accepting into your life from now on.

There is a part of you that is growing, getting stronger, preparing to be vigilant and serious about its duty: the one to protect your heart. One little thought created by the tiredness, the sadness of all that you endured… was enough to move the waves of the whole world, of the reality around you. Of who will be brought right to you, and who will be pulled back, not being the right ones. Changing your connections one step, one person at a time. Giving you back the right to decide for yourself, making you remember that you can in fact do it, you can choose the ones dear to your heart.

And it won’t be delusion, entitlement, selfishness, or any sort of limit that you will put on your heart… It will be just you, all grown up, who will now know that it is okay to not take it all on yourself, whatever and whoever comes, because of the fear of what not doing it will cause. It will be your understanding that people can and will make it through on their own, even if they are so afraid or feel incapable of facing their life right now. And it will be also your acceptance that not every story you hear is yours to live, to feel, to make sure it has a good ending. Not everyone is yours to protect and help. Not everyone has the right to come before your own self.

It might be a change that will take its time to settle in, especially in your heart that is just so full of love. Love that you didn't give yourself for so long, pouring it all in the needing hands of those by your side. But it will happen. It will feel safe and right, to allow yourself to choose how much the realities of others influence your life. And as you will go through it, as you will seek that courage and strength… It will be enough to remember that everything will be okay. Even in those moments of uncertainty, it will be enough to hold on tight to the message that we will receive, if you want to, in the extended version of this reading. A message about how you can and will change your life.♡↓

{ a little message for you }

—

– Pile Three,

{ The love that you are longing for }

the ten of wands, the star, the death

It is so difficult to need to explain yourself, your actions, your urges, your reactions. It is tiring to open up your mind and your heart sharing them with others, again and again. Just for them to not understand it, to not pay the slightest of attention, to not take it seriously, all those things that are still consuming your soul… It just feels so useless to go through it, to come out of your comfort zone so hopeful that they would be that right person… only to see them walk away, who scared, who uncomfortable, who deluded or bored. Leaving you feeling like a poor seller who is unable to demonstrate the worth of your broken, lived, soul. When you don't even want to do it in the first place. When it is so ridiculous that you need constantly and so fiercely to defend or explain your wounds, as if they didn't already hurt enough.

It just consumes you. Consumes your every desire to go out there, interact and try to connect with people, creating with such dedication a relationship that - you know it too well - will just be destroyed. By your own past, your own frail soul that is too difficult for others to manage, to use or control. Too delicate to do anything with it without hurting it more.

Deep down you know that not every single person you met was truly so evil at their core. But it still hurts you like hell, being rejected, just put aside, simply because of the way you feel so strongly and deeply every detail about this world. Just because you have more depth to your feelings, more power to the emotions that simply overwhelm you, good or bad, every single bit of them that fills you whole. And that you welcome and feel completely, still remembering how cold and dark it was when there weren't any emotions in you at all.

It just would've been much easier, for once, to not have the need to defend yourself, the way you became. If for once the one in front of you focused on who you are now, and not on who you were or who you could become if only you suppress your soul. Because you changed, yes, and it might be sad to not have that spark that others adored so much about you anymore. But the you who survived still and always deserves the same admiration and love, perhaps even more, after all that you were able to endure. This you who is so different is still you. The you who gave you the strength and courage to face it all. The you who shouldn't at all be forced to explain yourself to those that can't even do one thing: just listen to you, hear you truly, at least for once.

Because it is not so difficult, in the end, to just accept someone and love them for the way they are, without any if or but. You know it well, because you always did it and always do with everyone that is close to you. But while they can be themselves, knowing that they will be truly safe with you, their every wound that will be taken care of without any judgement or expectation to receive something in return… You are always asked to be less or more. To hide your pain, to be more joyful. To not react too much to the things that hurt you. To, instead, be more understanding and patient, accepting, of the ways of others. Even though they never tolerate yours.

So you remain here, among so many of them but still feeling so lonely, so trapped, exactly like it used to feel before. You still are being hurt, even though you had so much courage in not hiding yourself, your scars. Even though you learned to have the needed strength to stand your ground when others didn't see that they were stepping on your heart… And you still hope. That one day, somewhere and someone, for once will just feel drawn to you. Not a memory of you or your potential change. Just someone who, for once, is gentle and kind in their ways. Not because you asked them to, not because they were forced by your tears… But just because they are connected enough to their own heart. Enough to recognise the painfully familiar stories behind your tired and scared eyes. Just one person, just one single time would be enough. Just one single moment in which you would feel loved and cherished the way you are, even with all those fears and doubts that everyone has always something to say about. Just one true and genuine connection. One single chance for your heart to find again the hope that you, exactly the way you are now after all your battles, not less not more, will be enough.

{ You are not in the wrong }

the page of coins, the strength, the six of cups

Finally standing up for yourself, taking your defence, pushing back those that don't make you anymore feel safe… it took a lot of courage, especially when every decision that was already hard enough was also met with judgement, with pure rage, just because for once you weren't ready to be there for someone else. But while you thought that the worst part will be this, finding the strength to prioritise yourself, the most difficult part revealed itself to be resisting the urge to take all your words back, bowing your head, surrendering to discourses of others about how you shouldn't ever do that again, and coming back to your old and consumed self, asking it to endure it once again. But this time with the full awareness of how it is wrong, to give away so much of you, remaining with so little that it is never enough to take care of your own heart and mind…

You are resisting it now with all your strength, but the single thought that they might be right, that you are indeed acting too selfishly, is already enough to shake you to your core, to fill you with the pure terror that you might be becoming one of those that hurt you, coming down to their level without realising what you've done.

But you are not. I promise you. There is nothing wrong in putting yourself first for once. There are no mistakes when you are acting from your heart, from the pure desire to protect yourself now that you are realising that it all just has been too much. You are not the villain here, even if perhaps there isn't one among them either. There is no evil in knowing what you deserve and want, and not accepting nothing less from others, even if they so perfectly mask it with words like “It is the way I love”, “This is the best for you, the best you can ever find or hope for”...

You’ve endured a lot, so much that it is truly non conceivable and admissible that someone belittles it. That someone doesn't give it the importance and incredibly powerful and heart wrenching meaning that you surviving all of that holds. Don't stop for them, for their fears that you will change. Because it has already happened, in the good and in the bad. And if someone can't accept and respect the new you, if they, even in the name of their love, can't accept you… then it is okay. There will be someone else. Someone else who will meet you, get to know you, and learn to appreciate and cherish you for the way you are now, not a memory of who you were.

It might be sad to let go of some people, to lose some connections. It might be frustrating to see their absolute conviction that you are the one in the wrong… But you are tired now, you feel weak after needing to fight against them again and again just to protect yourself… so don't waste your last remaining energy on them, on proving them wrong when they already ended this story as it is more convenient for them in their head. Let them go. Let them be. Not to allow them to think that they are right. But for your own self and to give you that space and time to rest and recover, to take care of yourself.

This world is vast, there are so many of us. Remaining now for a moment alone… doesn't at all condemn you to have all the days of your life lonely and cold. It is just a phase, just a precious moment that will sign a new step in your growth, in how much you consider your own worth and protect yourself at all costs. People come and go. Some are good and some are not. But you are unique, you are the only one you have, the most important person that you need to love and take care of. Even if it means to not accept the love of others, simply because it is so different from what you are longing for. Even if it means to reject the company that you so much want, because they never offer it genuinely but only when it is so convenient and needed for them.

Times will change, you'll start new journeys, go through different paths that will align with others, new and completely different persons. And you'll create new connections, better ones. Better because of the ways and motives of those that will come closer. Better because you will be much more rested, healed and confident after this focus on yourself and this pause. Better because there won't be any play pretend, endurance or feelings that will be ignored. It will be better. Simply because you will learn from your mistakes, you will grow. And so will those that you will let go of, but not at your own expense and endurance of the way your heart hurts for them. Because they might not realise it now, they might be so convinced that you are the one hurting them… but you are making the best decision not only for your own self, but even for them. You are giving all of you a new chance. A chance that you for sure will take and use it to nourish a new beginning in your life, new connections that will love you, cherish you, protect you at all costs. Exactly like it should be between truly loving souls.

And if it feels still a little too overwhelming, a little too scary and unsure, the decision to put yourself first… There is a little message about the future, at what it holds, in our extended version of this reading, right here, if you want or feel the need to hear more.♡↓

{ a little message for you }

—

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moondirti · 1 year ago

Text

DOUBLE RAPTURE

MIGUEL O'HARA x F!READER x ALT! MIGUEL

「 Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other repeatedly. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge.

And tonight – stuck between two men who don’t look, but are, each other – nothing can tamp your flame. 」

summary: after apprehending an anomaly who turns out to be an alternate version of your husband, you indulge in your filthiest fantasy.

explicit (18+) | 6.3k words | part two warnings: pure smut, pwp, THREESOME, cunnilingus, squirting, throat-fucking, blowjobs, unprotected p-in-v, anal, double penetration, tummy/throat bulge, younger miguel is submissive, spitting, cum swallowing, hair pulling, mild degradation, possessiveness, tooth-rotting fluff, every kink under the moon tbh

In truth, it comes naturally.

Your Miguel – older, blunt around once serrated edges, wisps of grey streaking dark tresses – sits to the side. He fosters a tumbler in one grip, half-full with amber liquid. Scotch whiskey, neat; you’d poured the drink to give yourself something to do while waiting. It’ll help, you insisted. An outlet to sip on, or a loud-enough warning when set on the adjacent tea table.

Now, you see that it was more for your sake than his.

He’s entirely collected for someone watching another man’s hands run along his wife’s body. They pushed your shirt off a while ago, hurried to behold your covered form. You’re laying in your bra, breasts heaving while kisses trail down your stomach, nipping the sensitive skin there – and still, all you can focus on is him. Your Miguel, scrutinising the rush the man is in with disapproval glimmering on carmine eyes. If this whole thing hadn’t been his suggestion, you would’ve sworn the look was meant to kill.

Because he likes to take his time with you. It hasn’t always been that way. Ages ago, following your premiere date, you fucked for the first time in a motel he rented, both your apartments’ farther than he would’ve liked to drive. But, again, he’s older now. Seasoned. There’s a heavy ring decorating your finger that winks reassuringly at him, three carats for the three year anniversary he proposed on. It amplifies the truth each hour you wear it – he is yours, you are his, and you’ve all the time in the world to do with each other as you please.

Your third for the night is unfamiliar with the dynamic.

(Though of course, it makes sense for him to be.)

You have to remind yourself of the fluid lines that mark each component of this little fantasy. They waver and wobble, bleeding into one another sometimes like wet ink on parchment. It’s hard to decipher the words they spell out when trapped in thick, indulgent lust – your legs spread to allow the man room as he moves down your body. But it’s even harder to ignore the way your skin burns with the intensity of your husband’s careful contemplation. It singes, redefining those exact perimeters for you:

One, and the most important given your suggestion, is that this will never leave your room. It’s not distrust that keeps it rigid – rather, a shared concern for the integrity of the multiverse. Your Miguel is all too aware of the dire consequences it could face should the rule be broken. You are too. It only narrows down to the partner occupying your bed and his naivete to it all.

Two; to use the safewords established beforehand. You’re infamous for losing yourself to pleasure, the habit bordering on a dangerous degree. It’s why Miguel is watching, to ensure things start correctly. He’s piqued and ready to stop it should the man not understand your limits.

(However unlikely. Currently, you’re the one establishing them.)

The third – the one you have a particularly complicated time grasping – is that ‘the man’ in question is no stranger at all. In fact, it’s instinct to touch him in the same way you’re used to, your mind adequately fooled everytime you look at him. A full head of brown hair – albeit, cropped shorter than your voyeur’s, a fade in at his ears. Young skin, which you strain to notice is devoid of the crows’ feet you adore. Yes, he’s smoother, like time had taken sandpaper to your model and buffed out all his worn edges, but he’s still…

Miguel.

(Though he urged you to call him Mig, entirely oblivious to the subtle cringe that’d crossed your husbands expression. That nickname is one you hardly resort to. He’s revealed a hatred for it.

Another cue, then, that they are not one in the same).

So, it comes naturally because you’ve spent so long in this exact space. Dusk flooding your home in plum hues, the colour of a berry ripe with rot. Overhead lights off, golden lamps projecting sensual shadows on white sheets. Your face warm with alcohol and your panties pushed to the side by a hero named O’Hara, whose palms are large and dry but a burning furnace on gooseflesh.

The younger one, Mig, is not yet a hardened vigilante. He’s new to the game – DNA spliced with spider essence only seven months ago. In that time, he worked out his own method of inter-dimensional travel, tortured genius that he is. Hopped between worlds until, eventually, he blipped on your radar. You’d been sent to process the anomaly whose personhood you were unaware of, only to come face to face with a twenty-something version of your beloved.

There’s no room for bias in the delicate scale of the universe. He’d found himself locked with other transgressors of his pedigree. Miguel – yours – was vehemently opposed to the notion of him joining spider society, uncomfortably affluent in his past recklessness. He knows, better than everyone else; it’s a security risk, letting in a spider-man so inexperienced.

You think that it’s projection. That, and a recognition of the way his mirror couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you.

(A flattering notion for all you refused to believe it. You’re about ten years his senior – surely, he’d have better prospects on his Earth. But you asked, perhaps to hearten any overprotectiveness that could manifest itself as risk.

Something wrong, Mig?

He only looked at you behind the red laser field entrapping him, a small smile on his face. No. Nothing. You’re just different back home.)

That was before. Before he embodied the exact enthusiasm Miguel had been afraid of, spearing your cunt with his tongue, his scalp no doubt aching under your relentless hold. He hums his encouragement despite it, begging you to direct him the way you please. At least he acknowledges his cluelessness – you can almost hear from the other side of the bedroom, acumen pulsing amidst heady air. Most men wouldn’t, their egos great fragile beasts. To have gotten around before might embellish their history with competent, but no one’s ever truly an expert on someone new.

Mig doesn’t pretend otherwise. He’s keen to learn.

That is the difference that encouraged this whole tryst.

“Unfurl your tongue, Mig. You’re focusing too much on– Oh.” Your hips buck, shoving closer to the mouth that does just as you say. He laps your heated core with spittle-drenched dexterity, combing between puffy lips. “That’s it. F-fuck… Just. Just don’t stop.”

The praise does well for him. He looks up at you, reverent – pupils not red, but black with the shadows his long lashes cast. You brush back locks that fall upon his forehead, affording him a better view of the effects he’s wrought. A thin layer of sweat clings to your flesh, gleaming with the fading sun outside. In your peripheral – framed gorgeously by the wall-wide window – it dips below the horizon, nebulous. Blurry on orange clouds.

Pinned under observation and a feverish assault, you feel much the same. Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other with novel speed. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge.

And tonight – bouncing between two men who don’t look like, but are, each other – the feeding of the flame goes untamed.

You find that’s the cause for it. There’s nothing to cling onto for purchase, the one anchor in this equation seated on his leather armchair, ankle on knee, content in watching you soar to uncharted skies on the chin of another. Your head flops uselessly to the side, scanning him once more.

There’s a tricky look to him, suspended on two lines of equal measure. You can tell he wants to join, to take control of the exploit and direct it how he sees fit. Perhaps it’s regret. Yet the pronounced mass in his trousers speaks to the contrary. Miguel palms it, testing his endurance by keeping his touch above cloth, rounding back once his heel presses its end. The sight catalyses your delirium; the knowledge that he, your dedicated husband, is tender with rushed blood and idle about it. Waiting for an opportune moment.

When you reach out an arm in his direction, you hope he takes it as one. Mig sucks your weeping cunt in a symphony of lewd noises, as though he’s trying to push the grace he’s been granting. Slurp. Tracing the perimeter of your slit, revelling in the way it clicks at his ministrations. Squelch. Nose driving into your clit, so hard you suspect he’s trying to bury himself there.

It only calls to your lips, how dry they feel. You’re parched of the one thing he chose to forgo, marking it as off-limits based on some arbitrary ideal. You don’t assume you understand it, instead wiggling your fingers – come here – at your husband. He skips over the grabby hands, devouring your bitten pout and droopy lashes, weighing them in his head.

“Mi vida.” You plea, voice pitched high and winded. The glass’s bottom glints with the last swill of his drink. He knocks it back before rising – sweeping towards you, tantalisingly slow.

Mig shoves your knees higher, practically folding you in half. Your hamstrings stretch with the motions, sending molten spasms to your core – that which he continues to eat out. He’s now doubtlessly coated with your juices, but he doesn’t relent, tracing messy patterns on the sweet spot he managed to pinpoint without your help. You’re reduced to a sore bruise, egged on with every poke and prod. Pleasure swells with blood, clogging burst capillaries. Delicate. Inflamed; deliciously so. You give him a validating pat on the head while a free hand wraps around your Miguel, ironing his waist as he ducks down to your lips.

All three of you are on the bed now. You can’t begin to process the depravity of it all, the way things suddenly become hot and bursting and real. No – you’re much too enthralled by the rough kiss you’re pulled into. It’s dominating and tastes like smoked oak. Honey and faint vanilla where his tongue traces your fauces. The flavours batters you into something vapid, stupid, until the older man has to cup the back of your neck to keep you from sinking.

Intoxicated – you thought you’d be familiar with it by now, how wholly he consumes you, but there’s a power imbued in his approach that has you struggling to keep up. It’s all you can do to keep moving your mouth against his, gathering the material of his shirt to pinion yourself.

He’s got a stubble that colours his jaw in grey, the stalks of it grazing your nose and flaying you raw. It leaves you feeling sunburnt, dazed yet still pushing forward, like the balm for relief can be found at the back of his throat. That’s something else, you note, flicking your observation over to the face between your thighs. Mig keeps himself clean shaven, a youthful shine to his complexion, no peppered hair to obstruct it. Without it, you can clearly see the way his high cheekbones curve inward, hollowing out as they lead down to a pronounced chin. Charming, especially as it shoves between the globes of your ass to make room for his continued efforts.

You’re close, so close. A dam about to burst with centuries worth of water and–

“Need help, corazón?” Miguel whispers, nudging your nose so you can look back at him. Your response comes in the form of a stuffy whimper, nodding minutely. What exactly he means by help, you’re not sure, but his double seems to understand, breaking the smallest bit away to whine a protest.

“That’s offens–”

“Get back to licking her cunt before I change my mind about you being here.” Your husband orders, glowering when the reprimand seems to create the opposite of its intended effect. Mig grins wickedly, a cocky aura about him as he obeys. Just as he’s about to make contact again, his gaze catches yours. The subsequent wink he gives is a warning – loud and bleary and smug – preparing you for when he dives back in with a vengeance, plunging into your hole with that cursed muscle that runs like velvet.

The air pinches from your lungs, squealing on its way out. Your toes curl and your muscles tense and then Miguel directs your face back down with thick fingers, steering you by your cheeks. Your lips pucker, mouth unhinging at the silent command the action echoes. Tongue flattening, you prepare yourself for the little dance you’ve trekked a hundred times before – thankful, in some part, that he’s doing it to ground you.

When he spits – hawking, a dense glob concentrated with scotch – onto an expectant palette, you suppress the devilish narrowing of your eyes. It’s almost habit to reflect his countenance, looking down with fondness and pride at the control you exhibit. Because you don’t swallow, not immediately. You wait for him to kiss you again, to gather the slaver and push it behind your molars with reinforced passion. And he does. Of course he does – that and so much more as he places claim to the hole that is solely his for tonight. You hardly notice when his clutch leaves you, skimming down to unclasp your bra.

Not when your breasts jerk free, nipples pocking at the shift in temperature.

Not as he squeezes each, tugging at their peaks until they’re fully erect.

Or even while he tickles the line of your abdomen, following the same path his counterpart did, smoothing over aggressive bite marks.

It’s only when you break away for great, gluttonous breaths of air – your vision blurring with hypoxia – and Miguel reaches two digits to your fattened clit, do you finally run up to speed. It’s a little too late, though, because he presses down and escalates your delight to unprecedented heights. Enough to see stars – enough to scream the loudest you have in a long while, so that all your appeals are fully unintelligible but available for the world to hear.

“FUCK! Oh my– Fuck, s-shit, shit…” You cry, tears finally breaking the tension at your waterline and running in an unending sequence. “B-both of y-yo– Ah! So good. I’m–”

Mig moans, sending vibrations right to the tightening ball of pressure in your gut. He’s snowballed his efforts, drinking you in with a sincerity. Specifically targeted is the spongy wall of tissue on the upside of your mound, suffering his battery and singing for it. String-plucked and pedal-pressed symphonies, composing a viscosity within you that sloshes behind your orgasm. Yes, he adds to it, but the fingertips rubbing you with bullish ferocity are going to break what’s holding it all back. You feel– know it.

Using your hair to hold your head in place, Miguel utters a string of debauched nothings onto your lower lip, face pressed close to yours. They’re quiet enough that even you have trouble catching them, your ears ringing with rising alarm. But you sense the way his breath blows, what shapes it creates, how it twines – and that fills in every gap for you. The intimacy manages to speak to the truth, despite all the degrading dirty talk.

“You like that, you filthy fucking thing?” Groaning, your husband increases his speed, goading you faster. There are crushing hands on your hips, and another wound into your scalp, pulling it taut. “So insatiable that you need two men to help make you cum, huh? Do you think you can?”

“Yes, yes, yes please. Please,” The very implication that he might stop before you do inspires unruly desperation. Your hips, arms, head – they all thrash in unison. “I wanna– I want to cum, Miguel, for the love of everything! Please!”

He slaps your clit in warning. The blow sends you reeling into a hush, so much so that you stop moving immediately, secretly wishing he’d do it again. To divert your energy, you stare right into his pupils, which shine with burgeoning playfulness. “You will, dirty girl. You’ll wish you didn’t though.”

“W–”

“Oye, wide eyes.” He turns to Mig, who's been curiously watching the display, jaw still moving against you. He unhooks under the attention, blinking rapidly. “Mouth wide open. You’ll want to catch every drop.”

He returns to strokes you in circles – furious, fervent. It’s a screw to the cork, twisting forcefully to combat the tension it’s working to release. You squeal, screech, do just about anything except contract your body like you’re compelled to do. You leave yourself loose, watching as Mig registers what’s about to happen, following orders and transforming into a receptacle for it. His fangs peak from behind swollen lips.

All you’re able to think about, plastered to this pane of double rapture, is how they don’t seem to retract. Permanent, unlike your Miguel – a fixture in his gums.

And then the dam shatters. Implodes, actually – collapsing into itself until it’s a small particle floating out with the deluge. You can hear it, the rush of fluid squirting from you. Consistently, pouring into the puddle the younger man happily gathers. He beams with satisfaction and looks so much like your husband, who does the same, brushing tears off your wrecked face.

With a core still convulsing, caught in the reverberant throes of pleasure, you’re mentally spent. Drained for every dime you’re worth and still wholly aware of the promise he made, flipping it over in your head. Again, and again, until it loses impact and dissolves from the impending future. For all you try, though, he holds power over you – even in memory.

You’ll wish you didn’t.

Mig sits up, crouched on his haunches. Chest bare of everything – including the curls that span your husbands’ – and in just his boxers, you can’t help but focus on either one of two things. His maw, pulled in a downward smile and soaked with clear slick, a concoction of saliva and your fluid dripping from where his canines poke out. But you find that it fills you with unwieldy humiliation to behold, so you fall onto the next.

Which just so happens to be his erection, trapped and throbbing from behind navy cotton confines. The head of it peaks above his waistband, purple and dribbling with pre-spend. It’s created a wet spot that grows larger by the second, and your humility is replaced by guilt for the poor thing.

Miguel, cooing in faux sympathy, swoops to caress the shell of your ear with his sinful proposal.

“What do you say, cariño? Want us to fuck you silly?”

Your hole squeezes around nothing, empty, speaking with a will of its own. He hears it, because of course he does – he’s in tune with everything about you – and manoeuvres you onto your stomach. By mere muscle memory alone, you get on wobbly knees, presenting your rear to the ecstatic man behind you.

And, your husband… Well–

He squeezes between your face and the headboard, tree-trunk thighs stretching out on either side of you. There’s a huge wedge in his pants, not at full size yet but stiff regardless, suffocated by time and space. Your mouth waters, appetite returning far too rapidly for how distant it seemed mere seconds ago.

“Beautiful, hermosa.” Mig groans, spreading your ass to get a proper view of the way your pussy drips for him. A quick glance back provides you with a lovely picture. Him, positively captivated with your holes – both of them, it appears, based on the way his thumb grazes over your tighter clench. “Can’t wait to feel you on me.”

His cock is out, too, briefs shoved under the sack at the end of his length. You take it all in like it’s the first time – despite the many traits he shares with Miguel. Fat, darker than the rest of him that gleams bronze even at night. Though rooted on a crop of tangled hair, whereas his alternate self prefers it trimmed short. When he strokes himself, anticipative, you note the mushroomed head. Circumcised.

An impish idea suddenly crosses your mind. Succumbing to it, you arch your back, knocking your behind on him. The action traps the appendage between you and his pelvis, and to add insult to injury, you wiggle around until it slots between your cheeks. Mig’s face screws up, close-knit, his hands scrambling for purchase on your rolling hips.

Something slaps your cheek. Grinning, you turn back to Miguel, his dick now extricated from its prison. The heft of it sways, tapping your nose and fluttering eyelids, so damn heavy that you cringe when it approaches. Two veins pop up from the smooth skin stretched along him, branching down to his frenulum, the spot you choose to start.

Your tongue runs along it, lathering the plump seams on your journey to the top. His nerve endings are mainly reduced to his head – unlike Mig, who’s still moaning as you grind across his length – so you stay there, particularly concentrated on the edge and the valley it creates. Your temples warm with the gentle cradle of two large hands, piloting you on your trip around his cock.

He smells like home – an ambrosial mix of leather and sweat, the backseat of his car where he fucked you on valentines. It’d been raining, windows made misty by passing fog, city colours painted on the grey wash. You’d teased him all day with a lack of panties and suffered for it, practically choked on pleasure, nothing on but a new pendant necklace.

Right now, you’re stuck in a parallel state. You can’t breath under the leaden attention of both him and his mirror, doing your best to keep sucking and grinding regardless of your dwindling strength. It’s difficult, difficult to divide yourself and satisfy them both, but fuck do you want to. More than anything, you’d kill to see them come undone in your holes – simultaneously, in some unlikely reverie. Pumped full of cum and praise by double the man you love most. Your tummy lurches with nauseous desire, teeth separating as you take Miguel into your mouth.

Peering up at him, if only to experience the way he loses control. But creases fold between his brow, reading your expression just as well. Without rush or need for brawn, he pulls the responsibility from under you, assigning it to himself by propelling into your trap, all in one go. He grates along the texture of your palette, cleaving your tonsils, and finally settling deep in your throat, triggering a series of ugly gags. To quiet down, you grip your thumb in a fist, focusing not on your lack of air but on contracting your throat around his tip.

“Are you going to fuck her or continue to rut like a dog in heat?” Your husband bites at Mig, ever self-critical. The latter man sucks in a challenging huff, patting your waist as he withdraws to centre his cock between your folds. He wags it until it catches on the divet of your cunt, hot and surging with natural slick.

Then, just when you think you can’t bear it any longer, he pushes in.

“Ghmmngf!” You cry, forced forward onto Miguel’s breadth, coughing out the saliva and pre-spend that threaten to smother you. Nose smooshing to his groyne as the other bottoms out, sheathed fully within you. You swear you can feel him in your guts, silently praising whatever taught him how to make most of your narrow space.

Like they’ve practised telepathy their whole life, both men dip to feel themselves through your body. Mig presses a sturdy hand to your stomach, positioned right at your mound where he protrudes outwards, admiring the visible bulge he creates in you. Similarly, his older counterpart cradles your neck, pinching the sides that expand and retract with the pistoning of his hips. He fucks your gullet slow, fast, and back to slow again – amused with the pace he can discern in more ways than one.

If your eyes hadn’t been rolled to the back of your head, you’d be blinded instead by a pool of blissful tears. They bubble up uncontrollably, wetting the cheeks already glazed with almost every other bodily fluid. You’re ravished, cock dumb times two. Your cunt is stretched to its limits, sucking your paramour in with vacuum-like violence, the gravity of it equatable to the sun.

Or, no–

Not the sun.

Something a hundred times larger, nearing the end of its life. With every rock of your body, it runs out of hydrogen, draining the last dregs of fuel before eventually caving in on itself, transforming into an infinitely dense mass. It happens in your core, Mig’s bruising pace only exacerbating the strain, contracting smaller and smaller. Boundlessly so, enough to brush off as you snake a hand down to your clit, tapping the sensitive bud, testing its reactivity.

When you flick it, though, you’re drawn back into the dip of spacetime. It’s inescapable, the one fixed point in all this mess, imminent for all your ragdoll self tries to delay it. The room pounds with sex, the scent of it accompanying every particle, reducing air to balmy filth that acts as a catalyst in your undoing.

Impossible. You know it’s impossible to acquaint yourself with the sensation of being filled on both ends. Despite it, you try. You claw onto what little authority you have, pushing past your clit to graze your nails on a pair of swinging balls. They’re full and drooping, slapping your thighs as their owner humps your cunt.

“Keep doing that. Fuck, fuc– mierda, feels so good. Yersotight. Soft. Soft and… ah, small.” Mig babbles, bowing over your form to kiss the dip between your shoulder blades. Your teeth graze the cock ramming your craw, an unconscious tick that has your husband tugging your hair in admonishment. “Hermosa– s’okay if I? Gonna… gonna cum.”

“Mmnmgh–”

“Not so fast.” Miguel says, tugging you off him at once. It causes the both of you teetering over the edge, to groan, something overtaking all executive functions and compelling you to listen. The lull finds Mig slipping out, unable to hold himself back should he spend another moment filling your pussy.

You’re carried upward, manhandled off elbows and knees, to straddle your husband’s lap, facing a wide chest with pecs as comforting as pillows. When did he take off his shirt? Your vision swims, crossing, oscillating with the unexpected motion – until, well, it doesn’t, stopping as your forehead finds solace on the dip beneath Miguel’s clavicle. It’s a reassuring change, your brain rewiring into safety mode given the fact that, when you cum again – however overstimulating – you’ll be within the arms that have always expertly navigated it before.

And he’s warm, an ever-raging bonfire that licks your breasts and pebbled nipples, heat penetrating your bones to seep into your heart. Your marrow follows soon after, melting into a potion of desire and relief, especially when his far more familiar cock replaces the void left by Mig.

“Wide eyes.” The older one calls.

“Did–” Said man stutters, shuffling closer. “Hope I didn’t hurt you, pretty.”

“Hngh… ‘Course n-not, Miggy. We’ve safeee– words, rmmbr?” You grunt, reaching a hand behind you to hold onto his bigger one, squeezing it for added reassurance. “My ass, tho-eahh. Please.”

“You’re– You’re being for real. Seriously?” He asks, rising hope evident in his tone. “Have you ever done it before?”

“Of course she has.” Miguel interrupts, rolling his hips instead of bouncing your tired body on him. “First drawer on your right.”

You laugh when the mattress wobbles, sheets tangling beneath his hurried scramble. The bottle of lube is almost empty, bought spontaneously during your honeymoon to Cabo. Your then newly-wed wanted to indulge your fantasy of anal on the beach, tucked away on a private cove he’d found just for the occasion. It’s been a vice ever since, just like all things with him. You’re addicted to the man, flat-out, scratching to get your fix whenever possible. However possible.

And, of course – due to a devastating soft spot that makes it hard for him to begrudge you anything – you now have two.

Mig spurts a substantial amount onto his hand, rubbing it on his dick and the ring of muscle it faces. Two digits thrust into you, exploring your elasticity, scissoring to make room for a much larger insertion. The man seated balls deep in your cunt kneads your flesh; obsessed with the chub around your waist, thighs, your cheeks especially, pulling them apart to make this whole ordeal easier.

Not that you necessarily need it, being used to it by now – though you preen under the attentiveness regardless. Your ego is a drowsy cat, tucked under a patch of sunlight, purring as its heavily pet all over. Muscles lax, borderline liquid as you moan with the training your rear clench receives. More lube is added when the previous pour dries up, shoved into the spasming sphincter, accompanying every lewd ministration used to loosen it.

You gasp, loosening and wet. When fingers exchange for a dick that’s packed, solid as steel, Miguel captures you into another teeming kiss. It’s to occupy you through the temporary pain, you know, suckling your tongue into his mouth with a gentleness unbecoming of your current lechery. The pressure soon subsides, ebbing and waning to an easier to manage fullness.

Fuck. You’re plugged on both ends, twin lengths driving into you, stroking each other through the thin wall separating your rectum from your vagina. Initially, they keep the same pace, working in tandem to strike and pull out at similar times – but the task is demanding. It prevents them from fully forfeiting to euphoria. Their nature soon takes over, a novel motley of priorities wrenching you apart.

Miguel goes unrushed, sybaritic, fucking you in waves of doughy passion. He knocks against your g-spot, groaning at the way you flounder. The system unspools a little emotional well, tugging heartstrings until you bite his collar to quell your wails. He’s dedicated, a professional in the trade of you; his cielita – the term of endearment mumbled on your temple, lips pressed there in a perpetual kiss.

And Mig–

Bless him.

He’s unhinged, ravished by the feeling of your gummy walls flexing around him. Consistently refreshing the lube that makes it possible, petrified at the notion that this could perhaps stop, doing all he can to counter it. His method is rough, fast, pelvis smacking your plush behind – of which Miguel has long since let go of. There’s emotion in the way he behaves too; a wild, unspoken, behemoth thing, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. Not the anal, but you, specifically, panting in his embrace.

(‘You’re just different back home.’)

Your husband might’ve been too quick to judge. If what you suspect is true – which it likely is, an assumption based on an inextricable fondness you’d felt when you first saw the younger man, like you were made to love every version him, in every timeline – then his haste is not innocent clumsiness, but a more dangerous prospect. Desperation. Crestfallen, degenerate desperation. He hadn't the chance to feel any of you before tonight, for one melancholic reason or another.

“M’not… w-won’t last long, beautiful.” He whispers between pecks, peppering them across your nape.

“N-No, me neither.” Whimpering, you twist to scrutinise his tousled appearance. “Want you to cum in me. Fill me so I sp-spend days scooping you out. D-Don’t wanna fo… Need to remember this.”

“Fuck… you can’t talk like that and– and expect me not to embarrass m-myself.”

“Isn’t she something,” Miguel joins, smoothing the stray baby hairs away from your sticky forehead, callused fingers grazing deliciously across sweaty skin. It’s now that you choose to regard their voices, the subtle variations between the two. One deeper than the other – smoked with a prominent accent that jumps at the end of every syllable. “Filthy, dirty little girl. We could stay like this ‘till tomorrow and she’d have no problem. Would bounce on our cocks until she milks us dry.”

“Y’probably need it to keep you in shape– Hmnff!” Is how Mig strangles, cut off as you convulse around his thrusting length. The mass returns, settled in your cunt – a star verging on supernovae level catastrophe, about to implode while they participate in a literal dick measuring contest.

“Watch it, wide eyes.”

“Shuuu… shutup, shtp!” You keen, falling back on the chest of your paramour while Miguel fondles – slaps – your tits, mesmerised by the way they jiggle, your entire body jostled as their fat cocks jam you full.

“Is my girl going to cum?” One says. You can’t tell which, eyes squeezed shut, though you don’t think Mig would dare use that pronoun. My. Not in good conscience, not when he didn’t kiss you for fear that it’d be crossing a boundary.

“I swear I’ll burst if you squirt again.”

“Don’t expect too much from her in this state.” The trigger to it all, that aching bundle of nerves mashed against your husband’s pubes, starts buzzing with electric urgency. You brace yourself for the lightning, the shock. “Silly thing, can’t begin to form words let alone ideas. Look at me, corazón. What do we say?”

You don’t know. You can’t care. No flying fucks exist outside the devastating wreck that’s about to transform you, squalling loud and shrill from every organ that still retains its function. Heart fluttering like a baby bird’s wings. Lungs depressing into shrivelled cavities. Soreness gnaws on your cervix, abused by successive thrusts. Your bones feel like mush, macerated under mortar and pestle and dissolved in blood.

It’s coming, that celestial calamity.

Mig agrees, gasping. “I’m gonna–”

“Oye. What do we say?” Miguel exhorts, catching your glassy-eyed stare with his.

The former man barks your name, completely winded. Your asshole jerks on his cock, which twitches inside of you, ready to blow. Sopping with lube and pre-spend, spit and your own slick, you can’t control the syphoning noises your holes make, blubbering on the cocks that split you apart.

It’s then the words finally find you – manners that your husband insists on.

“Pleeaase.” You cry.

“Fuck!”

Thick spurts of fluid coat your insides, wrung from the man behind you. His cum is blistering, burning the thin layer between him and Miguel – who surprisingly, given the control he’s exhibited thus far, follows suit, pumping you full of his seed. Your womb and rectum, the puffy folds and rim that try to keep it all in – are all frosted with pearlescent spend. Heady and dripping, staining a depraved mess on every crevice between your legs. Gross globs of it caking you, your skin barely visible anymore.

The thought alone – of two men’s essence, beckoned and bled out by you, mixing something disgusting on your most intimate parts – is enough to kick you off the edge. Flailing off that cliff, plummeting into an outburst that lets nothing escape. Not smell, or taste, or light – spinning a black hole of groundbreaking proportions.

You orgasm, again and again – or maybe the whole thing is all just one prolonged, feral, exhausting endeavour. Cumming until your muscles physically give out, going paraplegic with the strain of constant contractions. You crumple, sandwiched between two sturdy chests, stuffed with cotton and sex and pure endorphins, flying with no sign of ever coming down.

A siren's song – sleep, calling to you from the depths of consciousness – almost pulls you under. That is, until your husband manoeuvres you onto your back again, spreading your legs in a near split to expose your sloppy holes to your paramour. His expression is doused with reverence. Supple, soft, the tiniest bit guilty at the sight of you, desecrated by their combined efforts.

“Well?” Miguel prods, fanning your leaking cunt and asshole out wider. “Are you waiting for her to absorb it all? Clean it up.”

And – for the last time that night – Mig does as he’s told, ducking to gather every last bit of proof with his tongue.

Much later, you watch him pull his shirt over his head, snuggled close to your husband. The sky has deepened to its darkest form – midnight, a gibbous moon cushioned amidst glimmering stars.

“Well, it’s been fun.” The man sighs, brushing imaginary lint off his abdomen. He winks at you before turning to leave, testing his luck now that it can’t backfire on him. “If you ever want to trade him in for a newer model, you know where to find me.”

Miguel just grumbles beneath you, displeasure rumbling the hollows of his hairy sternum. You, on the other hand, smile gently, giving the parting gift of your humour.

Only for something better to occur to you. When his grasp closes around your bedroom door knob, you call out – voice a faint, hoarse thing.

“Mig.” You say.

“Yeah?” He replies, blinking back at you.

“I think you should go for it.”

And all your mild musings are confirmed when he nods, sheepish, like a child caught with a fist in the cookie jar. It’s okay – you mouth, because you know. Whoever you are on his Earth, with whatever cosmic odds stacked against you, you’ll fall. If only because it’s Miguel. Mig. Your O’Hara – such truth woven into the fabric of every conceivable reality.

Your husband catches on quickly, patting your sleepy head. It’s the first time he talks to himself with a tone that isn’t condescending, laying a sentiment you recognise as meaning more to his younger counterpart than anything you could say. Perhaps because it’s kind, a bit of proper advice made mushy by an echoed devotion to you. Or, perhaps because he’s witnessed the evidence to it consistently, all night long. Wide eyes.

“It’ll be the best thing you’ll ever do for yourself.”

part two

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mountainsandmayhem · 8 months ago

Text

Shhh...Just A Little Bit More

Part Three (Spicy Version)

DBF!Joel x Female!Reader - 18+

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 (Soft Version)

Summary: Joel Miller caught you working where you shouldn't be after you promised to quit. Now he's taking matters into his own hands. Word Count 5.7k

CW: DBF!, Dom!, SoftDom!, use of nicknames (baby, sweet pea, baby girl etc.), Sub/Dom, DD/LG, use of toys and a riding crop. no use of y/n. no description of reader except for piercings. Praise, degradation. After care.

AN: THANK YOU for all your love on parts 1 and 2. This is the spicy version of the third part. I'd love to hear which part you liked best!

“Hey, buddy. It’s Joel.”

“Joel?” You can hear your dad’s muffled and panicked voice through the receiver. “Where’s my daughter? Why do you have her phone? It’s 5 am!”

“Remember that time Sarah ran away to your house and you told me that one day I might be doing the same for you?”

Your dad is silent for a while, a distorted higher pitched voice filters through before you hear your dad again, “It’s alright honey. She’s with Joel.” He lets out a deep sigh before adding, “I thought we skipped the rebellious phase with her.”

“She’s a good girl. I think she just needs some time to cool off.” Joel says, his voice is friendly and light.

You squeeze your thighs together and nuzzle deeper into Joel’s throat. You know what you need, and it isn’t to cool off. He and your dad have been friends since the day he moved in down the street. You were seven and Sarah was eleven, you thought she was the coolest person on the planet. Wonder what she’d think of you now, cuddled up against her dad after he just edged the fuck out of you after spanking you in an alleyway. You’re lost in your thoughts as Joel talks with your parents for a while.

A sane person would stop being so turned on right now. Fuck, I need Joel. So badly. Maybe I should rile him up some more.

“I’ll come by this afternoon,” Joel hugs you tighter, bringing you back to the conversation. “Ya, if she wants to, I’ll bring her. She’s ok, just never seen her more - frustrated.”

You squeeze his side, knowing he’s smirking about how frustrated and needy you truly are right now. He hangs up the phone and brings his lips to yours, kissing you harder this time. You moan into his mouth, hands roaming up his body to tangle in his hair.

Holy shit, Joel Miller is kissing me.

As you run your nails along his scalp he lets out a pleasurable sounding gasp and a small shiver racks his body. Oh, he likes that, he likes that very much.

Got ya, you think to yourself.

He pulls away to see you smiling at him. “This is why I usually tie naughty girls down,” his voice is completely different from how it was just moments ago; deeper and more commanding. It reverberates through you - right to your pussy. “Because they think they’ve found spots that will get them what they want. Let’s go home now, darlin’.”

The front door hasn’t even closed before Joel is hoisting you over his shoulder roughly, kicking the door closed as you squeal, his calloused hands gripping the back of your thighs as your stomach rests across his broad shoulder.

Fuck his ass looks good from this angle.

“You know I’m not done punishing you yet, right?” He growls, toeing off his boots and taking you to the basement.

When Sarah was old enough, she’d occasionally babysit you. You remember there being a locked room in the basement, she said she didn’t know what was in there, but you were obsessed with finding out. You asked Joel mercilessly what he was hiding back there and he never responded in more than a grunt or a sarcastic comment like “that’s where I lock up kids who don’t shut up.”

Joel grabs a key off the holder at the bottom of the stairs and heads straight for that mysterious locked door. The key scrapes against the door knob, you crane your neck to see as he flicks on the light.

Holy. Fucking. Shitballs. Joel Miller has a sex room.

“Watch your mouth,” he grumbles as he drops you onto the large metal framed bed.

Did I say that out loud?

He stalks away from you towards a large black cabinet, rolling the sleeves of his button up flannel to his elbows. It’s almost concerning how much that simple action turns you on. Maybe you should go back to church, your mom would be so proud.

You’re intrigued to look around, curious as to what else is around you in this large room, but everything about Joel’s presence draws you in. Freezes you in time. You belong to him, or so he implied when he said he was your Dom now.

He slides the door of the large black cabinet open just enough to reach in. Your curiosity is bubbling to the surface and just as you’re about to ask he looks at you darkly.

“Did you come on the drive home?”

Every bump on the drive home had you twitching. You tried your hardest not to gasp and moan but the combination of the gravel road, your insane state of heightened arousal, and the lack of underwear in your stiff denim shorts were all working against you.

“No, Joel.” Your eyes dance around his hands, trying to see what he took out of the cabinet.

His jaw flexes, “It’s Mr Miller. Not Joel.” His chin juts towards the corner of the room across from him as he says, “go kneel in that corner. Face the wall and don’t move.”

You practically leap off the bed and scramble to the corner as Joel mumbles, “So fuckin’ eager,” under his breath.

On your way to the corner you see all sorts of ropes, chains, paddles and whips hanging from the walls. There's a large wooden x with cuffs leaning against another wall and beside the corner he’s told you to go to there’s a strange looking bench, almost like a gymnastics horse, that also has cuffs. You might be way in over your head here.

You kneel down in the corner, the carpet is soft and luxurious under your knees as you rest your bum down onto your heels.

“No, on your knees. Hands above your head on the wall.” Joel barks, making you jump and your pussy flutter. Joel opens and closes some more doors, you hear things being moved around and just as your hands start to go numb above you, you feel his heat at your back.

“I’m going to finish your punishment now little one,” he rasps. “Have you ever been a sub before?”

“N-no. Mr Miller. I’m sorry,” you voice trembles. Nervous and excited energy are battling inside you for first place.

“Don’t be sorry, babygirl. What do you say if you want me to stop?” His strong hands grip your hair, gathering it up in a low ponytail before tying a long ribbon around it.

“Umm..” you rack your brain. Before his sadistic little countdown he told you to say something if you wanted to stop.

“Cowboy,” you finally say, slightly uncertain until he hums a sultry ‘that’s right’ behind you, his hands grabbing the hem of your shirt before pulling it up and over your head.

The cool basement air hits your exposed skin and you find yourself arching your back towards Joel’s warm body. Your nipples turn to stiff peaks at the combination of the temperature shift and the anticipation of what’s coming next.

Your hands fall back to your sides as your shirt glides past your fingertips. Without missing a beat, Joel hits right below your shoulder blade gently with a riding crop. The sound of the soft black leather end against your skin is louder than the pain, but it still burns slightly as you gasp and your arms fly back up to the wall.

“Don’t be stupid, baby. The more you don’t listen, the more I will hurt you. And you are already here because you didn’t listen.” He trails the riding crop around the pink mark forming on your back. “Stand up, but keep your hands above you.”

You plant one white slip-on van on the carpet and drag the toe of the other as you stand, hands sliding up the red satin wallpaper that lines the room. The soft leather of the crop traces down the black strap of your lace bra, across the back band and then up the other strap.

“Use one hand and undo the clasp, sweet pea.” You drop your right hand and bring it behind your back. Popping the metal clasp open with a shaky thumb and forefinger. Before you can put your hand back, Joel grabs your wrist and places the crop in your fist before raising it back up above you. His rough fingers graze your back, goosebumps line your skin as your head falls forward and you hum out in pleasure.

His hands glide around to the front of your body and trail up, pushing under the cups of your bra to squeeze your tits. He stops dead as they land heavy in his palms.

“Holy fuck, drop the crop and take this bra off right now. Let me see them,” his voice is thick with arousal at what he’s found.

You do as he says, the crop hitting the soft carpet with a thud. You spin and let your bra fall from your arms. Showing him the golden barbells, and the thin golden hearts that surround each nipple.

Joel practically snarls as he dives in to kiss you, his tongue parting your lips and making room for him to devour you. “Are those healed?” He asks through the kiss.

“They’re sort of new,” you say into his mouth. “Six weeks ago.”

“Fuuuuck, you’re gonna kill me,” his hands hurry to the buttons on your shorts. He rips them down your legs, kneeling in front of you to slide off your shoes. His face is now level with your achy cunt. It’s been throbbing since he spanked you and now he’s so very close.

He stops to stare at it, then gently uses his thumbs to pull your soaked lips again. He clicks his tongue, “too bad you didn’t listen. She looks swollen and sooo wet,” his thumb barely grazes the wet flesh before he looks up at you as he sucks off the juices. “Mmm - and sweet. But bad girls don’t get rewards.” He lays a quick slap across your clit and you nearly collapse at the sensation.

The pain.

The heat.

The pleasure.

He smirks down at you as he stands. You crane your neck to look at him, gasping for breath as the pleasure ebbs between your legs.

“You like pain, don’t you?” He asks.

A sly closed lip smile crosses your face as you nod quietly. You do like pain, but you’ve never had someone as experienced as Joel before. He spanked you harder than you ever have been before, pushing and testing your limits. While you enjoyed it, and can’t fucking wait to do it again, you aren’t sure if you can handle all these whips, crops, canes and ropes.

Cowboy. Just say cowboy.

He steps away, leaving you completely bare in the corner. He stops at the foot of the bed, the things he’s pulled out of the cabinet rest flat on top of the sheets but you can’t make out what’s there. He slides his flannel off and drops it to the floor. You swallow hard at the way his tight shirt hugs his body, you swear you can see every muscle that lines his chest and abdomen through it. He doesn’t leave you guessing for long, one hand reaching behind himself, grabbing his shirt by the nape of the neck before peeling it from his hard body. You squeeze your thighs at the sight of him.

Joel Miller: Greek God.

He leans against the tall post at the foot of the bed, crossing his thick arms over his chest. His biceps bulge and suddenly you find it hard to breathe. He is fucking beautiful.

“Crawl to me, and bring the crop,” his voice is rough as he commands you.

You get onto your hands and knees and look over at the crop and then back towards Joel, looking up through your lashes. “Think about it for a second,” he says.

You bend down and pick the crop up with your teeth. “There’s my smart girl,” he praises as you crawl. You’re so wet that your thighs slide effortlessly against one another. You stop in front of him and he reaches down to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. He’s looking at you with an immense sense of pride, you’d do anything to have him look at you like that and when he throws in a warm ‘good girl’ you’re done for. His. His brat. His good girl. His submissive. Just his.

He takes the crop from your teeth and then walks behind you. “Arch your back,” he presses the leather end into your lower back, guiding you, teasing you, showing you what he wants and how he wants it.

“Spread your legs, babygirl,” he whispers, again gently pressing the crop to your inner thighs as you spread for him before he slowly drags the soft leather from your clit to your backside. You whimper at the much needed attention. “Good girl. See how much better it is when you listen.”

You relax your head, letting it fall as you moan. Close. So very close. The leather meets your chin next. “Eyes up, I need you to stay like this for me. Ok?”

“Yes Mr Miller,” you gasp, holding your head high, looking straight ahead at the metal bed frame that’s lined with hooks and rings. “Anything for you.”

The riding crop trails down your neck and spine as he walks back behind you. “That right, darlin’?” He says, almost afraid to admit how much those three little words have affected him. You. Offering him anything.

You let out an agreeable moan before he strikes you twice, each snap of the crop hitting the exactly same spot.

Joel Miller: Greek God and Accurate Riding Crop Sniper.

Ok, you’ll have to work on the name.

The sting takes a bit longer to turn into that pleasurable tingly heat that you love than when he spanked you. Keeping your back arched and head up is already proving to be a challenge, and then he traces your cunt and asshole again with the leather and you’re practically shaking. Closer. Much closer.

He does it again. Striking one cheek, then the other, quickly followed by a quick slap to the back of your thigh. You cry out in pain, until the leather slides over your soaked clit and the sounds turn downright pornographic.

“Why am I punishing you?” He demands, tapping your clit lightly and rapidly.

“I - mmmm - I didn’t q-quit,” you moan.

“Wrong,” he hits you again. Five quick, sharp snaps, alternating between ass cheeks. Then he slides up and down your folds again.

Pain

Pleasure.

Sparkling burning heat.

“M’gonna come,” you mumble and Joel pulls away. You cry out in protest as he lowers himself to the floor, a large warm hand gently rubbing your sore cheek.

“You come when I say,” his lips land on every spot he’s hit you, but not the spot you need him the most. “Now why am I punishing you?”

Your mind is mush, overrun by the overwhelming need to orgasm. You didn’t quit. He wants you to and you didn’t. That’s why he’s hitting you.

“I don’t know Mr Miller,” you whine. His hand trails up the soft skin of your inner thigh, your legs tremble under his touch and you fight against your shaking arms to keep your body how he wants it.

“No?” He says with a smirk. “On your elbows, forehead on the floor.”

“I’m sorry,” you say as you get into his new required position.

“You should be,” he stands and walks towards the bed. Leaving your ass up and on display. “You lied and snuck out, then after your spanking tonight you stayed at work for another two hours. You also used my marks to make money. You, my sweet girl, are a brat.” He’s practically growling by the time he finishes, settling himself behind you. “That’s why I’m punishing you.”

Deep down Joel knows he should stop. Not for the obvious reasons: best friend's daughter, twenty years younger, four years younger than his own daughter. But because he hasn’t had a real conversation with you yet about your hard and soft limits. Didn’t even ask if you wanted to be his sub. But your smooth little ass is up in the air, pussy glistening in the dim light of his sex room and nothing but your pleasure matters anymore.

You swallow hard, “I’m sorry for being a brat, Mr Miller.”

“I don’t think you are,” he says and you hear the distinct sound of a cap of lube opening behind you. “I think that you have enjoyed yourself so much that you’re going to be back on that corner waiting for an Uber to take you to work tonight. You want me to come after you. Because you are a little slut with a very greedy pussy.”

Something cool presses against your soaked entrance and you cry out as he continues, “so I’ll tell you what. You can go to work tonight, but you’ll have to do it my way,” slowly that cool something slides inside of you, filling you slightly but it’s not enough. “Fuck, practically sucked it in, babygirl.”

You can feel it, a hard ball that’s pushing right against your g spot, a slender piece staying outside your body for easy removal. “That is going to stay in until I take it out. It vibrates, and if you don’t behave…I will turn it on.”

His large, rough hands grip you by the hips and pull you back so your ass is flush against his body, his cock stiff as nails under his jeans. “It’s time to get some sleep, sweetheart. Get in the bed, please.”

“But…” you pout into the plush carpet. “Please, Mr Miller.”

“What did I say? Bad girls don’t get rewarded. Come on,” he taps your hip. “Bed.”

You stand up on shaky legs, thankful that the best is only two steps ahead of you. But the toy inside of you has you feeling like a powder keg on the edge of exploding. Joel pulls the covers back and climbs in with you, pulling you in to rest your head on his chest. His arm drapes around your body, the other resting behind his head.

“How are you feeling after tonight?” He whispers, using an app on his phone to turn the lights off.

“Horny,” you whisper, burying yourself deeper into his neck.

“I know. But you know I can’t make you come, right? I can’t reward you for this behaviour.” His lips fall to your hairline, two light lingering kisses melting you further into him.

“What can I do, Mr Miller?” The moment the last syllable of his name leaves your lips the vibrator comes to life inside of you. “Oh god - thank you. Thank you.” Your body twitches against his, your leg coming to drape across him as you subconsciously hump and grind into his hip.

“That feel good, baby?” He asks, holding you tighter against his strong body.

“Yes. Yes. Hnnnng, yes.” You grind harder, your arousal coating his hip and leg, your clit sliding along him with ease now. “Joel, please.”

Shit. He should punish you for calling him Joel but you’re so goddamn beautiful as you start to fall apart and he can’t hold back any longer. He’s let other subs go days without an orgasm, he’s gotten off to them begging and crying for relief. But you. You sound so damn sweet to his ears and he can’t stand to see you like this anymore.

He has you flipped onto your back, trapped under his weight before you can even register what’s happening. He’s kissing you deeply, tongue taking what it wants as your legs kick and shake under him.

“Please!” You cry between kisses.

His thick fingers sliding between your puffy folds before grabbing the end of the vibrator, you scream out as he pulls the toy from you.

“Shhh…just a little bit more. I’m going to make it better now,” he says gently, kissing down your neck, swirling his tongue around each nipple piercing.

“Please. Please. Pleeeaase, Mr Miller. Please. It hurts. I need it, please.” You’re a mumbling mess and the words leaving your lips are practically incomprehensible.

“I know. Relax baby. Breathe.” He says between kisses down your sternum, his tongue tracing your curves. When he finally settles in between your thighs he swallows hard, he wants to dive right in, make you drench his face as you come. “Look at me, darlin’.”

His warm breath hits your pussy and you fight your hips from bucking up to his face as prop yourself up on an elbow and try to focus your eyesight on him. You didn’t know it was possible to be so turned on that you practically had tequila vision.

His voice is serious yet calm as he says, “I’m going to make you come using my fingers and my tongue. Is that ok?”

You nod your head and a faint ‘yes’, leaves your lips. He doesn’t want to ask permission, and next time he won’t. But right now he needs to know you’re ok with this.

“Can I lick and touch both the outside and inside of this beautiful, weeping, pussy?”

It starts to hit you that Joel Miller would never do something you didn’t want and that sets your soul on fire. He cares. About you. Only you. Wants to do things for you. You are not a burden here.

“Yes, Mr Miller. Please. Touch me.” The room suddenly feels twenty degrees hotter, you can feel sweat beading on your skin.

“That’s my girl,” he says, sliding his ring and middle finger around your desperate entrance. You cry out, dropping your body to the bed.

Pleasure. Overwhelming pleasure.

“No no baby girl, eyes on me.”

You somehow muster the strength to raise yourself onto shaky arms. His two strong fingers slide deep into your heat with minimal resistance and you immediately start gasping.

Pleasure. Life altering, heart stopping pleasure.

“Fuuuuck. Baby. So tight. Have you ever squirted before?” His cheeks are flushed with need. He might be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

Your breasts rise and fall with your ragged breaths. You shake your head and moan out a ‘no’.

He smiles down at your dripping cunt, “I can feel it. Gotta relax for me. Just breathe and let it happen.”

Nerves flutter in your stomach and then he curls his fingers forward, putting so much pressure on a soft spongy spot that you didn’t know existed until today. On instinct, your knees try to close but his wide frame keeps you open. You yell his name to the ceiling, as all the air whooshes from your lungs.

“Breathe baby,” he says as he curls his fingers once, twice, three more times. You can hear how wet you are and the pressure becomes unbearable. Stars start to blur your vision, the walls of your pussy squeeze tightly around his fingers and then it’s just a blur. A blur of all consuming pleasure and you turn into a boneless, mumbling mess.

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Come for me. Soak me. Good girl,” Joel’s free hand pressed down on your mound as a wet heat leaks all over you. “Good fuckin’ girl. Let go for me.”

You’re not sure if you’re screaming or not, all you hear and feel is Joel. Everything is Joel. Strong hands, deep gravel voice, warm vanilla smell. He’s everywhere and you never want it to stop.

“Keep going. That’s it. You look so beautiful,” he says, licking a long stripe up your fluttering pussy, drinking and slurping up your juices. “Oooh yeah - gooood giiirrll”

Almost immediately after your orgasm crests it becomes too much. You’re so overstimulated that it hurts and your moans of pleasure become cries of pain. You forget your name, where you are, you even forget your safe word. But Joel knows, he always knows.

He stops pumping his fingers and says your name, “look at me sweet pea.”

You blink slowly, you’re wrecked, barely able to keep your eyelids open, almost convinced they’ve been replaced with steel. You’re sucking in air, did you not breathe that entire time?

“Breathe baby, you’re ok.” He says, stilling his fingers until you’re ready.

“I’m sorry, Mr Miller. I know I called you Joel. I won’t do it again.”

So fucking cute. “It’s ok, darlin’ girl. I want you to let loose when you come.” He places a few light kisses along your thighs. The sheets and his bare chest are soaked. “I’m gonna pull my fingers out.”

You fall back to the bed and fist the sheets to ground yourself as he slides his fingers out. “You did such a good job,” he praises as you whimper at the loss of his fingers inside of you.

He crawls up your body, placing his strong forearms beside your head, moving any hair that has escaped the ribbon from your face. “I’m so proud of you, babygirl.”

“Fuck me,” you mumble.

He grins down at you. “That’s my little slut,” he says darkly, ripping his jeans and underwear off, kissing you hard and rough - just how you like it. His hard cock lands heavy on your clit and you cry out into his mouth. “You sure about this?” He says cockily.

“Fuck me, Mr Miller. Please. I need your -,” he slams deep inside you, hips flush against yours. He’s so deep you swear you can feel it behind your navel. The girth of him giving you a painful but pleasurable stretch, “oh god. I’m gonna come again.”

“Squeeze me, baby. Yell out. Show me what I do to you,” he hooks your knees in his elbows to get deeper. Hips grinding and slamming into yours. “So goddamn good. So tight. Give it to me, little one.”

The heat in your belly snaps as you come apart for him again. Every muscle goes limp and pliant as he folds you in half, knees practically behind your head like some sort of tantric pretzel. The walls of your pussy clamp down on his dick as cry out in pained moans. Before your orgasm has even tapered off he’s slipping out of you and flipping you around.

“Hands and knees, like you were on the floor.” He practically yells it at you, like a drill sergeant.

You don’t have the cognitive ability to even know what your arms or legs are, lying on your belly down in the puddle you created earlier.

“Can’t,” you moan before the sharp snap of the riding crop hits your ass. Adrenaline spikes as you start to find your arms, bringing them beside you to push up. Another three quick strikes hit your backside. “Fuck. Stop, Joel. Please.”

He strikes you again. You most definitely do not want him to stop and you already know that he loves when you beg. “It huuuurts,” you gasp as you bring yourself up to your knees. Your all wobbly limbs, like a newborn giraffe, and panting breaths as he hits six quick strikes down your thigh. Crying out with each one, “I’m sorry. I’ll be good. Please just stop.”

“You should see how your pussy clenches with each hit, my little masochist,” he praises, moving to punish the other thigh in the same way he did the other one. “You could come from this, couldn’t you?”

“No. It hurts. I’m sorry, daddy.”

Joel stops. The word daddy suspended in the air between you. Fuck, it just slipped out. You’ve never said it to a man before and now you wish you could just crawl into a little hole and die alone.

“Oh babygirl,” he says proudly, coming up behind you and rubbing his dick up and down your wet pussy. “Do you like that? Calling me daddy?”

“It slipped out. I’m sorry Mr Miller,” you desperately want to bury your face in the pillows but you keep your head held high, just like he wants you too.

“Tell daddy to fuck you,” he says, his hand grabbing the base of your tied back hair.

“F-fuck me, daddy,” you say in the sweetest and most innocent sounding voice you can muster.

With one snap of his hips he’s fully inside of you, his hand pulls at your hair. You scalp tingling and burning, only adding to the pleasure building again in between your legs.

“You like it rough. Don’t you, little one?” You moan out in agreement, “like it when daddy fucks you this deep. Like it when daddy is in your belly. Don’t you?”

“Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.” It’s like you’re a broken record, unable to come up with anything except moans, cries and ‘oh god’s’.

Joel’s hand moves from your hair to between your shoulder blades and pushes down. A silent command for you to rest your chest on the bed. You do as he says, “good fuckin girl. You want me to fuck you while I use the crop? Is that what you want my little pain slut?”

“Yes please, Mr Miller,” you gasp, hands fisting the sheets, muscles clenching as you prepare for what’s about to happen.

The pace at which he’s fucking you continues. He’s fast and rough, his balls slapping against your pussy with each trust. The crop hits the bottom of one of your feet first, then just to the right of your left shoulder blade.

“Not gonna stop until you use that safeword. Brats don’t get rewards,” He fucks up into you a few more times as he swats at the front of your thigh.

Blinding heat and pleasure start to course through you as you come again. “My little masochist,” he says again, pulling back to slap at your ass as you come on his cock. Tears blur your vision, you want to stop but you want to make him proud. You feel his dick getting harder, twitching slightly.

Just a few more minutes, you think to yourself. Until he strikes you harder than all the other times. The sound of leather on your skin fills your ears and you pull away from him, “COWBOY!!”

You collapse into the sheets as Joel turns away, unable to stop his orgasm and wanting to be respectful of your need to stop. He cums into the sheets with his hand, biting back your name from leaving his lips.

He turns to find you facedown, red and purple marks already forming. “Baby,” he whispers, his hand coming to caress your lower back. You flinch under his touch.

Fuck, I went to hard.

“Shhh, relax. It’s over now. Let me take care of you.” He sees you visibly melt into the mattress, and why wouldn’t you. His voice is soft and gentle as his fingers trail up and down your spine. “I’m so proud of you for using your safeword. Can you roll over for me?”

You do as he says, using any last ounce of energy to roll over. He shuffles himself to sit on the edge of the bed, lifting your upper body to help you prop up in some pillows, your eyelids are impossibly heavy. He reaches into the small mini fridge that’s disguised as a bedside table and takes out a bottle of water.

“I need you to drink this, honey. Then I will put some coconut oil on those marks. Ok?”

You open your eyes as he cracks the water. He looks wrecked. Beads of sweat line his hairline, curls sticking to his forehead, but fuck is he beautiful.

Joel Miller. Sex God.

“How are you feeling?” He asks as he slides his boxers back up his leg, his still half hard cock pressing against the fabric.

You’re suddenly unable to stop from giggling. You feel giddy and drunk as you down the water and say, “I feel fucking amazing!”

Joel shakes his head and lets out a little laugh. “Good,” he says, pressing his lips to your forehead. He pulls makeup wipe out from the bedside drawer and wipes the mascara that’s run down your cheeks. Then he finds himself doing something he’s never done with his other subs. He grabs the coconut oil and reaches a hand out to help you off the bed.

“Let’s go get some sleep,” he says. Steading you and leading you up the stairs to his room. This is dangerous territory, but he needs to wake up with you. Cherish you. Care for you. Other subs always slept down here. Never in his room and rarely with him. But certainly never ever in his room.

You follow with shaky legs and nearly collapse onto his bed when you get there.

“Can we do that again?” You ask as he rubs oil on your tender backside.

“Fuck yes. But before we do that,” he taps your side and you roll over so he can oil your thigh. “You need to fill out some paperwork.”

You groan and he lets out a deep laugh. “I promise it’s fun paperwork. Hard and soft limits. Things you want to try.”

He looks up at you with adoration, mirroring the looks you’re giving him. He nods towards your pierced nipples, “I like those. Very sexy. As soon as they’re healed we are gonna have some fun.”

You blush, “thanks. You’re - umm, you’re actually the first person to see them.”

“That right?” He says proudly, lying down beside you and pulling you into his chest.

“I have an appointment at the piercer next week. Any requests?” You say teasingly as you nuzzle into his chest. Your appointment is to get a second hole in each ear lobe, but may as well have a little fun.

“Hmmm,” he hums, lips grazing your hairline with little kisses. “Belly button.”

“Oh, I was thinking of doing my clit.” You glance up at him through your eyelashes, bottom lip between your teeth.

“Fuck me, baby. You tryin’ to kill this old man? I’m gonna have to leave the goddamn continent while that heals.” He pulls you in tighter, pulling the blanket up around both of you. “Get some rest now, we have a big afternoon.”

Taglist:

@corazondebeskar @hiddenbabynyc @rainstorms-library @smutsmutslut @sullyrocky44 @keylimebeag @pimosworld @casa-boiardi @pedritoferg @paleidiot @lorilane33 @pansexual-potatoes @baar-ur @jessthebaker @jasminedragoon @koshkaj-blog @pedroswife69 @strawberri-blonde @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @iloveenya @javierpena-inatacvest @blazeflays @akah565@pinkiec6-rubi @pedroshotwifey @iluvurfather@ashleyfilm @mermaidgirl30

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seiwas · 10 months ago

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₊˚⊹｡ i'll be good to you | nanami kento

wc: 1.5k

summary: nanami’s half-hoping you call a fourth time.

contains: implied f!reader but no mention of pronouns, exes, mentions of alcohol, swears, reader wears makeup and heels, drunk calls, a bit angsty and a bit hurt/no comfort but it isn’t all that sad i think

a/n: this ran away from me again! but this is a brainchild from me and @augustinewrites, with song inspos: you were good to me, tequila, bourbon, and already gone

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: calling your ex drunk at two a.m. with feelings still stuck in your throat

you are here -> part 2

Nanami moves in numbers.

It comes with his personality—practical and efficient, forward thinking.

Predicting deals from 9-to-5 looks a lot different from dealing deaths by a ratio of 7:3, but the tactics remain the same, the stakes still high; every move is precise and calculated, analyzed to be accurate.

So he’d known—the day he decided to pick up his blade again was the day he’d deal his final blow—at you, and the relationship you built together.

A strategic takedown of something he deemed doomed from the start.

That’s what he wants you to think, at least.

When his phone rings three times—the first in the middle of lecturing Yuuji, the second while going overtime underground, and the third just moments ago, bleeding out on a bathroom counter, Nanami realizes that the probability of him ever speaking to you again, alive and breathing, is a number he can’t predict.

So he waits, linen pants and a cotton shirt while sporting a drink by his kitchen counter.

Strangely, he’s full of hope, half-good and half-bad—that you’ll call back; that you won’t. The line between the two blurs.

It always has with you.

A friendly face—that’s all you were supposed to be; his work neighbor a few cubicles down his. It started with polite nods, a few casual waves, maybe even small smiles on a good day. Your schedule was terrible, much like his—one of the first ones to arrive and the last ones to leave.

Then, you finally moved past just a friendly hello; something about bread, he recalls, an attempt to exchange recipes on sourdough. It started then, with you leaving a cup of coffee on his desk and he saving an ‘extra’ sub for you.

(Except, it’s never an ‘extra’ with Nanami; he’d never do anything miscalculated.)

Suddenly, you’re the first face he looks for in the morning, and he’s the last person you check on before clocking out at night.

For a while, he didn’t know what to call you—a coworker? Friend? Someone he has dinner with at 12 midnight?

You set it straight after the seventh ‘date’.

Now, when his phone rings the fourth time, he picks up.

You’re cursing on the line, the sound of metal clinking on tile muffled in the background.

He waits for you to talk, half-hopeful and half-nervous at hearing you speak.

You always used to drop your keys by his door—your haphazard way of looking for his amongst five of yours.

“Shit,” you grumble, the lock finally clicking open.

He hears your footsteps, the sound of your heels landing as if they’ve been hastily kicked off.

A party, perhaps? Or a night out?

There’s a funny feeling that sits in his stomach when he thinks about you coming home from a date, one he knows he no longer has a right to.

It should be good, he thinks, you’re moving on.

He stares at his glass, liquor blurring into ice—brown edges fading into something lighter, near transparent. For a moment, he wonders if this was a mistake, if you hadn’t meant to call him at all. He’s considering putting the phone down to save you the embarrassment.

But—

“Finally,” you spit out, clumsy and a little too honest.

To anyone else, you’d sound normal, but Nanami’s known you for years, has loved you for just as much, and this sounds a lot like the version of you that’s lost track of how many you’ve had to drink—the same one he’s had to tuck in bed, with your arms clinging onto his neck while dragging him under the covers with you.

He takes a sip.

“Was starting t’think you died or sum’in.”

It’s impossible for you to know the truth, he’s made sure of that—it’s why he let you go in the first place.

“Someone offered to buy me a drink t’night,” you mumble, wood scraping against your floorboards. The exhaustion in your voice is palpable.

He has no idea why you’re telling him this.

“I asked f’r bourbon,” you breathe, shaky, “on the rocks, because—”

That’s what he always got, what he introduced to you when you asked him why he likes it so much. 2 ounces of bourbon for a ball of ice, with time as an aid, mellowing its intensity to flavors of smoky caramel, vanilla, and a touch of spice.

He gives a lowly hum, swirling the drink in front of him.

“Was it good?”

(The drink, the date. The potential new guy.)

There’s silence on the other end of the line, too long to be considered thoughtless. His watch counts the seconds.

“Not as,” you finally answer.

Another bout of silence.

He wonders what you look like, if you’re wearing that lipstick you know is his favorite; if you still smell like the closest thing he’s ever had to a home. Do you still keep an extra handkerchief in your purse? That obnoxious cow print he now uses to remind him of the life he used to know?

You sniffle.

“You fucked me up, Kento.”

He knows.

“How c’n you say this… is what’s best f’me when it hurts this much?” you hiccup, a sob caught in your throat.

When Nanami ended things with you, he gave himself 30 minutes. Any less, he would have regretted it, and any more, he would have taken it all back.

“Y’re so unfair,” you breathe out shakier than the last, broken more than anything, “din’t ev’n ask me what I wanted.”

He knows.

And he supposes he deserves this, aching at the way you fall apart on the line.

He takes another sip, longer and fuller, dragging out his gulp.

“I still love you,” you weep, voice unsteady, “and I f’cking hate you for that, y’know?”

Your words burn more than the alcohol down his throat.

His eyes start to sting, brown glossing over. There was a time when your ‘I love you’s’ gave him reason to wake up in the morning; when they got him through the day and lulled him to sleep at night.

But this one, this time, he knows, will haunt him for the rest of his life.

(He’s never wanted anything more than to say it back to you, right now.)

“I apologize.” the words come out stiff, squeezed out as he puts down his glass.

“I know,” you scoff, managing a chuckle while sniffling, “like that’ll do ‘nythin though.”

Nanami clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around his drink. You always were the perfect bite to his snark, acknowledging things straight up, as is.

And you always had a hunch of how things would end up.

You know that this call is pointless, that he won’t take you back by the end of it. You also know that each and every one of his decisions comes from a series of calculated predictions, that once he makes up his mind, there’s no changing it. You know how Nanami works, that he moves in numbers.

Except, you never know his reasons—that the truth of all this is that he’s sworn to himself that he’ll be good to you. There’s no point being with an empty man, and dragging you into the dangers of sorcery would be cruel, even more unfair to you.

The line is quiet for a while, filled only with your attempts at steadying your breathing.

“Did you drink enough water?” he asks, a little out of nowhere but completely in place.

You snort, pushing back your chair, “Shouldn’t say things like that,” your footsteps are picked up by the mic, “makes it sound like y’care.”

He hears you gulp a glass down on the line, lips curling into a sad smile.

“D’me a favor?” you slur, followed by a yawn.

He hums.

“Stay on ‘til I fall’sleep?”

And for once, he doesn’t think so hard about it. This small thing can’t possibly skew the damage he’s already caused you.

“Okay.”

A creak sounds from your end, the sofa you both used to spend your weekends on; it’s been thoroughly broken in, love seeping through each crevice and dip. It’s selfish, but he hopes you still feel him through it—giving you a safe place to rest, soft and tender in keeping you close when he can’t.

You shuffle, pillows muffling the microphone as you move around; then you mumble, sleep-laden, “Don’t forget to turn the lights off.”

It shouldn’t affect him this much, but the reminder calls back every instance you’ve ever said it to him: whispers over his shoulder, while dragging your feet away from his home office; a peck to the tip of his ear before nuzzling his neck while he reads; a shout from your bed, for him to hear within the echoes of the bathroom walls.

You both have terrible sleep from odd hours at the office, but nightmares have always persisted with him more. Turning off the lights was a reassurance, a quiet ‘I love you’—a reminder that it was okay to fall asleep, you’d be there when he wakes.

His eyes zero in on the light switch to his right, humming his response.

The call runs for 31 minutes.

a/n: other tidbits i wasn't able to include—reader is able to hold liquor well, and used to drink with nanami often but doesn't understand the appeal of his preferred drinks; reader is able to go head-to-head with nanami's personality but is also a lot more vibrant and loud; reader also doesn't know about the jujutsu world (in case it wasn't obvious). i also envision nanami becoming less himself towards the end of their relationship, which is also when he starts considering going back to sorcery.

thank you notes: big thank you to @augustinewrites for half-mothering this fic 🥺 what would i do without your sad ideas and songs to match!! and to @mysugu and @soumies for ofc!! listening to me talk abt this all the time lol

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento x reader #nanami x yn #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami kento x yn #nanami kento x you #shotorus.writes #shotorus.events #in's and out's event

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fremedon · 2 months ago

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I did my first phone bank of the season tonight, for my state's senate campaign.

I know we all hate the phone around here. But as a raging introvert with an audio processing disorder, I actually find phone banking hugely easier than almost any other phone interaction (and many in-person ones).

So I thought I'd write up a brief explainer of how it works.

The big thing to know about phone banking is this: It is largely not about persuading people to change their votes. It has three other, very simple, goals:

1.) Gather information to help the campaign determine where to concentrate its resources.

2.) Remind people that there is an election and get them thinking about and making an active plan to go and vote.

3.) Remind people of the candidate's name.

That's it. That's all you have to do. Two-thirds of the time they'll hang up on you and you won't even do that much. It's easy.

So. You sign up by going to the website of a candidate you'd like to support and looking for volunteer opportunities on their website. There will, somewhere, be a place to sign up to phone bank

You can phone bank from home these days; or you can do what I did tonight and go into a campaign office. If you go into the office, there will be campaign volunteers there who can answer questions for you and walk you through what to do, but you will also be within earshot of other people on the phone, so if background noise is a problem you might prefer to do it from home or bring noise-cancelling headphones.

They will send you a link to an autodialer, which you will call from your own phone or computer. The autodialer will work its way through a list of numbers. No one you are calling will be able to see your own phone number; they'll just see the number the autodialer is using.

The system will work its way through a list of numbers and only hand off to you when someone picks up. At this point, the screen will display the following:

1.) The name of the person you're trying to call;

2.) a set of buttons for how to record the initial response: Hung up, Answering Machine, Wrong Number, etc, and some version of You Are Actually Talking To the Right Person;

3.) an actual script for introducing yourself. You don't have to follow it exactly, but you can, and it will give you the points you need to try to hit--for introductions, that's usually going to be your first name, the campaign you're calling for, and that you are a volunteer.

If the call ends here--they hang up; they tell you you have the wrong number--you hit the button that best matches what happened, the call ends, and when you're ready you can tell the autodialer to send you the next call.

If the person is willing to talk, you click the button for that, and the screen will move on to the next page of the script--there will be some amount of information to give out--again, you don't need to read it all--one question to be sure to ask, and buttons to record their answer.

Most of the time, the question is going to be "Are you supporting this candidate," and your answers will be on a scale from Strong Yes to Strong No. For most of the campaign season, people answering either of those will be taken off the call list because they're not likely to change their mind; people who are undecided will keep getting calls. Right before the election, strategy will change from persuading the persuadables to getting out the vote, and then everyone who's already said they're supporting your candidate might get another round of calls to remind them to vote, and gather information about who has already voted and who the campaign should still be calling or sending canvassers to.

Sometimes there will be multiple questions; tonight, we asked three: Are you supporting the Democratic Senate candidate; Are you supporting the Democratic House candidate for whichever district we were calling; and--if they answered yes--Are you interested in volunteering.

You do not have to be able to answer every question or give a persuasive speech to phone bank for a political candidate. Very few people want to have a long conversation with you. If you do get someone who does, you have a script in front of you which contains talking points and often links to further information.

But the most persuasive thing you can do is the thing you have already done just by calling: you've let them know that someone near them, one of their neighbors, a real person with a name and a voice, cares so much about electing this person that they've volunteered their free time to make it happen.

You do need to be polite and positive at all times. That part is not really negotiable. No one that you're talking to is going to remember more than one talking point at most anyway--but they will remember that that nice person from the campaign was so polite and so cheerful. I am a salty gloomy bitch in RL, but my phone-sona brims over with love for my fellow fucking humans.

And you know, I really do feel some of that love, by the end of the night.

If you think this sounds like something you can do, I recommend giving it a try. It's an excellent way to channel your anxiety about the election into action, and it's not nearly as scary as it seems.

#us politics #voting #phone banking

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alessiamalfoyzabini · 11 months ago

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𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

⤷ Subtitle | Obsessed with you

⤷ Pairing | Yandere Jungkook x Reader

⤷ Genre | Yandere!AU, Dark Romance!AU, Smut (dubcon, noncon), Angst, Kidnapping, Violence, Obsession

➢ Ratings | +18 / M (Mature)

⤷ Summary | If she had paid attention earlier to the sin that dwelt behind those obsidian irises, she would never have trusted it.

If she had noticed earlier the devouring love that dwelled in his corrupt heart, she probably would have fled.

She had done none of that, and now she had to come to terms with her new reality.

➢ Author's Note | This work originated in Italian, so I apologize for any errors you will find, I am not a native english speaker 🥺❤

Also, this does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

➢ For Italian tumblr readers, if you are interested in reading this story, please know that it is already on Wattpad in Italian: HAPPY ENDING ITALIAN VERSION

||𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧||

Chapter One | 13.01.24

Chapter Two | 15.01.24

Chapter Three | 18.01.24

Chapter Four | 20.01.24

Chapter Five | 24.01.24

Chapter Six | 28.01.24

Chapter Seven | 02.02.24

Chapter Eight - The End | 07.02.24

||DRABBLE||

EXTRA 01 | 17.02.24

EXTRA 02 | 02.03.24

||SPIN-OFF||

Happy Ending Series

© | I do not allow republication or editing of this story by third parties, all rights belong to me, anyone guilty of the crime of plagiarism will be reported and blocked. The same goes for the smartasses who will take pieces of my story without my explicit consent.

#bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bts smut #yandere bts x reader #yandere bts #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #yandere jungkook x reader #bts yandere smut #yandere

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sister-lucifer · 8 months ago

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A COLLAB WITH @cryptidcircuswrites ! PLEASE CHECK OUT HIS VERSION HERE!

Genre: Gore smut

Summary: A mission goes awry and Toby is shot straight through the skull. Tim decides to take the new hole for a spin, and Toby is more than happy to let him have it.

Content/warnings: OHHH MY GOOOOD DONT FUCKING READ THIS IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, Toby literally gets his brain fucked, bullet hole wound fucking, explicit gore, I cannot emphasize this enough STRAIGHT UP PENIS IN BRAIN SEX, brain creampie, guns/shooting/etc, age gap but everyone is a consenting adult, fake out death, Toby vomits a little at the end, cum leaking out of face holes it should never be in, mirror sex, rough dom top Tim, Tim bullies Toby for his trauma regarding his physically abusive father, use of homophobic language/slurs, degradation, just general nastiness, very mean spirited. NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. THIS IS AS DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT AS IT GETS.

A/N: if you skipped the warnings on this one or didn’t read them all the way, go back and fucking look at all of them, otherwise don’t read.

Breaking and entering.

It’s a routine for Tim and Toby at this point.

Tim can brute force open any door, Toby can pick any lock, and both of them have long since shaken off any qualms about taking a life. They’re skilled at it now, neither of them ever leaving the cabin without their weapon of choice. In a line of work like this one, after all, you can never be too prepared.

This was supposed to be easy.

Three people in the house, a couple and their third wheel squatting in an abandoned vacation home. Bare bones interior, probably no weapons.

Probably.

A lot of good ‘probably’ had done them.

Toby had gone in while Tim stood watch in the doorway, just in case one of their targets tried to run out. His revolver fit into his palm like a glove, his grip confident and ready. He’s done this a million times before.

Tim can only hear the altercation going on in the back rooms of the house, but he has a good idea of what’s happening.

The sound of a hatchet coming down onto a throat.

One down.

A woman screams. Something knocks over, a shelf or a table. A splatter. Silence.

Two down.

A man cries out. Something hits the wall. Rogers swears. There’s a struggle. A gunshot rings out.

…A gunshot.

A gunshot?!

Footsteps.

Fast, frantic footsteps coming down the hallway.

Tim readies himself, aiming towards the dark hall with a hand that is far too steady. He’s holding his breath. The steps are getting closer.

In a split second’s time the last target emerges from the shadows, Tim’s gaze zeroes in on the whites of his eyes and the trigger of his revolver is pulled by a swift finger one, two, then three times.

The shots ring in his ears as the body falls limply to the floor, devoid of life in an instant.

Three down.

But still one bullet unaccounted for.

“Rogers?” Tim calls into the hallway, stepping over the body without looking down.

No answer.

“Rogers!” He says again, with more authority this time.

Nothing.

That little fucker runs his mouth like an engine at all hours of the day, but now he’s quiet?

A stabbing pain of fear twists in Tim’s gut.

Their ‘boss’ won’t let them die, he knows that. The pseudo immortality they’ve been given keeps their bodies functioning and regenerating even after some of the worst injuries one could imagine; he knows that, he’s felt it, and yet…

This silence is sickening.

He can’t stop himself from rushing into the makeshift bedroom, heavy boots on the creaky wood floor announcing his presence before he calls for his partner again.

“Answer me, dammit, Rogers!”

He looks around the room, scanning the blood splattered walls. Two bodies are slumped against them, opposite to each other, one with its neck severed and the head hanging on by a thread of viscera, and the other with half of its innards thrown to the floor. Neither are Toby, he knows that in an instant.

Then his gaze trails to the center of the floor.

The cold washes over him so suddenly he feels faint. He can feel the color draining from his face as he lays eyes on his partner, face down on the ground, a thick splatter of blood painting a moonlit halo around his head.

Or what’s left of it, anyways.

A hastily fired bullet has carved a path through the boy’s skull and out the other side.

Clean through.

Tim’s body seizes with shock, disgust, grief, and everything in between, tensing so suddenly and so harshly he nearly passes out. A hand clamps over his mouth as it opens in a silent scream, a gasp that can’t escape because he can’t breathe. He rushes to the body before he can stop himself.

“Rogers?! Rogers, get up!” He demands, but the way his voice cracks and trembles shows his true fear. He shakes his partner’s still body harshly, desperate to jar him into consciousness.

There’s no movement.

Not a sound.

Tim’s eyes start to wet behind his mask. He shakes harder, even bringing a fist down on his shoulder blade.

Nothing.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Toby!” Tim screams, landing a few more punches on his back, “I’ve seen you take worse than this, get up!”

Not even a twitch.

The realization settles in like splinters under Tim’s skin.

He backs away from the body, the room spinning around him. He grasps at his face under his mask, his lungs starting to expand and restrict so fast it’s painful. There’s a searing panic burning the back of his skull and threatening to engulf his entire body. He stumbles back and falls onto one of the now bloodied mattresses their targets had been sleeping on.

This isn’t happening.

He’s not really gone.

He’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone—

A sudden noise makes Tim jump out of his skin, his eyes shooting up to find the source of the sound.

Was that a…cough?

He looks down at Toby’s body.

It hasn’t moved.

Maybe it was just air escaping, or some other weird thing bodies do after death. If he didn’t get up already, then he must be…

Tim nearly screams when Toby suddenly splutters and hacks, his body jerking as he fights for air. Tim is frozen in place as he watches the partner he thought was dead slowly struggle to get up, managing to get on his hands and knees. He coughs again, spitting onto the ground and groaning at the unpleasant but not unfamiliar sight of blood.

“Yeugh…god, it’s in m-my nose,” Toby mumbles with a sniffle, wiping his face with his sleeve. He doesn’t notice Tim as he sits up on his knees, inspecting himself in a way that is far too casual.

…He has no idea what just happened.

Tim can feel his eye twitching as he stands up slowly, his frenzied gaze trained on the younger man as he approaches. Toby looks up at the sound of the footsteps, and Tim has to stop himself from reacting to the sight. His body trembles as he forces himself to stay still.

Toby’s right eye is completely gone. There’s not even a shred of the eyeball left, only a pulsing, bloody cavity he instantly recognizes as the entry hole of a bullet.

Toby blinks up at Tim with his remaining eye.

“S-Shit, I must’ve passed out when—bitch!—when h-he hit me, heh. What, you-you thought I was—grrrk!—d-dead for real?” Toby asks with a head tilt and an amused giggle. Tim’s eyes narrow.

Slowly Tim turns his head, following the imaginary trail the bullet would have made based on where Toby fell.

Right there, lodged into the decrepit wall right next to the doorway.

The first bullet.

Clean through, and out the back.

Toby follows his gaze, squinting in the dark to see whatever it is his senior partner is seeing.

“…O-Oh shit,” He mutters, “Talk about a-a close—don’t listen!—a close call—c-call—call me!—hehe…”

Tim stares back at him with a look in his eyes that says ‘You have no fucking idea.’

“…W-Why are you looking at me— a-at me like that?”

Tim looks around. For some reason, he’s not sure how to answer that.

That is, until he lays eyes on a conspicuously mirror shaped object draped in a sheet and pushed into the corner.

Yeah, it’s easier to just show him.

Tim shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he walks over to the mirror, trying not to rush. He’s annoyed with Toby for scaring him like that and nearly bringing him to tears, even if it’s not really his fault. Maybe startling him a bit will take the edge off that embarrassment.

Toby’s eye follows him closely as he walks, then watches as his hand slowly raises to grasp the sheet obscuring the mirror. His brow raises, curiosity piqued.

The sheet is pulled away in an instant. The cloud of dust that results makes Toby cough, trying to wave it away from his face. He squints through the grimy mist, struggling to make out his own reflection in the mirror.

“L-Look, Tim, I don’t know what it-it is that you n-need me to—suck it! fuck you!—see, but I-I don’t— Oh my fucking God?!”

There it is.

Toby crawls closer to the mirror, his remaining eye wider than Tim had ever seen it and the hole where the matching one would’ve been stretching gruesomely.

Tim winces. Toby can’t feel it, even if he could feel pain normally all that nerve damage would make it numb, but Tim can’t stop imagining what it would feel like.

“…Jesus Christ…” Is all Toby can manage as he looks at what remains of his face. He feels around the wound, getting far too close to touching the exposed insides for Tim’s comfort. Toby stares at himself for a long few moments. Tim can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Then Toby turns to his partner, and to Tim’s surprise, he’s sporting the widest, most lopsided grin he’s ever seen, his crooked teeth stained with blood on one side where it runs down his cheek from the wound. Tim holds back a shudder.

“The fuck you cheesin’ for?” Tim growls, walking around behind Toby to see him in the mirror, “You nearly got half your damn face blown off!”

“Relax, o-old man!” Toby replies without missing a beat, “In a-a few days there won’t e-even be a— b-be a mark…”

Tim rolls his eyes behind his mask. That’s true, yes. An injury this extensive will take a bit to regenerate, but it’ll grow back like nothing happened. Still, Toby doesn’t even seem mildly disturbed. He practically saw himself die, and here he is giggling to himself and moving his face in odd ways just to see the horrid wound contort in the mirror. The quiet squelching noises it makes nearly bring Tim to vomit.

“…You’re not even a little put off by the fact that…you know. You’re missing half your fuckin’ face?!”

Toby lets out a sharp laugh at Tim’s outburst, amused by his clear discomfort.

“Don’t be s-such a—bitch! bastard!— baby, I-I think it’s—asshole!—I think it’s k-kinda cool. Besides…”

He turns to look up at Tim, yellow teeth glowing in the moonlight that leaks in through the busted windows.

“…I-I got a brand new hole f-for you to try out.”

Tim gasps in disgust. Before he can think a hand comes up to smack Toby upside the head, though he immediately regrets it when a splatter of blood is thrown to the floor as Toby rocks forward.

“Don’t say shit like that, you dirty fuckin’ pervert!”

Toby nearly breaks out into hysterics at that, grabbing his sides as he laughs like a maniac. His tics increase tenfold at the sudden rush of energy, his fingers flexing unnaturally and tearing at his sweatshirt.

“H-How can I not?! You m-make it so f-fucking—fuck! funny!— fun, haha!” Toby replies, his voice cracking as his head jerks involuntarily in all directions.

Tim crosses his arms, huffing in annoyance but not sure what to say. He can feel his cheeks getting warm under his mask. He hates when Toby laughs at him. It pisses him off like nothing else.

He stares daggers into Toby’s restless reflection as he leans into the mirror to inspect his wound again, mumbling to himself endlessly and doing his best to stay still.

Toby’s rambling starts to fade out as Tim glares at his mirror image. He can feel something dark bubbling up inside of him, its vines sprawling out and over his body as he marinates in his thoughts.

He thought he was gone.

For a second there, he really thought he’d lost Toby for good.

And now here he is, without a care in the world, looking at his own fucking gunshot wound like it’s a new tattoo.

Someone oughta teach this kid a lesson.

Tim’s not sure what comes over him, but something, a nagging little thought has settled into his brain and taken root there. It thumps in the back of his skull like a heartbeat under the floorboards. He pulls one of his hands from its glove, looking down at his bare palm.

“…You think this is all some joke, don’t you?” Tim mutters, forcing the words through gritted teeth. Toby doesn’t even turn to look at him.

“W-Why are so damn u-uptight, old man? It’s not—grrrk!—it’s not like I d-died. Psuedo-immortality, r-remember?”

“But you could’ve. You know at the end of the day you can’t really trust anything that monster gives you. It would kill you in an instant if it felt threatened or betrayed.”

“T-The fuck is your— i-is your problem?!”

Suddenly Toby isn’t all smiles anymore. His head jerks to the side violently, pulling a sickening pop from his neck. Tim is used to these mood swings, but that doesn’t stop the heavy tension that settles over the room.

“Y-You’re always on my back about something, a-aren’t you old man?!” Toby hisses. Tim’s ungloved hand squeezes and flexes at his side.

“You a-always got something to say about m-me, or what I—fucker! shit!—what I-I think, you can never j-just let me—“

Toby is cut off as a high pitched cry is violently forced from his throat, making his body spasm as it dissolves into an animalistic moan like neither of them have ever heard. It feels like every nerve in his body is seizing, splitting apart and contorting under his skin. He almost screams at the feeling, but he can’t manage it. He’s choking on nothing.

There’s a sickening squelch as something is ripped from the back of his skull, and he falls forward onto his hands, dizzy and struggling to breathe.

“W-What…what the f-fuck…was…”

He can’t even finish the sentence between his inability to process the unnatural sensation that just overtook him and the indescribable feeling still rippling through his body.

Slowly he cranes his neck to look back up into the mirror. Instantly his eye is locked onto Tim’s, but he isn’t looking back. He’s staring at something else.

He follows Tim’s gaze down slowly, swallowing thickly with a sudden nervousness. His eye widens as it falls on the thing that has captivated Tim‘s gaze:

His ungloved hand, the middle and ring fingers now dripping with blood and viscera not his own.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Did…d-did you just…”

Tim doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

For the first time in a long time, Toby is still. His twitching and jerking ceases, his face halts its uncomfortable wrenching; He’s still, and soundless.

There’s a beat of silence where they both just stare at Tim’s bloodied hand, neither of them moving an inch. It’s like time has stopped in this instant. Toby can feel his heartbeat throbbing in his brain. Something in his chest is twisting and turning with a burning emotion he can’t quite place yet.

He doesn’t even have time to process the sudden movement before Tim has plunged his fingers into the wound once again.

This time Toby is forced to watch his reflection in the mirror as Tim violates the gorey cavity, thick digits rooting around inside his head and shooting a new sensation through him with every touch. His entire body stiffens, his mouth falling open involuntarily as he loses control of it. He can feel his senses being reduced to mush as he groans, the endless sound falling from his lips in unintelligible waves. It’s mindless, desperate babbling, but he can’t do anything else.

Toby watches the depraved scene in the mirror until his eye starts to roll back in his head, further than it should be able to. Tim watches the hazel iris recede until only white is left. Only then does he finally give some reprieve, yanking his hand back and shaking off the chunks that come with it.

Toby’s head bows towards the ground as he catches his breath, his entire body rocking as he heaves desperately for air. He’s too preoccupied to notice the way Tim is leering down at him, his breathing now hot and labored.

“…How did that feel?”

Toby sneers at the question, not looking up.

“H-How did it feel?! You’re d-digging around—shhhh!— in m-my fucking brain, d-dipshit, how do you— d-do you think it f-feels?!”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. I know it doesn’t hurt, so how does it feel?”

For some reason, Toby doesn’t have an answer to that. He wants to snap back with something witty and biting, to tell him it feels like Hell and back and if he doesn’t stop he’ll scatter his brains next, but…

That wouldn’t be the total truth.

“…It…I-It feels…” He stammers, unable to find the words. He sits back up on his knees, locking eyes with his partner in the mirror. Tim is silent. He’s anticipating the rest of that sentence. Toby thinks for a moment, a series of tongue clicks in an odd rhythm sounding as he pauses.

“…It…I-It wasn’t bad, if that’s w-what you’re looking for.”

Tim’s breath hitches.

Only Toby could hear a sound so small, yet so telling.

He has to push this further.

“A-Actually it was kind of…k-kind of good, y-you know? I-I don’t know—rrrngh!—how to explain it, but i-it just…it’s like n-nothing I’ve ever f-felt or imagined, I-I—“

Toby cuts himself off with a gasp as Tim grasps his hair tightly. His other hand moves to his belt. The sound of the metal buckle makes Toby shiver.

Tim leans down a bit, speaking lowly to his partner.

“Keep talking.”

Toby’s stomach flips.

Tim’s not giving him a choice.

“I-It’s like…fuck, it’s l-like every muscle in my— in my b-body is spasming like c-crazy,” Toby continues, watching with crazed eyes as Tim slides the belt from its loops. He grits his teeth as it clatters to the ground.

He doesn’t want this to stop.

He has to keep going.

“I-It’s like f-fire under my skin, b-but I can’t feel t-the burn…”

Tim’s hand moves to the fly of his jeans.

“…I-I lose all control of m-my body, I can’t—fuck off!—I-I can’t even think, i-it just all turns i-into gibberish…”

Tim tugs down his zipper, and Toby can see his twitching bulge straining against his boxers.

“…It’s l-like I can feel myself l-losing my mind, and I c-can’t do anything— d-do anything about it, I c-can’t even p-put—put it back! put it back!—put together a sentence…”

Tim hooks a thumb under the waistband of his boxers. He starts to push them down.

“…F-Fuck, Tim, I-I wanna feel it again.”

Toby clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the moan that threatens to break free as he watches Tim’s erection spring free from the confines of his clothes. He’s thick and uncut, throbbing with rabid need. Toby shudders as his partner lets out a relieved groan, breathing hard under his mask.

“S-Shit, Tim…y-your—your cock! your cock!—n-no! I mean you’re—your cock! your cock! fat cock!—dammit! I-I didn’t mean to s-say that—!”

“I’m taking you up on your offer, Rogers…” Tim growls, cutting off Toby’s attempt to explain himself. He grabs Toby’s head with both hands, fingers digging into the front of his wound on one side and the gash in his cheek on the other. This time Toby doesn’t bother to stop the moan that crawls up his throat as he feels Tim’s cock rut against the back of his head.

“…I wanna give this new hole of yours a proper fucking. What do you say?”

Toby can’t see Tim’s mouth, but he can tell he’s smiling from the way his eyes crinkle at the corners behind his mask. Toby groans at the thought. He can’t stop the crooked grin that spreads across his pale face like butter on a hot pan.

“P…P-Please, Tim,” He whispers, and he knows he’s hit a nerve when he feels Tim‘s grip tighten for a moment.

“…Please what, Rogers?”

He figured he wouldn’t get it that easy.

“Please, Tim,” Toby continues, sucking in a breath and swallowing his pride, “I-I want you t-to fuck me, please—“

Tim ruts against the back of his head again, barely brushing his wound. He wants more.

“P-Please, fuck, I-I’m—need! give it!—I’m begging you! I need it, I-I need you to fuck m-my brains out, please!”

Tim shifts his hips. He’s lining up at the opening.

It’s working.

“Please, please, p-please, Tim, I-I want you to f-fuck my brain! I n-need to—fffuck! fuck! fuck!—I need t-to feel it! Please, dammit, j-just fucking—!”

Toby doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

Tim shoves himself inside the bloody cavity without warning, forcing Toby’s brain out of the way as his cock enters. The scream that rocks Toby’s body is as lustful as it is carnal and gruesome. He reaches up on instinct and grabs Tim’s wrists, not trying to pull his hands away but holding on for dear life before he loses the ability to move at all.

“You broke so easy,” Tim sneers as he bottoms out, talking over Toby’s uncontrollable moaning, “What would the others think if they saw you begging for dick like a whore on the street? Huh?!”

He punctuates his sentence with a sudden rut of his hips, making Toby yelp and his body jerk. His nails dig into Tim’s arms, and the pain is delicious.

Tim studies the scene before him in the mirror.

It’s disgusting. It’s horrid. He can see the tip of his leaking cock resting inside his partner’s skull.

He doesn’t want this to end.

He’s going to relish this opportunity, every sickening moment of it.

“What would they think…”

Tim starts to pull back, breath trembling at the slick noises from the movement.

“…If they knew I had you whining for me like a dirty fuckin’ sissy?!”

He pushes back in with even more force than before. Blood is forced out the front of the wound, dripping down Toby’s face and onto the floor, leaving a red trail on his skin. His meaningless babbling is music to Tim’s ears.

Again Tim pulls back, faster this time, and pushes in again. He watches Toby’s face in the mirror as he finds his rhythm, completely enamored as it contorts with overwhelming sensations that no human should ever experience. His mouth is hanging completely open, his tongue limp and lying against his chin as he pants and wails desperately like a dog in heat. He’s starting to drool from the lack of muscle control.

There’s something about watching Toby quite literally lose his mind at his hand that makes Tim feel like God.

“You know, I like you a lot better when you can’t run your mouth,” Tim says with a chuckle. He digs his fingers into the front of the wound, groping around in the cavity and feeling the pulsing meat shift under the pads of his fingertips.

“You’re lucky I’m not gonna tell anyone about this, not gonna tell the others you’re a nasty fuckin’ faggot who’s so desperate for dick you’d take it in your brain…at least someone’s finally making use of the lump of meat in your head, eh?!”

He pulls Toby’s skull back on his cock hard and fast, fucking into the hole with more fervor than he thought possible. His arms are bleeding now from where Toby’s nails are digging in, his knuckles locked up as his motor function is ripped to shreds.

Tim’s eyes trail down the reflection as he thrusts, down to Toby’s body and stopping at the tent in his pants. There’s a painfully obvious stain on his groin now where his erection is straining against the denim of his jeans with wretched need. His precum is leaking through the material in viscous waves, a constant stream of shameful arousal. It looks like it hurts, like his zipper is about to burst, but Tim has no interest in granting him even that small mercy of freeing his hard-on.

“Damn,” He mumbles to himself, watching the liquid pool where the tip of his partner’s cock pushes against his pants, “You really are enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re not just tolerating it to see how far I’ll go, you’re getting off on this shit! You’re a dirty fuckin’ boy slut!”

He’s getting mean, meaner than he really needs to be, but he doesn’t care. Toby might not even be able to hear him, and even if he can, Tim’s not going to waste this chance while his partner can’t snap back.

He ruts his hips more intentionally, trying to hit every spot he can. He’s catching on to patterns, that certain touches here or there make Toby twitch or jerk or yelp involuntarily. His eye has rolled back in his head almost completely. It looks agonizing, and it only makes Tim thrust faster.

“Then again, in that messed up little mind of yours I bet this is nothing. You’re so used to gettin’ beat on this practically soft to you, ain’t it?! Or did your old man slam your head into the concrete too many times for you to know the damn difference?!”

Tim’s practically screaming at him now, drool running down his chin and neck as he loses himself to the pleasure. It’s unbearably hot under his mask, but he can’t bring himself to release his death grip on Toby’s head to take it off.

“I should’ve put you in your place a long time ago, lord knows you’ve needed it for who knows how long!”

Tim angles his hips upward a bit, brushing against a certain spot that makes Toby tense and cry out suddenly. The thing Tim notices most, though, is the way Toby’s cock twitches in his pants. It spurts just a bit, not climaxing yet but getting dangerously close. The stain on the front of his pants is only growing with each passing second that Tim violates his brain.

“Oh, you really are disgusting,” Tim huffs, “You’re really about to cum in your pants, and I haven’t even touched your cock? That’s pathetic, Rogers.”

Tim angles his hips up again just to watch the precum gush from his partner’s tip, his stomach flipping in his gut at the thought that Toby is so, so damn close, but he can’t beg for more or touch himself or even move at all.

“Nngh…Like hell I’m gonna let a little bitch boy like you cum first, though.”

He takes a moment to adjust his grip. He’s preparing for the last stretch.

The speed of his thrusting increases tenfold, completely losing all sense of rhythm. He can feel the pleasure taking him over, melting his resolve and screaming at him to go, go, go, just keeping going, go until you can’t anymore, and that’s exactly what he intends to do.

“You better take all of my cum, Rogers,” Tim growls through gritted teeth, “Though I ain’t exactly giving you a choice, am I? You’ll take it whether you like it or not…”

He hasn’t looked away from Toby’s face in the mirror. The sight of it twitching and frozen in a state of screaming ecstasy is like a horrific work of art. Tim’s never going to forget it. He won’t forget any of this. Every second is burned into his brain, and he’s more than happy to keep it that way.

The gory cavity is carved into the shape of Tim’s cock by now, each thrust only feeding the growing puddle of blood and viscera on the ground below Toby. That stain will stay there forever, Tim thinks. A permanent reminder of the debauchery the two of them are so gleefully partaking in. The idea of someone else finding this old house scattered with bodies, walking around and not even knowing the half of what these walls have been subjected to…

God, that’s good.

The knot in Tim’s stomach starts to tighten.

He can’t hold on for much longer. Neither can Toby.

Tim angles his hips in that special way again, hitting that sensitive spot over and over and over again with each frenzied thrust. Toby’s practically soaking himself now, so close to the edge but not quite close enough to fall off, though he runs the risk with each passing second. It’s barely a matter of time.

Faster, faster, faster, that’s the only thing Tim can think.

More, more, more, that’s all he can think about.

Faster, faster, faster, more, more, more, more, more more more moremoremore—

“Shit!”

Suddenly Tim throws his head back with a wild noise, his cock releasing without warning into the bloody cavity he’s been so graciously desecrating. At the same time he brushes that spot again, and it’s finally enough to give Toby his release, too, only a second later. His cum soaks the front of his now completely ruined jeans, the shameful stain running down his groin and thighs. The scream he lets out as his climax rocks his body will haunt Tim’s dreams.

Tim’s thrusting doesn’t slow to a stop until it feels like his balls are empty. Only then does he finally go still, allowing himself to breathe. He looks up at the ceiling as he pants, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment as his orgasm gradually washes away.

Finally Tim allows his fingers to unfurl, releasing Toby as he pulls his cock from his ruined skull. It comes back soaked in blood and sticky with viscera, taking a few chunks with it. He tries to step back, but Toby’s still gripping his wrists.

He manages to shake him off, only for Toby’s body to go completely limp and fall forward, face first onto the dusty wood floor and into the puddle of mixed bodily fluids. He twitches a bit, but doesn’t move or show any signs of life beyond that. Anyone else would think he’s dead.

“I’m not falling for that again,” Tim mumbles with an eye roll, using his discarded glove to wipe off his now flaccid cock before tucking it back into his boxers and zipping up his pants.

He crouches over Toby, grabbing his hair and forcing him up from the floor back onto his knees. All Toby can manage is a pathetic groan. Tim studies his partner’s fucked-out face in the mirror for a moment, watching as the blood and seed lazily roll down his cheek and chin. He can’t help but chuckle to himself.

“…Anything to say for yourself?” Tim asks teasingly, shaking him a bit.

The only response he gets is the sound of gagging as Toby retches. Tim barely moves back in time to watch him cough up a horrible concoction of blood, cum, and God knows what else without being in the splash zone.

“Goddammit, watch it!” Tim scolds cruelly, “If you hurl on my new boots I’m leaving you like this.”

He at least has the decency to let Toby finish before scooping up his limp, helpless body. He carries him under his arm like a log, not taking any care to be gentle.

“I’ll get you back home to Eyeless,” Tim mutters, “He doesn’t ask too many questions, and he’ll patch you up good ‘til you’re all healed…”

Tim tries not to think too hard as he carries his partner out of the house, away from the crime scene and into the endless wooded darkness.

All is quiet for a moment, save for the sound of Tim’s heavy steps on the dry leaves. That is, until what Tim thinks is a muffled giggle sounds from his partner. He stops and looks back, but there’s no more noise.

Dammit, he thinks.

Neither of us are going to be forgetting this.

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eschergirls · 1 month ago

Text

And after a few days break, here's the third and final part of the "Let's Draw Manga Sexy Gals" posts (here are parts one and two if you missed it).

These pages are just kind of strange: the arbitrary distinction between "anime" and "manga", apparently anime girls are all just little children compared to manga girls, the differences between male bodies and female bodies, that women apparently just vanish after age 40 (and they become space aliens as teenagers).

But my favourite is the "coke bottle" page where a) that's not what a coke bottle is shaped like, but also 2) the actual woman drawn there is the OPPOSITE of the shape they depict (which again, isn't what a coke bottle is shaped like).

The bottle they drew is wider in the hips than in the chest/shoulders, the woman they drew is wider in the shoulders than in the hips. xD

This feels like another situation where the person writing the text (or who drew that coke bottle) wasn't on the same page as the person doing the figure.

I also love "women can be depicted as four circles", that should be a meme. And the four circles woman looks kinda like a bunny.

Anyway, I hope everybody learned a lot about drawing manga sexy gals. I know I did.

For those interested in the uncensored versions of the first 2 images, there are links in the EscherGirls.com post.

(Cover and snippets from Let's Draw Manga Sexy Gals by Heisuke Shimohara)

I've included descriptions for text readers in the images, but the longer commentary on each page is too long to fit the description boxes, so I'm including the transcription of just the text below:

Transcription of image 1:

Depicting Softness of Form - Part 1 The bottom line for drawing an attractive woman is to effectively project the softness of her body. No one likes a rock-hard body on a girl! Here are some techniquest o use for bringing out a soft form. The curves of the female form can be represented as four circles. The "coke-bottle figure", long used to describe the ideal female form, is characterized by a small waistline and rounded buttocks.

Transcription of image 2:

Differences Between the Male and Female Form - Part 1 The male and formale form exhibit several distinguishing features. These differences are often exaggerated in drawings. Generally speaking, the male form is based on an inverted triangle, while the female form is based on an upright triangle. Shown below are the three body parts that most distinguish men from women. Shoulders Give this portion some mass. (pointing at male shoulder) Make the neck thin and long. (pointing at female neck) Chest The male chest should have a square, rigid appearance while the female chest should be curved and soft. Waist and Leg Bones Straight waist (pointing at male waist) Slim down the torso for a pinched-in waistline (pointing at female waist)

Transcription of Image 3:

A comparison of Manga and Anime Characters - Part 1 There are too many differences between the two artistic styles of manga and anime to describe all of them here, but we can examine each through erotic illustratoin. Here are some examples typical of this genre.

Transcription of Image 4:

Manga: Mature facial features with realistic eyes, nose and mouth Anime: Eyes are comparatively large in relations to other features. The ears have a simple shape. Comparing Body Proportions: Always keep movement in mind. A typical anime character is designed with simple lines, making it easier to draw in action poses.

Transcription of Image 5:

Facial Differences in Women According to Age A conservative hairstyle with somewhat subdued facial features 30 to 40 years old: Sharper facial features with a more provocative hairstyle. 20 to 30 years old: This face is borderline anime style. Notice how the unnaturally large eyes extend further down the face. 10 through teens: Like an anime character, the eyes are unusually large and positioned just below the center of the face.

#how to draw books #let's draw manga sexy gals #organless torsos #manga art #representation of women in comics #general sexism #general portrayal of women in fiction

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caffedrine · 4 months ago

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Chevalier Michel - Beyond the Connection Between the Past and the Present – Event Summary

This is mostly a summary for me - I make no promises on the accuracy of what’s happening. I’m not nearly fluent enough to get half the jokes/innuendo much less accurate plot points.

As usual, Emma brings tea and sweets to the garden pavilion for Chevalier. Unusually, she brings enough for a third person. Once she arrives, she apologizes for making the two wait.

Chevalier and kid!Chevalier do not look up from their respective books. The atmosphere between them remains the same.

It had been surprising to run into kid!Chevalier in but, looking at them side by side, it is clear that this really is the child version of Chevalier.

She explains that she brought Chevalier’s tea without milk or sugar as usual, but maybe kid!Chevalier would like something different? Maybe something sweeter?

Kid!Chevalier tells her that he already said she wasn’t required to behave considerately towards him. Emma agrees that he did say that, but even if it wasn’t required, she still wants to take care of him. She offers some scones that she baked earlier, adding that they would go well with the tea.

Kid!Chevalier does not look impressed.

(Just imagine this but three feet shorter)

Emma gestures at the pile of books that seems to increase every time they are out of her direct line of sight and asks if kid!Chevalier found anything useful. She imagines kid!Chevalier is looking for a way to return to his original time, and she wonders how close he is to finding it.

Chevalier tells Emma that it’s impossible to find. At Emma’s confused expression, Chevalier explains that he has already read every book in the imperial court, and there is nothing about time travel. This is something Emma should have figured out for herself.

Emma asks what the pile of books is for, and Chevalier muses that kid!Chevalier must be bored.

Kid!Chevalier adds that he doesn’t have anything else he needs to do.

Emma is surprised at how calm the child is. On the other hand, there are lots of books that kid!Chevalier has never read, so she hopes that this will be interesting to him.

Chevalier tells her to go ahead and leave the child be. He knows how to take care of himself – he might look like a child but he’s not all that different from adult!Chevalier. Emma is confused, and Chevalier asks if this looks like a normal child to her.

Well, yes. Maybe because she’s spent a lot of time around adult!Chevalier, but kid!Chevalier, despite how well-mannered he is, is still pretty childish.

Both Chevaliers are appalled.

Emma muses that their reaction is the exact same.

Moving on, Emma asks if there’s anything she can help kid!Chevalier with.

Nope.

Emma asks if she can take care of him.

She’s bothering him.

Emma explains that if there is anything that is bothering him, she wants to help him.

Kid!Chevalier ignores her.

Chevalier explains that he’s just not used to being doted on. As a child, there was no one like her who would take care of him, and so he has no idea how to handle her affection.

Kid!Chevalier remarks that his adult self seems to enjoy pointless chatter. Chevalier muses that he might be right. Sulkily, kid!Chevalier doubts he will ever become like Chevalier. Chevalier agrees that the way his life turned out surprised even him.

Awh, adult!Chevalier is eating the scones. Unfortunately, kid!Chevalier shows no interest in them at all.

Suddenly kid!Chevalier asks why Chevalier is eating the scones so carelessly. Chevalier asks if Emma seems like someone who would poison him?

Oh, what about an accidental poisoning?

Chevalier thinks that if Emma was able to poison the scones, accidentally or not, then it’s his fault for not being able to detect poison. However, he is not so unskilled that he would make that kind of mistake.

Chevalier notes that kid!Chevalier doesn’t have that much confidence in his own skills. He recalls that he couldn’t detect poison that well as a child either. But don’t worry, Chevalier had experienced enough poisonings that he can tell these scones are safe.

Kid!Chevalier muses over this information, it sounds like even a monster like himself can grow to some extent.

Emma snaps that Chevalier is not a monster.

Oops, she didn't mean to be so loud. But still, this is a point that is important to her. In a more normal tone, she explains that it's normal for humans to be cautious and grow from their experiences. Kid!Chevalier asks if she thinks he looks like a human child.

Of course!

Chevalier snorts and notes that Emma is a bit simple. Kid!Chevalier snorts and agrees. Emma decides to take this as a compliment from the two of them, her heartwarming at the sound of amusement from kid!Chevalier.

Suddenly, kid!Chevalier stands up from the table, and Emma asks where he’s going. He explains that he’s finished reading all the books here, so he’ll head out to the library. Emma offers to accompany him, but he tells her she is unnecessary.

But what if a book he wants is in a high place? She could reach it for him!

Kid!Chevalier predicts that Emma will fall off the ladder reaching that high book for him. Emma assures him it has been over 16 hours since she last fell. Chevalier laughs at this, startling kid!Chevalier.

He explains that he never thought that he’d be able to laugh like that. Emma explains that she fell in love with Chevalier’s laugh and smile.

Kid!Chevalier shakes his head, this is nonsense. He’s merely a beast wearing a human’s skin.

Emma disagrees, it's more like he’s a human who is wearing the skin of a beast. Of course, the same goes for kid!Chevalier.

Kid!Chevalier grumbles that she is a very strange person. Emma tells him that she’ll consider that a compliment as well.

Kid!Chevalier returns to his seat, and Chevalier asks if he wasn’t planning on getting more books. Kid!Chevalier explains that he has changed his mind, he’s decided he can read books whenever he wants. Then he reaches out, plucks up a scone, and eats it. Emma gushes over him, asking if he minds it, if it suits his taste. He will admit that it is edible.

Emma proffers the jams available, telling him to choose whatever he likes. Kid!Chevalier grumbles that she is something to make such a fuss over jams. Emma explains that she’s really happy, kid!Chevalier looks like he thinks the scone was delicious.

Chevalier agrees, he never objectively looked at himself as a child, but right now, kid!Chevalier’s emotions are on his face.

Kid!Chevalier looks grumpy as Chevalier notes that he just has no experience.

Kid!Chevalier grumbles that they’re acting like he’s just some kid. Emma agrees and asks him to let her pamper him more.

Emma has long believed that the reason Chevalier is the way he is was due to his environment rather than his talent. If so, she wants both the adult and the child to know that someone here loves them.

#ikemen prince #ikepri #chevalier michel

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anachronisims · 5 months ago

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How to EFFECTIVELY Use Empty Standby List to Reduce Flashing and Crashing

This tutorial is for TS2. Obviously. This is virtually the last "chapter" of advice for the Pink Flashing Survey Report (still forthcoming as a single readable thing but posted in bits and pieces over the last six months). PS it's a lonnnnnnng post. Ctrl+F "tldr" for the very short version once you open the cut.

"Part 1" of the Empty Standby List ("ESL") tutorial was already written comprehensively with screenshots by Digi at her wordpress. Following Digi's tutorial will get you set up with ESL as a routine automated background task your computer runs, typically every five minutes.

@gayars set up two instances of the routine, each running every five minutes, staggered two/three minutes apart. In other words, task 1 runs at 12:00, task 2 runs at 12:03, task 1 runs at 12:05, task 2 runs at 12:08, etc. However, I found that this negatively impacted the graphical performance of my game, notably by having the ESL task window flash over the game window, which I had never seen before, nor since reverting back to a single 5-minute task routine.

Anyway. Go do Digi's tutorial if you haven't already; I'll wait.

Background on Why this Matters

So, now your computer will be wiping the standby memory every five minutes. The thing is, this won't be able to have much impact on your game unless you wait to let it wipe before you do a major loading action.

Major loading actions are, in general order of strain (most to least strenuous):

Loading a full neighborhood.

Loading a large (3x4 or bigger) populated lot.

Loading a large unpopulated lot.

Loading actual CAS, if you have a lot of non-defaulted CC.

Loading a medium (3x3) populated lot.

Loading a medium unpopulated lot.

Loading a small (2x3 or smaller) populated lot.

Loading a small unpopulated lot.

Loading CAS catalogs from within a lot (e.g. using FFS clothing tool, "Change Appearance" on the mirror, shopping for clothes/trying on clothes on a community lot).

Turning up your lot view settings (generating other lots' lot imposters within your current lot)/panning the camera around.

You should already be doing at least all medium- and large-lot loading with the Lot View Settings Juggling Method, and “uint LotSkirtIncrease” removed from your userstartup.cheat - otherwise whenever you load a lot you are compounding the strain by also having the neighborhood load at the same time.

Using Resource Monitor Effectively

If you watched the Jessa Channel tutorial on flashing, she recommended downloading a third-party RAM usage monitoring software. This is unnecessary. For purposes of reducing your crashing, all you need is the native Windows program "Resource Monitor" that she also recommends.

To open it:

Click the Windows symbol/start menu.

Begin typing "Resource Monitor."

Click Resource Monitor when it shows up.

Once it is open, get to the useful information:

Click the "Memory" tab.

Make sure the "Processes" and "Physical Memory" subs are fully open, as above.

Sort by "Commit (KB)."

Each time you reopen Resource Monitor, it should restore your last view settings, so you won't have to repeat these steps.

While Resource Monitor is still open, "Pin" it to the taskbar so it will always be readily accessible.

Right-click the icon on the taskbar.

Click "Pin to taskbar."

If it says "Unpin from taskbar" you have already done this step :)

Now comes the monitoring part. You will focus on the dark-blue "Standby" block of the bar graph on Physical Memory.

Every fifth minute, when the ESL task runs, this will flash down to 0 and then pop up to about 30-75, depending on what you are doing. It will go higher faster if you are doing stuff, obviously, and hover pretty low if your computer is just sitting still. TLDR the remainder of this tutorial: only take stress actions when Standby is below 100.

As we all know too well, TS2 has a 4gb RAM limit. The problem is, TS2 seems to count the memory that is in standby, too, not just the committed/working set. Thus, before you take a major loading action (that is going to push up to 1.5gb into Standby), you need to wait for Standby to wipe so the game doesn't accidentally think it's using more memory than it is. Got it?

This is how much RAM my game is using when my neighborhood opens, pretty closely zoomed in on any particular lot. If it is zoomed out further - like a whole city block - both committed and working set are easily over 2.2gb. When I pan around the neighborhood, it continues going up. Portions of the hood that go back out of view seem to get relegated to standby, but yes, my game has crashed just from looking too much at my neighborhood from too wide an angle. Unless I slow down and let ESL run before moving on to the next section.

Six months of diligent Resource Manager monitoring has resulted in substantial reductions of crashing and flashing on my first hood view load and first lot view load. It is not 100% guaranteed, but it cuts it back to Very Playable Levels. And when I have tested the theory by purposefully not letting ESL run before a stress point, it always flashes and/or crashes within the next couple minutes.

SO! Here's what I do when I'm launching my game.

Because of overheating concerns, I always fully shut down my computer when I'm not using it for more than an hour. If I have been playing and experience a flash or crash, I will restart before trying again. @infinitesimblr, a survey Respondent who reported virtually no flashing or crashing despite a vast CC catalog, also recommends restarting between using Bodyshop or SimPE and the full game. I have found it may make a difference with Bodyshop (which I use too rarely to make a pseudoscientific claim) but that I have found basically no impact going from SimPE to the game. YMMV.

Immediately after Windows is done loading, I open Resource Monitor and wait a few minutes. Often background updates begin running and the Standby bar goes crazy - sometimes filling up the entire available RAM - and I just let it sit and do its thing. (Usually I start the computer right before my kid's bedtime so I am not actively waiting on it or anything. Go take a shower or make a sandwich or drink some water, like you did in the old days when the game itself took 20 minutes to load.)

Once the standby bar levels out and is consistently peaking no higher than about 250mb between ESL wipes, after the next ESL wipe, I will launch the game. (Usually between logging into Windowsat the beginning of storytime and checking Resource Monitor before we go do tuck-in, it is reliably hanging out below 100 unless a big TS4 or Windows update was downloading.)

Reminder: do not delete thumbnails anymore prior to launching the game. I also have turned off RPC's clear caches option and have observed faster loading times with minimal increases in crashing.

After the neighborhood selection screen comes up, wait for ESL to run again before opening your neighborhood.

If you have continue to have more than VERY sporadic hood load flashing after taking these steps, you should try launching into a subhood if you have one, then pivoting to the main hood if that's where you're playing that session after yet another ESL wipe. If that doesn't help you simply need to thin out your hood or accept the flashing. (I ended up deleting about 25% of my deco trees and 10-15 outer-lying lots that will be re-placed in a subhood.)

After the hood is loaded, navigate to the lot you want, but DO NOT actually load that lot until ESL runs yet again. Ditto for CAS - Do not select "Create New Family" until ESL has run again.

Play should be proceed as normal at this point. You probably don't need to alt-tab back to Resource Monitor again unless your sims are going traveling or you are changing play lots.

BONUS TIP #1: You can put a shortcut to the ESL routine on your desktop and push it manually (just double click the icon) if you don't feel like waiting once the game is loaded. I have had imperfect results with this vs. just waiting the five minutes, though, because the game wants to run through some stuff and flush it. But it's an option for you to experiment with.

BONUS TIP #2: If you have a really deep clothing/hair CC catalog, try to avoid using the FFS clothing tool option where you select every outfit for the sim, and their hair and makeup, at the same time. Instead, choose individual outfits by type and use the regular mirror option to change appearance (or SimBlender has it, I think, so they can do it where they already are).

#ts2 resources #pink flashing #ts2 pink soup #pink soup #ts2 tutorial

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hainuwelle · 8 months ago

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The third man theory

Note: This theory takes as starting point Aurora's Fun theory. It states that the invention in which Gaster fell was a new version of a warp door that would have allowed the monsters of the underground to escape to a timeline in which the war against the humans never happened. If this experiment were to work, it would have allowed for a happier ending than the True Pacifist one, because more accidents and deaths would have been prevented.

Sadly, Gaster's experiments went wrong and he was scattered "across time and space". The only other time in Undertale this expression is used is when we call Papyrus in Sans's room, the one that gets us lost in a seemingly endless darkness when we enter it, with a door that suspiciously looks like Mystery Man's grey door and Deltarune's warp doors. This key expression used by Papyrus tells us Gaster's creation and untimely demise should have something to do with these doors.

If this theory is correct, the invention in which Gaster fell would have been under our nose the whole time.

With the FUN theory video in mind, something about Mr. Elegance's dialogues caught my eye.

Evidence 1 - Mr. Elegance, if we didn't previously talk to Jigsaw Joe:

Evidence 2 - Mr. Elegance if we previously talked to Jigsaw Joe:

For a flaming teleportation door one would assume to be magical, the vocabulary used to talk about it sure sounds mechanical and mundanely machine-like : « Fix up », « working on it », « got this door workin’ », « it might break », « fixed that door », « it should work without any issues ». Intriguingly, it looks old, and yet, it is new to the Darkners, who have never seen it before. Is it really Darkner technology?

Of course, to an experienced Undertale player, it looks familiar, similar to the one to Sans's room.

This brings us to my question: Why did Toby Fox add these two different Mr. Elegance dialogues about this door? What purpose do they serve?

It can't be to alert the player that they could malfunction if we haven’t previously talked to Jigsaw Joe, since they always work properly regardless. It’s not like this triggers a side quest asking you to talk to the puzzle man if you don't want a 1/6 chance of the door teleporting you into the void. And they don't serve a comedic purpose either. There is no joke, no punchline. So why warn us about the breaking hazard, if the warp doors never break in the first place ? Why specify that 3 people are needed to get them to work smoothly?

Because this isn’t really about the Scarlet Forest shortcut. The door might not break in the game, but it might have broken somewhere else. This is really about what went wrong with Gaster's experiments.

Time to bring in evidence 3:

First, let's note that this tweet isn't exactly talking about the same situation as in evidence 1 : Mr. Elegance talks about a door that two people got to work and that might break, while Toby Fox talks about a machine that's already broken and that two people could never repair.

However, evidence 2 tells us that when three of them worked on it, the machine should work without a problem. So if we assume that these dialogues are really about the creation that led to Gaster’s demise, this means that the reason things went wrong is because one person was missing.

Two people worked on the machine instead of three, which led to Gaster's disappearance. Yet, we know that two people were trying to repair the machine once it was broken. This means that after Gaster's disappearance, the missing person came back.

Now let's imagine that Gaster formed a trio with two other colleagues that we'll name X and Y. The Royal Scientist is working on a door-shaped machine that would free the monsters from their imprisonment. As the fate of the Underground lies in his hands, a lot of pressure is resting upon his shoulders. The role that X and Y had in this creation is unknown. Gaster could have even built it on his own. But thanks to Entry n°17, we know that shared his experiments with two other people. And thanks to the Japanese translation, we know he was rather close to them.

After the construction of the machine, Gaster and X try to get it to work, but without Y. Maybe they walked away from the experiment, maybe the other two didn't trust them enough, we don't know.

Despite this, they manage to make it work with just the two of them. However, what Mr. Elegance predicts happens, and something goes wrong. Two people just wasn't enough to assure that the machine would work properly. It's too unstable. It malfunctions. Gaster falls inside, is shattered across time and space, and the machine breaks.

Now let's come back to the end of Toby Fox's tweet. ”Neither of them could fix the machine, no matter how hard they tried. No one can." Notice that "neither of them" means precisely two people.

After the incident, Y comes back, but Gaster disappeared. The trio is now a duo. Y and X do everything they can to repair the machine, but can't. No one can. Because Gaster, the person necessary to its reparation, is no more.

If this theory is right, what are X and Y’s identities? And why was Y absent during the creation of the shortcut door machine? A lot of questions have yet to be answered...

#deltarune theory #warp door lore #deltarune #gaster #utdr

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acowardinmordor · 1 year ago

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You Left Me - You Miss Me - 4

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

Hi, time for more, arguably making things better, but also arguably making things much worse.

----

There was a diner a block and a half from their apartment. Steve found it when the sky opened up during his jog one morning. Snow, he could have handled, he was dressed for it. Slushy sleet mixed with hail was another matter. He ducked inside to hide until it passed, chatted with the owner for a bit, and brought Robin with him the next day because they had an amazing spread of waffle toppings, including crumbled bacon, and Steve knew she’d go crazy about it.

He was correct, and it was their go to spot, not just for breakfast.

At the end of January, Rebecca sat down to join them, and handed Steve an application.

Steve was already working at a JC Penny in the stock room, and picked up a few hours at a roller rink filling in when someone called out. They had enough money to live. Not decadently, but they could cover all their bills, and keep gas in the car, and buy supplies for Robin’s classes.

“Uh, Rebecca, I’m- thank you? But. My memory sucks, and my hearing isn’t great, and if someone starts getting rude, I’m going to get rude back to them, and --”

“This is a diner, hun,” she stopped him, “You write the orders down, you can always tell someone to say it again, and the fact you can shut down anyone that gives you lip is why I think you’ll be good at it. Like I said, it’s a diner. We don’t have to be all sunshine and daisies here.”

“I’m working at another--”

“Over at the mall and the rink, I know. And I know you’re free Monday through Wednesday mornings. And,” she stressed, “staff gets free meals and first dibs on the day olds.”

“Dingus!" Robin gasped and grabbed his arm. "Do it, do it. Stevie. Please, oh my god, please, you have to take it. You can bring me the brioche buns. And that apple butter. And that thing with the nuts! Steeevveee, don’t you love your soulmate? Please? I cou--”

So Steve took the job, and worked a few mornings a week. By the third week of February, he stopped feeling like he was going to fuck up any second. He understood why Rebecca liked his ability to get bitchy in the face of difficult customers, and he and Robin had cupboards well stocked with random take homes.

He liked it. Starting at five in the morning took some getting used to, but he was done by one, and traded off with a middle aged mom named Susan after the lunch rush settled down. Was it a ton of money? No. But he got more tips than he expected to, and the brioche really was delicious.

The last week of February, he was working alone on a Tuesday, at the start of the lunch rush, expecting Susan to arrive soon, and an easy day.

“Be with you in a minute,” he called to whoever just came inside, bussing half a dozen empty plates from table two after dropping off more creamer at table four. He looped back, ducking behind the counter to put the plates on the pass through for Nick to grab.

He dropped the entire stack before he got there.

His hands clenched down, his muscles locked, and even though it should have made him hold harder, everything slipped, and either shattered on the tiles or banged into his feet.

Jim Hopper winced from his seat at the counter. “Sorry, kid.”

The couple of other diners glanced up to check on him, and John looked around the window from the kitchen. Steve didn’t move. Couldn't. Could barely breathe.

“Is it back?”

“No.”

His exhale shook out of him before he shoved down the panic.

“Then whatever this is can wait.”

“I’m just here to talk.”

“And I said it can wait.”

He swept up the broken dishes, shrugged off John’s silent offer to throw Hopper out, and reminded himself there was no reason to think that the Upside Down was back. That meant this was going to be more awkward and less dangerous, and he was going to hate it, but it was still the better version of the day.

“What’ll you have?”

“Kid, I’m here to talk cause I didn’t think you’d want me at your place.”

“And I’m at work, and this is a diner, so what’ll you have?”

“Steve--”

“I’ll bring you coffee. I’m not talking about this while I’m working.”

“Coffee’s good. When are you off?”

Steve gave his bitchiest smile, didn’t answer, and went to seat the couple that just walked in.

The lunch rush was a mercy. Susan handled Hopper, and gave him the iciest service anyone had ever gotten under that roof. Hopper took it gracefully, but he didn’t shift, or push, or give any indication that he wasn’t willing to sit there til midnight if he had to.

Normally, Steve would get some lunch to go and head home. If the weather was bad, he ate at the booth in the corner to wait it out. With the way his stomach was twisting, unable to separate Hopper from what his arrival could mean, he wasn’t going to keep food down. He filled a glass of water, then silently gestured Hop to follow.

“Good to see you, Steve,” he said when they sat. “You and Robin doing okay up here?”

“We’re fine. Why are you here? If it isn’t something to do with, you know, then why are you here?”

“Maybe I just came up to check on you.”

“Did you?” Steve snorted into his drink when that question made Hopper’s face twist up. “So what is this?”

“I am here to check on you. There’s something else, but I came here because I’m checking on you. Me and you weren’t all that close, but you had Mrs Buckley give me your info so I’d know where you were.”

“Yeah, in case of an emergency. And you said there wasn’t any emergency. Plus, you had my phone number, so you could have called, which would be way less weird than showing up while I’m at work, you know?”

Hopper scratched at his cheek. “It’s not an emergency compared to all the reasons you wanted me to be able to find you, but if you ask those kids, this may as well be the end of the world again.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Yeah, well. Henderson is gonna get himself arrested if he keeps trying to steal the mail and find something addressed to you. Max keeps pushing El to try and find you. The only reason they haven’t gone completely crazy is because of the Buckleys telling them that you’re fine. She gave me your address and number, and she talked for a little bit about the kids.”

Steve smiled at that. Mrs Buckley had never talked a ‘little bit’ about anything in her life. Either she was holding the line on being rude to anyone that might bother them, or Hop was pretending he hadn’t listened to a solid hour of rambling.

“Still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Want to ask if I can -- shit, I don’t know. I can route mail back and forth so they never have your address or something. I’d rather give them your info so I don’t have to be involved, but I already know you won’t agree to that.”

Steve ignored the pause that Hopper left there. Conversation and good manners said he should concede to something so he wouldn’t inconvenience the man too much. The last month with Robin supporting his choice kept his mouth shut. She’d be pissed at him if he folded, and worse, she’d help him get through all the pain it caused if he did talk to the kids again. Then he’d feel guilty and sad.

“Alright,” Hopper grumbled, “Didn’t think you would, but you know how those kids can be. Can’t fault me for trying.”

“So, we’re done? You sat here all this time just to talk for three minutes?”

“Almost.”

“So….” At least Steve could enjoy the fact that neither of them were enjoying this. Hopper winced a bit before he spoke.

“I didn’t tell any of the kids I was coming up to see you. None of them knew, and none of them are gonna know. Didn’t even tell Joyce why, just that I was driving up to Indy. Already had a plan in case they tried to tail me up here. So, had a surprise this morning when I got to my truck. it might change your answer.”

“Didn’t know you were so dramatic about stuff.”

“Side effect of two hours with that surprise, I guess. Eddie Munson came up with me.”

Any of the kids would have hurt.

Henderson might have made him cry.

Eddie Munson? That didn’t make sense.

They weren’t friends, never had been. The Upside Down meant they were connected, but they were never more than acquaintances, even when Steve was desperately trying to keep them all close. Sure, he’d taken over as the chauffeur for the kids, and everyone’s new best friend, but that didn’t explain why he’d bother to come up to talk to Steve.

“What the hell? Why?”

“He asked.”

“And you said yes.”

“He said please.”

That was not the whole story. There was something getting skipped over, left out. Hopper tolerated Munson, but he wouldn’t do him a favor if there wasn’t some kind of monster involved.

“Wait, you’ve been here for two hours.”

“Yep.”

“Did you just leave him in your truck this whole time? That front came through overnight. The high is thirty four today.”

“Yeah, I did,” Hopper said flatly. “He told me he wanted to come up so he could talk to you. Told me a little bit about why. And I said yes and I let him come, but I told him that I was gonna talk to you first. If you said no, he was gonna stay in that seat clear back to Hawkins, and keep his mouth shut about this whole thing.”

“How’d he know what you were doing?”

“No clue.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

“Not gonna say it for him.” Hopper shifted towards the edge of the booth. “So, want me to tell him to buckle back up, or tell him to get his ass in here?”

A quick consult with the imaginary Robin in his head left him just as confused, but curious as hell. He agreed, and fidgeted with a napkin, struggling to think of any reason why Eddie Munson would want to talk to him, or what the hell he said that the kids hadn’t that convinced Hopper to drive him up.

Stuck in his head, Steve jumped when a mess of a man in denim and leather slid shivering into the seat opposite. The scars on his face and hands were less vivid than they were last time they saw each other, but they still worked as a thermometer. Steve's did the same.

“Why the hell were you sitting in the cold, man?”

Eddie blinked, and froze where he was rubbing his hands together trying to get feeling back. “Hopper took the keys.”

Steve’s turn to blink. This was the guy taking care of his kids.

“Susan?” He called, gesturing for two when she lifted the coffee carafe in a question.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Dude, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here or why you care or what the hell is happening, but I’m not gonna let you sit there shaking cause you’re a dumbass who doesn’t know what gloves are.”

Steve watched packet after packet of sugar pour into Eddie’s, while he stirred a splash of half and half into his own cup. Eddie took a gulp, hissed at the heat, and clutched at the mug, eyes glued to the nicked surface of the table.

“I’m sorry.”

“For rotting your teeth out? That’s your choice, Munson.”

“No,” Eddie insisted, voice hoarse, “I’m sorry about the kids.”

Steve took a breath, took a sip, took another breath. “Look, man, that’s not on you. You play D&D with them, and you like all their nerdy shit. I was -- They grew up. We got through everything, all of that, we won, and they grew up. It’s not your fault that they like you more than they liked me. So, thanks, I guess, but--”

“Steve. No. They didn’t. They -- those kids did not suddenly grow up and decide they didn’t like you anymore. You are their favorite person anywhere, ever, you will be for the rest of eternity, and they don’t understand why no one will tell them how to reach you. They put on a really good show about being mad about it, but, come on, you know what they’re like. They want to apologize cause they know they hurt you, and they want to fix it, and just, you gotta let them try, Steve. You gotta let them talk to you. They miss you so fucking much.”

“Look, I know how they get, and I know how dramatic they are, but it’s still not your fault--”

“It is. Steve. It is my fault. That’s - That’s why you have to talk to them. Cause they didn’t grow up and get over you or decide they didn’t care about you. Those kids are crazy about you, and they never stopped, and they’re hurt right now cause they don’t understand why you left them, and you gotta fix it with them, please.”

Something pinged weird in his ear when he heard the way Munson’s voice cracked. Not just worry, not just helping, not just caring about the kids. Guilt. He was taking the blame for it, even though that didn’t make any sense. The kids were - brats, gremlins, terrors, the most stubborn people he’d ever met, and he knew Nancy Wheeler. If they wanted to be around him, they would be around him.

It wasn’t Eddie’s fault, or anyone’s fault. It hurt like hell, and Steve wished it wasn’t true, but this was just life. Kids grew up, their interests moved. Friendships changed and ended.

But that crack of guilt…

“How is it your fault and not theirs that they stopped wanting to ever see me?”

Eddie’s hands stopped shaking from the cold before he got the coffee.

His hands were shaking again.

Trembled in the time between Steve asking, and Eddie managing to respond.

“I, uh, I asked them to.”

----

Don't be too mad at him yet. He has a lot more to say.

Part Five >>>

#You Left Me - You Miss Me #my writing #steddie eventually #focus on the eventually today

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rjalker · 3 months ago

Text

Well, have some memes about it.

Feel free to add your own versions of the characters. In fact, consider this an art prompt.

[ID: Three versions of the "I think we're gonna have to kill this guy" meme, showing different versions of A Sphere and A Square from Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions, with A Sphere saying "I think we're gonna have to kill this guy, Square", and A Square replying, "Damn.", while text below him indicates he is staring at Ladd Ehlinger, the creator of the 2007 Flatland film. In the first version, the Sphere is a literal blue sphere with lighting on top and shadows underneith, and A Square is a thin line through the air with a bright point in the center. In the second version, A Square is the same, but the Sphere is now more cartoony, with thin black arms, a light green surface with soft lighting and shadow, yellow eyes, and a blue tongue visible as he speaks. The third version has the characters as they appear in the 2007 Flatland film by Ladd Ehlinger. The Sphere is yellow, with protruding red eyes, and a red mouth that goes across his whole front half, like a Pac-Man. A Square is now visibly a Square, with a blue eye on his perimeter that frowns upwards, with dark insides with lighter squiggles. End ID.]

Yeah unfortunately the creator of the 2007 Flatland film is literally a racist misogynistic conservative. So racist in fact that youtube has actually had to restrict videos he's made because they're that blatantly racist. He has literally compared government-funded healthcare and free lunches for school kids to slavery.

You are not a bad person for watching or enjoying his movie, but you should be aware of what kind of person made it, because his bigotry is in the movie, and the way he chose to gloss over and ignore all of the politics of the original novel.

These characters are public domain. They do not belong to this racist misogynist. They belong to all of us. You can design your own versions of the characters in any style you want and do literally anything you want with them.

How about to spite the conservative bigot, everyone takes this as a challenge to create their own designs for these characters, in this meme format, and add them on here?

If you cannot make your own image description, I will make one for you as long as you edit it into your original post.

Flatland is public domain and can be read and listened to and watched in so many different ways. Here is a post linking to a few of them.

Also, you don't have to draw A Square and the Sphere if you don't want to, you can do any Flatland or Flatland-Adjacent characters.

You can start your image description out with "The same meme format as above, but now..." And then describe what the characters look like in your version.

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seeingivy · 2 years ago

Text

family rules (alternate version)

satoru gojo x f!reader

in which you’re the one who gets in the accident this time, not satoru and megumi

**read the other ones here

content warning: car accident, mentions of glass and blood, reader in pain satoru says daddy, megumi wants you to break satoru’s neck

an: for all my very lovely family rules fans, this is the part for the request I received here. I hope you all enjoy :D

Satoru pushes his key into the door, swinging the door open as he calls out to the three of you. He’s balancing the pink box in his hands, very excited to see your very irritated face when you open it.

He stops for a second, eyeing the light purple around Megumi’s eye as you push green peas into his face, before turning to the fridge to steal your leftovers from last night.

He can feel you opening the box out of his peripheral vision, preparing his silly little consolation piece to calm you down. He knows you’ll be irritated, obviously, but he’s always sweet talked his way out of situations, especially with you. He just wanted to ease the air after the lecture you were probably going to give Megumi, settle everyone down.

“Megs, do you mind joining Miki upstairs? I need to talk to Gojo over here.” you say, watching you press a very strained smile to your face.

Maybe the cake was too far. He should have settled for balloons instead.

“You have got to be kidding me, Satoru. You bought him a cake for punching another kid in the face?”

“It’s just a joke, my love. No harm done. I’ll talk to him about it later. You know, all that cheesy stuff you say - words before violence, be the bigger man by walking away.” he leans over, pressing a kiss to your cheek, before he sets out to set the plates for dinner.

“Satoru. Be serious for one minute. Megumi is our responsibility. You’re doing him a disservice if we keep letting him process his anger this way. Don’t lead him down the wrong path.”

He can feel the stinging in his chest, the anger developing in his chest. He would be lying by saying things were perfect between the two of you, as of late. The two of you were polar opposites, something he always considered as a strength to your relationship. When he was drifting away too far, you grounded him in reality. When you were too stuck in the little things, he always reminded you of the big picture. You worked - moon and sun, salt and pepper, black and white. However, the two of you had been finding it harder to find compromises lately, arguing more lately, especially when it came to Megumi.

It’s a few fights, not mass murdering people. If anything, Megumi’s doing very well, considering who his father is and what happened. He’s doing very well, considering the fact that he’s being raised by two twenty year olds. Satoru’s doing very well, considering the fact that he’s trying his best to be there for him.

“I’m not leading him anywhere wrong. You’re setting him up for failure if you keep letting kids push him around like that. You’re the one leading him down the wrong path.”

“Solving your problems with fists isn’t always the right answer, Satoru. This is why he doesn’t talk to us when we ask him what’s wrong. We just have to wait for him to explode, just to find out he was suffering the entire time.”

He feels your words sink into his chest, burning him in a place he hadn’t been before. No. Surely you couldn’t be insinuating what he thought you were. You wouldn’t.

He thinks back to the third grade, his parents' faces engraved in his mind. He learned all too quickly that punching another kid in the face, pulling a girl's pigtails, running out of class would get their attention - faster than asking them to tuck him into bed, eat breakfast with him, or come to a school play. They would drop everything, run to his side to see him at the first sign of trouble. There’s no way you’re insinuating Megumi is doing the same.

It kills him. Even the thought of it being right. Megumi’s mimicking him, when he was younger, acting out to get someone to look at him. The two of you tried your best with him, he was always a little more closed off, but you were doing everything you could.

No. No. Satoru Gojo was not his father. You had to be wrong. You had to be wrong because if you were right, he was no better than his father.

“Whatever problem he has, I’ll deal with it. Remember, he’s my kid, not yours. My responsibility. So I’ll figure out what’s best for him moving forward.”

He comes to realize that this was his first mistake, one he’ll come to regret in a few hours.

He can feel the words hanging in the air, waiting for your anger filled response. But it doesn’t come. You compare him to his father and then have nothing to say?

“All quiet now, Y/N? Have nothing to say to me?”

“No, I don’t.”

“And why’s that? You sure had a lot to say a few minutes ago.”

“Because. He’s your kid. Not mine. It’s not really my business what he does, is it?”

He feels his heart sink in his chest, his cheeks burning with regret already. Why did he say that? You didn’t mean it like that. There’s no way you would ever compare him to his dad, in earnest. He curls his fingers around your wrist, pulling you closer to him. Kiss it better, Satoru.

“Hey, hey. Wait a minute.”

You shrug him off, swiping the keys off the counter and running out the door. This is his second mistake - letting you run out that door - and surely the one he’ll regret even more.

He stands there in shock, your absence chilling him. What the hell is he doing? The table is half set, your sweet strawberry smell absent, your glimmering smile gone from the kitchen.

You left. You actually got up and left. It’s his fault. He hit it where he knew where it hurt. He can feel his heart sinking in his chest, the stinging vertebrates through his bones. Why did he say that to you? He loves you. He reaches around for his phone after a few seconds, his fingers shaking as he texts you.

i’m sorry love

you know i didn’t mean it

just come back. you know he’s our kid.

i know you’re right. he shouldn’t be punching people every time he disagrees with them. i just have trouble being too hard on him, i don’t want to be like my parents

not an excuse. i know i’m in the wrong. we can have the talk with him, just like you wanted. just come back y/n.

Satoru nearly drops his phone into the sink, at the sight of Megumi pushing into his legs. He presses his arms around Satoru’s legs, hiding his face against in the fabric.

“Hey Megs. You okay?”

“Did Y/N leave?”

He leans down, intending to talk Megumi down. You were always better at it, but there’s no harm in trying.

He looks over, really observing the bruise on Megumi’s eye for the first time. His eye is swollen, coloring into a dark purple. There’s a tiny bit of pink in the whites of his eyes and he doesn’t miss Megumi keeping his eyes closed, squinting whenever he makes contact with the light.

He reaches down, pressing the green peas you were pushing into Megumi’s face, back to the spot. He didn’t realize Megumi was hurt this bad.

“Yeah. We just had a little argument. She’ll come back.”

He feels Megumi clench his fist, his hand crumpling the fabric of his slacks.

“Do you think she hates me?”

“Megumi. Y/N loves you. She’s mad at me for being stupid, not at you for fighting.”

He feels another set of tiny hands, this time resting on his arms. Tsumiki’s tear filled face is at his side. He’s messed up.

It’s in this moment, Megumi’s stressed out expression and Tsumiki’s tear stained face, that he realizes how small they really are. He’d been teaching Megumi how to master his cursed technique and he was always impressed with how self-sufficient Tsumiki was, but he never realized how wrong it was until now.

They were kids. They’re small, tiny little kids acting like adults. He leans down, pressing the two of them against his chest. He won’t let them burden it - that’s what you and him were for. You, when you were still here anyways.

He reaches for his phone again, shooting you another text.

kids are getting real upset with you gone, they miss you already

“Satoru.”

“Yes, Miss Miki?”

“Why did she leave?”

He sighs. Because he’s an idiot. Because he can’t control his tongue, because he can’t accept his faults, because he’s in over his head.

“We had an argument. I got upset with her and said something that wasn’t very nice to her.”

“Does she still love us?”

“You’re her entire world. She loves you both, so much. That’s partially why she’s so mad at you Megumi. She doesn’t like to see you hurt and gets upset when you willingly put yourself in situations like this.”

He feels his phone buzzing on the floor, basically collapsing trying to pick it up fast enough. He presses the phone to his ear, without even checking the caller ID.

“Y/N?”

“Am I speaking with Mister Satoru Gojo?”

“Yes, this is him.”

“This is Tokyo Medical Hospital. I’m calling regarding a Miss Y/N L/N. She was in a car accident around thirty minutes ago, near the central line highway. She’s just been transported to our Emergency Department where we are responding to her now. It would be best if you could arrive as soon as possible. Do you know her blood type? We need to attempt a transfusion.”

He feels his voice strain in his neck, fighting to get the word out. Blood type. They need your blood type. You were in a car accident. Blood transfusion.

“O negative. Her blood type is O negative.”

Shoko and Nanami meets him at the front of the hospital and he nearly breaks down right there. He was a mess without you. You had to be okay. You had to stay alive.

“I’ll watch the kids.”

Nanami walks off, his hands holding their tiny ones as he takes them on a walk around the block.

“Am I going to lose her, Shoko? Is she okay?”

“She’s really hurt, the glass shattered on impact. Just go through the doors, Satoru. She was asking for you.”

Glass. He nearly runs through the double doors and is met directly with the sight of you.

The air is gone from his lungs and the room is on fire. No. You’re lying on the gurney, the two nurses balancing shining, silver surgical tools in their hands. They’re digging shards of glass out of your soft, soft skin - from your arms, your chest, and the sides of your face.

He can see the tears streaming down your face, your eyes pinching in pain every time they pull a piece out. The worst part, he can hear you murmuring his name and asking for him every time they do. He walks up aimlessly, interlocking his hand with your free, uninjured side. He can feel his hands shaking in yours, his blood burning in his skin.

“Satoru?”

He reaches forward, patting down your hair.

“I’m here, i’m here.”

“It hurts, Satoru.”

He feels his resolve break at the sound of your voice. He’s crying, full on crying at the sight of you like this. In pain, sitting alone for the past hour. He lifts your uninjured hand, pressing a kiss to the top of your knuckles before resting your fingers against his eyes.

“It’s best if you can distract her while we do this. The silence makes it easier to focus on the pain.”

He nods, turning his face away from the nurse and towards you.

“Hi love.”

“Hi Satoru.”

“Don’t…don’t die on me, okay? I still have a lot of things I want to do with you.”

“Like what?

You hiss in pain, squeezing his hand as they keep going deeper into your skin.

“Eat breakfast with you tomorrow. Make you those strawberry pancakes you love so much. Watch you yell as me as I squish whipped cream into Megumi’s hair.”

He watches you laugh, the pain still pressed on your face as you try to respond.

“Don’t respond. It’s okay, love. Just listen to me, yeah?”

You nod, squeezing your hand in his own.

“I…I love you.” he can feel his voice breaking, trying to stop his tears from returning. He clears his throat, his heart screaming in his chest.

“I love you so much, Y/N. You’re everything to me. You and me, we’re going to be okay. I- I…there’s just so much we have to do still. I didn’t even get to marry you yet. Or put my own kid in you.”

“Gross.”

“Out of all that, that’s what you chose to respond to?”

He sees you smile, your eyes all watery at the sight of him. He loves you. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

You wake up a few hours later, to a very pink eyed Satoru sitting on the chair next to you. He looks horrible.

You make the slightest bit of movement, attempting to reach out for him, and he jumps up from his chair. He presses his hands to your face, shaking his head profusely at you as you put your hands down.

“No, no love. No moving, okay?”

You nod and he gives you a soft smile, before locking his fingers with your own. You can see the tears building in his eyes, his smile being replaced with tears streaming down his eyes.

“Can you put on a little nurses uniform? We’re about to live out my wildest dreams.”

He laughs at your joke, his teary smile returning.

“Shut up. Stop copying my fantasies.”

His hands don’t leave your face, his entire body shaking at the sight of you. He’s scared, scared shitless and you don’t know how to fix it. You’re okay. You’re both going to be okay. You try to sit up, Satoru’s hands helping you most of the way. He has his arm secured around your waist, holding you steady.

“Satoru. I’m okay.”

“You’re not allowed to do that. You can’t just pick up and leave every time you get mad at me. I thought I lost you. I almost did lose you. Do you think I could live if I actually did?”

“I know, Toru. I’m sorry.”

He presses himself against your shoulder, crying into your arms. He’s ran his hands over your arms multiple time’s now, his fingers resting against your beating pulse at your wrist. You can feel the guilt twisting in your chest, for leaving, driving so recklessly, upsetting him in the first place. Any normal person would get up and run right about now.

“You are the only family I have. Please don’t leave me, Satoru.”

You feel your heart clench in your chest at the sight of his defeated resolve and can’t even remember why you were mad, why you drove off in the first place. You squeeze his hand twice, rubbing small circles into the back of his hand.

“You’re the one who left me. I would never leave you. It’s you and me, in life and in death, Y/N. Preferably not the death part from you, if that’s possible please. That’s against the rules.”

“In life and in death? Those are wedding vows, Satoru, we aren’t even married. And we don’t have rules.” you deadpan.

“You didn’t get the memo? We’re married in my head, sweet thing.”

The two of you laugh, the giggles filling up the little medic bay you were sitting in. You feel him lean over, his face still wet and pink from his tears, and press a soft kiss to your forehead before pressing one to your lips.

“Did you eat chocolate from the vending machine?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie. I can taste it on your lips, idiot. Your supposed wife is maybe possibly dying and you’re eating candy?”

“You’re so vulgar. Talking about my lips like that in public. And I was eating for both of us. In your honor. I knew it’s what you would have wanted.”

You roll your eyes at him, giving him a smile, before leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Where are Megumi and Tsumiki?”

“With Nanami, outside. I’ll go grab them now that you’re all bandaged up.”

As he sprints out the door, you readjust in the bed, sitting up. You watch the two of them run in, their little faces swollen from crying. You feel the tears well in your own eyes at the sight of it. You open up your arms (which hurts like a bitch), signaling at the two of them to climb up. They press their bodies against you, their distinct smells pressed against your nose (vanilla for Tsumiki, clean laundry for Megumi).

You can feel them sobbing against you and press kisses to both of their heads as they shake in your arms. You can feel your skin burning at them pressing against your bandages, but you don’t want to let them go.

“Okay, kids. Off. We can hug her as hard as we want when she feels better, okay?”

Satoru Gojo, mind reader. They climb off, the three of them facing you at the side of your bed. They all have their hands pressed against you - Satoru’s resting in your hair, Tsumiki’s in your hand, and Megumi’s at your shoulder. Satoru speaks first.

“I was thinking.”

“You can do that?”

“You wound me, Fushiguro Megumi.”

The three of you snicker at the sound of his whiny voice, the smiles reaching all the way to Tsumiki and Megumi’s cheeks.

“I’ve always had mental rules you should be following in my head, as I am our benevolent, perfect, spectacular leader. But we should establish real ones, for each other. We are a family after all.”

“You’re not our leader.” deadpans Megumi, rolling his eyes at Satoru before eyeing you exasperatedly.

“I like it, Satoru.” you whisper.

“Me first, then. My first rule is for Miss Miki. You have to do anything and everything I say.”

The three of you stare him down, pinching your eyes in annoyance.

“I’m kidding. You guys are such a tough crowd. My first real rule is for Megumi. You’re not going to fight anymore. No punching people when you get angry.”

He nods, whispering a promise to you, more than Satoru, that he won’t fight again. You squeeze his fingers that are interlocked with yours, nodding at the promise.

“The next one is for you, missy. No running away, Y/N. Ever. We can argue all night for all I care. You don’t get to leave.”

You nod, promising all of them that you won’t leave them again. You don’t miss the way their tensed shoulders relax at your promise, shocked that they were even worried about you leaving again in the first place. You would never leave them again. Tsumikis’ quiet voice fills the room next.

“Third rule, no fighting if we can avoid it. We’re all on the same team here so we can just try to work it out.”

You reach forward, pressing your hand into Tsumiki’s hair, you and Satoru promising her you won’t fight, at least if you can’t help it, again. The three of you nod, smiling at each other at your new rules.

“I have one.”

You reach over, running your hands through Megumi’s hair as you smile at him, encouraging to speak up.

“No one leaves the house without saying goodbye. You especially, Mom.”

Mom. Mom. Fushiguro Megumi, in the six months he has been staying with you, has never called you Mom. You can feel the tears welling in your eyes, wanting to crush him in a hug for a better part of the next hour or the rest of his life. You’re his Mom.

Before you can reach forward to do so, Satoru’s whiny voice stops you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s not even fair.”

“Toru, shut up.”

“Megs. If I break my neck, will you call me dad?”

You roll your eyes. Way to ruin a moment.

“How about I break it right now and we test the theory?”

Megumi and Tsumiki break out into giggles and you and Satoru can’t help but join them at the sound of their laughter. The three of them press themselves against you, wrapping your arms around as you all laugh.

“Hey, one more rule, okay?”

You all nod, turning to face Satoru.

“Everyone calls me daddy from now on.”

“Can you actually break his neck now? Please? I can help.”

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