#this might be the first time in my entire life i’ve ever been accused of being defensive about anything

[mumblesplash]

Your breakdown of the poll is weirdly defensive about lineart, just accept that it’s a rare gift to enjoy it

??? i would try to clarify my meaning but i don’t actually know what part of that you read as me being defensive? i just thought the poll results were interesting so far?

i’m not even mad i’m just baffled

[randombush3]

cool about it

alexia putellas x reader

summary: you can't find inspiration for your play

notes: this was rotting in my drafts and then i got drunk and finished it lolz

i refuse to read it back so have fun

The first time Alexia sees you, you are with your friends; sleeves rolled-up, wide smile on your face, a pool cue in your hand as you wield it like a weapon the minute one of the women beside you opens her mouth. She is drawn into observing, craving the knowledge of what you are being told; what is making you blush so furiously. She sees your mouth open, a blackhole that draws her in without mercy, and she barely survives the sound of your loud, raucous laughter

Suddenly, in the universe of football and media events and her little sister’s embarrassingly active love-life, you appear. Like a new star, burning bright, big and hot and… “You’re staring,” says Mapi with a smile. She knows not to tease, and she treads lightly. “You’ve been staring for a while.” 

“They’re speaking English.” It’s an incriminating sentence, but it would have been futile to deny Mapi’s accusation anyway. 

“I saw her at the bar. She spoke Spanish then.” 

“You’ve been stalking her.” 

Mapi nods, and holds Alexia’s drink in a silent push to get her over to the pool table. To you. “Because you’ve been staring. I was only making sure she wasn’t a psycho.” 

“Thanks,” she scoffs, but, in truth, she is grateful. 

As she saunters over (a newly regained skill, months down the line from her traumatic ACL reconstruction surgery), her confidence a believable façade, she decides that she is going to be Alexia Putellas. She is going to be cool about it, and she is going to impress you, and she is going to make you laugh so that she can hear that sound again. 

Again, again, again. 

“Yeah, sure, you can take over for Soph,” you say, nodding towards the woman who had been on the receiving end of your light prodding with the wooden stick all of friends regret allowing three-drink you to be in charge of. “So you’re spots, I’m stripes. I’ve got two left until I can pot the black, and you, er, you might be at a disadvantage here.” You rub the back of your neck as you peer at the balls on the table, almost all of them left behind by Soph’s inability to play pool. “How about we just, um–” 

“Está bien.” Alexia pretends to understand a lot more of what you said than she really does, regretting her choice to approach you in English, but she gets the jist. And, although you make her feel as though life has only just begun, she remembers her competitiveness very, very clearly. “Voy a ganar,” she scoffs. 

She holds in her celebration as you break out into a grin, immediately rising to the challenge, glad your friends have tired of the pool table so that no one can interrupt the battle you are about to commence. A battle with a very pretty woman, you must admit. 

You lose. 

You blame it on Alexia – she tells you her name as she pots three balls in a row – and try not to acknowledge the taunts from your friends at the bar, most of them having watched the entire game from afar to have something to talk about tomorrow. “You win,” comes your pitiful concession after a brutal defeat. “So, what will your prize be?” 

It’s an easy answer. 

That morning, throat hoarse from the cries that left it the night before, eyes red and tired and way too sensitive to light for you to consider drinking a drop of alcohol ever again, you wrap your arms around the warm body in the unfamiliar bed, finding the intimacy to have lived on longer than it should for a one-night-stand. Barcelona is warm and sunny, the day one to be enjoyed, and the company the best you have had in a while. 

It isn’t just that Alexia is a goddess. It isn’t the Amazonian ridges of her stomach and the firmness of her thighs, nor the softness of her hair or the deft movements of her fingers against your scarred skin. No, that is not what has, in just one evening, made you fall in love with her. (You bite your lip as you are overcome with emotion, chest filling up – with which feeling, you do not know –, heart pounding into your bones as the rhythm of your desire to be in Alexia’s life sets into the very framework of your being.) No! How could it be that? How could it be that when there is more? 

The coarseness of her determination; the slippery confidence, delicate and sharp, as though it is both the petal of a rose and the thorn that will prick you. Her humour, mistranslated at times, but always ready to make fun of idiots (most often, a specific idiot with a neck tattoo, as you come to realise). 

Personally, you believe it to be unfair that Alexia, Alexia Putellas, is simply ‘all that’. 

Getting to know each other fails to feel awkward, though you spend a lot of time waiting for the tension to appear. 

She discovers who you are, how you have moved to Barcelona for inspiration, finding that very thing lacking in dreary Leeds (the most depressing place on Earth, you could argue). She learns of your dream, although you label it as your ‘plan’: to write a play and to see it on the stage, preferably a grand theatre in the West End. Or in Stratford, where upon lies the greatest soil from which a playwright can grow. 

You show her your empty pages, devoid of black print marks. White and white, that goes on until it is clear that you have tired of pressing the ‘enter’ button as though it will ignite a story within. A story that hasn’t yet come, mind. 

“Do you think it will work?” she asks you, her accusation carrying nothing but curiosity once you see past the abrupt manner in which she interrupts your lengthy monologue about your severe case of writer’s block. 

Maybe you intend to be a little vague, for the sake of your racing heart and your delicate emotions, because you only shrug. You have already found your inspiration, not that you are going to tell her. 

Alexia is forward in the sense that she checks how temporary your presence is in her city before asking you out on a date. Your answer of ‘however long this shit takes’ is enough for her to be sure that she wants a second. A third, too. 

Then, before you know it, it has been a year. 

A year of Barcelona, a year of Spanish sun, and, excitingly, a year in which you have been cured; fingers blessed with movement and ideas and words on the tip of your tongue that run free in Alexia’s ear as you talk and talk and talk. She listens and listens and listens, and switches into the focus of your pairing when you go with her to watch her team play and play and play (why the fuck does football have so many matches?!). The final stage direction, all curling italics and sentimentality, sits at the bottom of the page. 

The end of your play. 

It is finished, it is done, and, soon after you have revised it one last time, it is sent to your producer friend with a nervous click of the ‘new email’ button and the hope that he is thankful for the times at university when you cared for him when he drank himself so silly that he barely made it to his lectures two days after the night-out. 

“It feels good,” you tell Ingrid, the girlfriend of the idiot with the neck tattoo, beaming as she inquires about your work. “I feel like I lived through it to get to this moment, you know? All that’s left to do is for him to read it and decide whether he’ll pick it up. Then, table reads and funding, of course. I’d want to direct, but, also, I’m not going to sell this one. Leasing it and taking a percentage of the royalties will make me loads more, because, Ingrid, this one is the best thing I’ve ever written.” 

There is a moment, usually, that comes after you have finished writing. A brief, sharp sort of panic, where you question your worth and your talent; you wonder if you have been lied to your whole life, and that your version of the same twenty-six letters of the alphabet, jumbled up on a white canvas as though you are (after a sleepless, usually) Picasso, is terrible. Or, worse, bad. 

Bad. Bad is so… plain. If it is just ‘bad’, you have failed as a writer. If it is not outrageous or unbelievably horrible, or, as one obviously hopes, incredible and amazing… if it is just ‘bad’, well: “Alexia, I’m terrified.” 

Alexia kisses your neck (you do not feel the finality of it, or maybe it is that you do not want to) because she knows it isn’t bad; she is more than aware that your play, your new creation, is really rather good. Brilliant, even. “Tranquila, mi amor,” she murmurs in your ear, bringing her arms to rest on your tense shoulders, a hand closing your laptop on its journey. “Le va a flipar.” 

“You think so?” 

“Sí.”

“Are you saying that because we’re together and you love me?” Your voice is small and unsure, and its teasing lilt is thrown off-kilter by the croak of your anxiety. “Or do you mean it? Please, I hope you mean it.” 

“I mean it.” She hates that she does. “Yes, of course I mean it. I love you and I am proud of you.” She hates it, she hates this, and she hates the talent your mind wields; something that is going to rip you from her grasp. It was bound to happen.

Your phone rings; soft, electronic trills dancing in the space between you and the coffee table it has been placed on. “I think that’s him,” you whisper, the volume you had intended to speak at smited by the nervous lump in your throat. Alexia nods mournfully, but you are too busy accepting the call to see.

“Let’s do this,” he says. 

…

The first frost of London comes that January. It’s unusual, the locals claim, because the city exists in its own polluted microclimate, but their statistics do not stop the layer of ice from freezing onto the windshield of your car. You are glad London feels just as cold as you do. 

Your play is beloved by the actors who speak your words, and the critics amongst your friend group, who for once, have no criticism to give. There is promise here. It is going very well. 

You drive to the theatre, ready to sit in on another rehearsal. Though your original intention had been to direct, you pawed off the role to an old school friend upon her return from Broadway. Your decision, you tell her, comes from a lack of experience in direction. You pretend to have had an epiphany: you only want to write the plays. 

In truth, this is a lie. 

Of course it is a lie. 

But how can you direct such happiness, such love and romance, if you know that the very thing that inspired each line has ceased to exist? 

Alexia feels like she has ceased to exist. 

On the outside, she seems relatively fine. She trains well, plays well, makes appearances where she should, says what you’d expect of her, hopes to make the world a better place. She walks Nala as though the Pomeranian does not whine for you to hold her leash, and she visits her mother and sister even though they continue to ask her why she did what she did. 

At night, she scrolls through social media, fingers always leading her back to you; your life; your work; your experiences that you no longer share with her. She cries, then, usually: a common occurrence nowadays. 

There is a gaping hole in her chest that has been made by her sticking her fucking foot in it. 

She has questions, naturally; each directed hatefully at herself. Why? Why, why why? Why on Earth did she tell you never to come back? Why did she blame you for leaving? 

You were always going to leave! Alexia knows that, hates that she knows that. 

You came to Barcelona because you couldn’t write, and you wrote. You wrote, you made her fall in love with you, and, when you had finished, you discarded the life you had unexpectedly built all because of some stupid, stupid play. 

A play titled–

A play. 

A… Alexia can’t even bring herself to think about it. 

No, all Alexia can think about is how insignificant she feels when you are no longer in love with her. You: sophisticated, intelligent, brilliant, adoring. Her? 

“Lex, you can’t mope if you’re the one who broke it off.” The words leave Alba’s mouth in jest but Alexia recoils as though she has been whipped by her sister’s tongue. 

“I’m trying to be cool about it,” she replies like it is the most obvious thing in the world.

It seems as though the globe has spun a full circle on its axis by the time Alba formulates her response, dumb-struck by such fucking idiocy. 

Alba hopes her sister feels like a fool – she hopes Alexia looks at herself in the mirror and… laughs, at this point. The whole thing has been ridiculous, in her opinion. 

First, her sister claims she is in love with a playwright with no plays to her name (Alba is examining the facts objectively, here, because she did quite like you); then, poof! Like a rabbit in a magician’s hat played in twisted reverse, away you go, and it somehow isn’t even your fault. 

She’d like to hate you, for her sister’s sake, but she finds herself loathing her own blood as it thins and thins until it trickles just like water. 

Okay, maybe she is being a little dramatic there, but she is still annoyed with Alexia. 

Alexia – whose existence as more-than-a-footballer is fading as she loses herself to waves of futile guilt – hates that she cannot hate you. She is plagued by emotional constipation, and though she tries to squeeze the situation for a drop of cruelty from you, she fails to discover a gram of relief.

It would have been kinder for you to have been cruel. Mercy is getting Alexia nowhere, and she would run to you if it were fast enough. Mercy is what renders her in a perpetual state of regret. Mercy is what keeps her up at night, but maybe mercy is what she likes having because it is yours and, in that way, she carries a piece of you with her. 

To confuse herself even more, to skew her mind further onto a path of unconventional self-destruction, she silently begs the mercy you have left behind to disappear so that she can learn to do without it. It’ll become a crutch and she wants it ripped from her grasp so that she can learn to walk on her own. She’s capable of that, she tells herself. 

(It probably isn’t true.)

…

Opening night. 

You’re wearing something far too nice to be comfortable, and there has been a champagne flute in your hand since the lunch held by the investors of the production company. The bubbles have served their purpose, clouding your mind with thoughts that weren’t to do with Alexia and her Alexia life and her Alexia smile and her Alexia way of making an Alexia-shaped cavity in your heart. 

It gushes quite a bit, because Alexia is strong and big and capable of damaging you to this extent. You reckon your surprise is foolish but fuck off, you’re trying your best. 

Comfortingly, not one scrap of red velvet is visible once the audience is ushered inside the theatre. 

It’s beautiful here; small, old. The perfect place to fall in love, just as you did. Or at least, experience the good part through deliciously talented actors and a stellar script (your horn has been tooted enough times for you to give it a go). 

Fear creeps up your legs as you take your seat in the front row, guarded by friends and family and proud English teachers who’d believe in you, but you take another sip and it simmers down. 

“Careful,” whispers your mum, shoulder nudging yours as you place your plastic cup (no glass in the auditorium) on the patterned carpet just as the show is about to begin. “You’ll not remember this if you don’t take a break.” 

And you’re halfway to announcing you don’t want to remember anything at all when the curtain goes up and a woman walks onto stage. 

It’s sobering. 

The audience is restlessly quiet, anticipating the brilliance they’ve been promised with an impatience that demands to be sated, but the actress takes her sweet time. 

She walks from stage left to stage right, then up and down. She’s passively searching for something. 

Someone. 

(It’s the fucking point, and you knew this would happen because you typed out these exact stage directions once upon a time. Alexia had misplaced a sock – a lucky sock, she claimed – and her passion, her desire to discover it, had weirdly morphed into a scene you could see being played out on a stage.) 

“Figure this out later,” speaks the actress with a satisfied smile, folding her arms over her chest. Finally, the audience’s breaths catch, enraptured by the vaguest cop-out of opening lines you could’ve chosen. 

They love it, though; they lean forwards in their seats as they are plucked from London and dropped into the middle of Barcelona. It’s mildly unnerving that you can’t escape the journey, clearly a member of the audience even if you don’t need to be told the story, but you land without the masses in the rows behind you. 

You land right into Alexia’s arms. 

There she is before you, in all her glory, proudly displaying the blue and red that she is so admirably dedicated to. Muscular and tanned, beautiful in the way that she always is, but shining brighter than just that. 

And you fucking hate it. 

When you imagine Alexia, you imagine her crippled and bed-ridden. Cracked knuckles come to mind, too, and she can barely speak without descending into rattling sobs that hack on and on until she somehow falls into fitful rest. 

You come prepared for absolution, expecting to see her dying just as you are, so it’s no wonder that your fists clench at her blasé declaration of “no regrets”. 

(By the way, Alexia’s not really there. You’d been stalking her Instagram and so that’s why she’s wearing her training kit, and… and you’re drunk!)

There are many things you’d like to say to her. 

Alexia had always been apprehensive of your relationship. She was closed-off to new people, and though she was certain of your importance to her, she was untrusting of much else. It happens when you’re famous; there are many wrong turns to take. And she needed to stay on the right path. 

It was impossible to pass Alexia’s test. 

For you, that is clear. Broken up with, told to leave and never come back, and begged to find someone else are not descriptors of the winner, nor she who achieved full marks. You’re a bit of a stranger to failing, but you’re trying to forget about it so that it never happens again. 

You’re breaking a sweat trying to banish her from your brain, barely registering the applause rippling through the theatre as you reach the interval. Trying to get her out of your head is like tugging at your intestines – a hand down your throat renders you dumb, and pains sears through your stomach as you are emptied and left to be a carcass.

“Is it good?” you ask your mum as you head to the bar in the foyer. 

“I wish you had let me meet her.” 

…

Alexia has never been to London outside of football before. She’s played in the north and in the south – she’s won every time – and it’s summery enough right now, but she is still a foreigner in the city. 

It’s fitting, this feeling of being lost, and it’s acceptable to feel it here because she has an excuse. Lost in Barcelona would be ridiculous. 

(But she is.) 

Why is Alexia in London when she could be in Spain? 

Well the only answer is that she has a ticket to a play in a theatre just off the West End that reminds her of someone she once loved. 

She thought it might help, seeing as she hasn’t scored a goal in four weeks with no assists to excuse the drought. Her manager gladly gave her the weekend to recharge, and she escapes matchday seven of Liga F under the guise of illness. 

While sleeping with your pillow, your t-shirt, she must have absorbed whatever the fuck you were on. By osmosis. 

That block. 

And now she has to act like she can’t read your mind. 

Her ticket, acquired last minute by a friend in high places as a massive favour, means that she has a front row seat to a damned play. She is well-prepared for the dread that wrenches her gut. 

The silence settling over her is uncomfortable and impatient, and the lights go down with a sense of impending doom. It’s a bit like being on death row, Alexia thinks. Here she gets to see the good things – a last meal of whatever she would like (you, of course that’s you) – but it is only because of her inevitable execution that this happens. 

The necklace hanging from her collarbones is a noose, the seat is a wooden box about to be kicked out from underneath her, and she needs to make her decision now: does she scream? Should she– 

She’s pulled out of her insanely dramatic spiral by a woman walking onto the stage. 

Her shoulders are hunched slightly and she has that look in her eye; that pang of hunger. 

The actress is recognisable, sure, but that is not the familiarity that strikes Alexia. 

It’s the character. 

It’s you. 

Walking from right to left, towards the back, down to the front, the actress is desperately searching for something. 

Inspiration, Alexia assumes, a smug smile briefly brushing her lips as the opening line breaks the tense silence. 

“Figure this out later,” you say. 

The actress is experienced but she has never read a script like yours before. It moved her to tears, though you claimed it was very happy. 

She lies awake at night, furiously envying those who could love like you do. 

She pities you, partly, because it’s no secret that the story of this love ended when you came here to put the show on. 

She has had to fall in love with someone – method acting, according to the director. 

It’s not quite the universe exploding and stars being born that your relationship must have been, but it’s alright and she is glad to see him in the audience. 

He’s next to a woman who does not seem to be enamoured by the beauty of the plot. 

A woman who seems absolutely fucking horrified. 

Her eyes are wide, fists clenched.

You – the real you – are watching Alexia with curiosity, more interested in her reaction to the play than the play itself. You wonder if she knows the significance of tonight; the reason you are here once more. 

In one month, the set and costumes will be packed up in boxes and taken onto the main street. 

It’s a dream come true. 

You’re here to announce the good news at the end of the show. 

…

“Alexia.” 

She tries not to turn around but she does. 

The night is cool and fresher than she’d expected the London pollution to allow, and the lamp posts are scarily looming over her as she forces herself to not run into your arms. You don’t wear a coat, although your year in Barcelona has borne a certain nostalgia for a warmer climate, but Alexia is wrapped up warm. 

“How… how are you doing?” 

You cringe at how apologetic it sounds. She broke up with you. 

There is a year that will be forever lost to love and happiness, bliss in Barcelona that was always going to be too good to be true. 

There is a year that you will never get back, but there is a breakup you must deal with. 

It’s not a brick wall, it’s a hurdle to jump over. 

Breaking up won’t be the end of your worlds. 

Knowing this, despite the weakness in her knees and the aching of her heart, Alexia lies. For your sake, she lies. 

“I’m good. It’s nice to see you.” 

You’re drowning but you’ll eventually remember how to swim. 

“You too,” you say with formulated sincerity that one day will grow naturally. “Score a goal next time you play, though.” 

[irondad-and-spiderson]

Hi! Sorry to bother, idk if you take asks like this (if you don't feel free to ignore!) but do you know any good fics where SI employees bully/threaten/mistreat Peter and Tony comes to the rescue? Thank you so much for your time 💙💙

Hi! I absolutely do! I might just take forever to respond and take your prompt a little loosely 😃 The three under the cut are employees with (valid) security concerns. I know there are more that I can’t find, so anyone feel free to add some 😉

A Big Security Issue by FotiBrit

When Peter lost his Stark Industries Staff ID, Tony handed the kid his own. That was never an issue, until Peter had to check in at the front desk.

-

The Cusp of a Breath by SpaceCowboysFromMars

“That was the most stressful thing I’ve ever experienced.” Peter says as he and Tony make their way into the crowd. He wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs, cringing when he remembers how much the suit costs.

“You got shot on patrol last month.”

“This was worse.”

Or; Peter is introduced as the official heir of Stark Industries, but not everyone is completely welcoming of his presence. Luckily, he has a pretty awesome mentor to keep him on track.

-

the love (and other things) you inherit by ironfidus

“Which is why,” Catherine says, unblinking, as delicately as she can, “the board requires that you name a successor in the event of your untimely demise. The risk has simply become too great for us to ignore.”

Tony Stark’s spent a large portion of his life thinking about legacy: his legacy, his company’s, Iron Man’s. He’s spent a lot of time fighting to protect his legacy, too. But today, with a lawyer as his witness and FRIDAY as his one-AI cheerleading squad, he stops, takes a step back, and lets go instead—because for the first time, his legacy isn’t about him, not really.

And as FRIDAY would say: it’s about damn time.

Alternatively: Tony updates his will and gets himself an heir, Peter gets a promotion (for lack of a better word), and the rest of the world gets a wake-up call—in that order. Ft. an impatient board of directors, a Stark Industries charity gala, and a universe in which Tony Stark gets to be happy.

-

Security Bias by Sara (ctrsara)

Happy Hogan asks Daren Anderson to help him out with a little project.

My take on idk-bruh-20's irondad fic ideas #128: Fic where, after a security incident in which some bozo accused Peter of trespassing at Stark Tower, Happy holds an emergency briefing for the entire SI security team.

The topic of the briefing? The absolutely untouchable, vital-to-know-if-you-want-to-keep-your-job level of importance of one Peter Parker.

:)

Five Times Tony Stark's Fabled Intern Just Showed Up + One Time He Was Invited by kingdomfaraway

While Leroy didn’t like gossip, he wasn’t immune to it and he’d heard about a young boy claiming to be Tony Stark’s intern showing up randomly throughout the building. He just figured it was some random mystery, a Stark Industries cryptid if you will.

Never did he think he’d have a sighting.

“Are you Peter Parker?” Leroy questioned, narrowing his eyes at the young boy, looking for any signs of deceit.

“Oh yeah, that’s me, hi!” Possibly Fabled Intern Peter Parker reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge and lanyard, this one with his face on it and INTERN written underneath it. “Mr. Stark got me a badge so I can get nachos whenever I want.”

-

Chapter 1 of 200 Park Avenue (5+1) by Sara (ctrsara)

Peter hasn't seen Mr. Stark, or been able to go out as Spider-man since he turned down his invitation to join the Avengers a few weeks ago. He ends up at Stark Tower rather randomly, finding an unlikely hero in Mr. Stark's AI, then keeps returning for different purposes.

The first chapter is a short I did for Comfortember 2022 that I've just kept thinking about. I'm building on that story and creating a 5+1 to explore the new dynamic (post-Homecoming) in another way.

Or

5 Times Peter Visited Stark Tower and 1 Time He Stayed

-

Home by patrochilles_trash ((it’s less angsty than it sounds))

Tony had been out of the country for weeks on SI business, and Peter was having a hard time. He missed him, plain and simple.

Okay. Maybe not so plain and simple.

Peter had a rough time in the weeks and months that followed the final defeat of Thanos in the ruins of the Compound. Thrust back into life, only to be forced to fight for the lives of the entire universe for the second time at only sixteen-years-old, and then to be told that his last living relative died in a crash during his five year absence did wonders for his psyche.

He developed a nasty form of separation anxiety toward his mentor-turned-adoptive-father -- not that Tony fared much better himself -- and his therapist had said it was a side effect of PTSD and that it would get better over time.

OR

A small field trip fic to SI where Tony has been out of the country for a few weeks, and Peter isn't handling it well.

Don't be fooled. This garbage fluff to avoid my other fics that I'm writing

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

queer signalling: louis and harry living their beautiful queer lives, collected by me

since we must take note of our fellow queers when they signal that they are very much one of us, despite being closeted. since i've had a very very queer few years thanks to them, thanks to their signalling, thanks to them being brave.

(!! this list isn't exhaustive, and if i've forgotten your favorite, by all means let me know. there's always room for another edition. it's been a while since i made a compilation and felt there was a need of a new one on my blog. this one goes a few years back, since my last one dates from 2021 :'o. so yeah. here we go.)

harry in my policeman, playing a closeted queer man, based on the book that's long been one of his favorites. lauded by the director and co-stars for how well he portrayed this character, how well he understood.

harry wearing a green flower on his chest for the mp premiere, placing himself (once again) in the same line of history as oscar wilde.

louis's green flowers on his initial 28clothing jersey at the first afhf, which includes bonus roses and 28s all around

the entire late night talking mv bc!!!!!

louis's rainbow stage lights during sibwawc. he really did that. every single night.

the entire dazed magazine happening. “I’ve always tried to compartmentalise my personal life and my working life,” he explains. / “I have unlocked an ability to be myself completely, unapologetically,” he says with conviction." / “I think through my own sense of self and personal journey, I am realising that happiness isn’t this kind of end state.”

louis's gay exit songs: most notably 'ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn't've)'

harry flirting with stanley tucci

louis and his gay ass tank tops !!! we must point it out !!!!!!

all along

harry kissing a pride flag during harry's house ono in nyc

rainbow flare during the btm mv

harry being gifted a mask of his own face at munich n2, which prompted him to say that he feels like he's wearing a mask sometimes

28 in a triangle for 28clothing!!!!!!!!

kit connor soft launching 28 clothing. a young actor starring in a queer coming-of-age series, who was forced to come out after being accused of queerbaiting. he was the first one, besides louis, to wear 28clothing

harry's grammy's speech "people like me" (which ppl sadly misunderstood), echoing what he's been saying on tour for years. this doesn't happen to people like him. if they only knew, right?

harry's freddie-inspired outfit for the grammy carpet (which also brought back his theme for clown/jester fits, like harryween 2021 n2. wonder why)

louis's merch graphic where a boy is trying to smash a glass ceiling

harry posing for david hockney, actual living legend, gay artist of the ages. "Styles seems to know how lucky he is, adding, with a tinge of disbelief: “I’m in awe of the man with enough one-liners for a lifetime.” As to what those one-liners might be? Styles and Hockney’s mutual silence on that question suggests that what happens in the studio, stays in the studio."

louis having suspicious visuals during back to you, the only visuals of that type on tour

harry's 2022 harryween outfit: dressed as danny (literally. he did that. he went grease on us.) but wearing sandy's jacket

louis at barricade aka held safely in the arms of strong security personnel

harry singing man, i feel like a woman and still the one with shania twain. while wearing a rainbow discoball jumpsuit (parallel with kacey musgraves wearing a rainbow dress to sing it with him years ago.)

louis's gay ass merch for the away from home festival

harry dressed in nina ricci by harris reed, an explicitly gender-fluid line. "At 18 I found myself living in london creating ruffle blouses, corsets, fabric flowers and flares from my kitchen floor (...). My creations at the time were met with nothing but criticism for being “too feminine” or “costume”, teachers said I should focus on “menswear” or “womenswear”. l remember it really wasn’t until I started dressing for myself and who I was that it all clicked. @harrystyles was my first ever client who embraced the fun, fluid and expressive clothing I was creating."

continuous bluegreening. to name a few: harry's werchter fit, all this time lights, satellite caps in two colors only, louis's smiley flickering bluegreen on tour in 2022, the james cordon shit, louis in uncasville. enjoy this post here

harry's snl shoot unseens: him as ariel

louis out in amsterdam at a gay bar

harry going to the women's only swimming pond (on a day it was open for men, but this is important to me okay)

harry's use of orchids in his visuals during 'she' during love on tour '23

the 'hairy mermaid' tour visuals

harry as a mermaid during the mfasr mv. as a supreme physical manifestation of harry as the mermaid he truly is inside. but in his true form he gets chopped up and consumed. literally

as it was mv and its parallels with the matrix, hints to harry as the woman with the red dress.

louis jumping up on barricade against the one spot where a pride flag was draped over it

oh yeah that exact same thing happened in 2022 too

harry forming a skirt with a pride flag in brasil after his pants ripped

that gay ass denim getup with the fur collar?? while wearing the fucking peace ring????

harry and phoebe breaking gender norms in the tpwk mv dance. no i'm not over it yet shut up

louis wearing a basquiat t-shirt, another famously queer artist joining the ranks

harry bought an actual genuine basquiat. flex

harry dressed in skirts for gucci

"happy pride! happy pride! 'tis the season! can you tell i'm relaxed?"

"isn't all of this sparkly bi music?"

satellite mv rainbow planet tshirt

louis's bigger than me promo where he's literally george michael like??? IM SORRY???????

harry kissing lewis capaldi at the brits

harry kissing nick kroll at the dwd premiere. lol

and... harry as friend of D O R O T H Y. sang over the rainbow. we all cried. especially me at this clip of harry glancing in relief at his band after over the rainbow.

[puckpocketed]

19/12/2023 Seattle Kraken vs Dallas Stars

The Summer I Fell For Hockey - The Kraken Wagon: How to Stay Silly in the Face of Loss

I’m the asshole on the tram who’s watching hockey on their phone and not paying attention. This is how my afternoon commute home starts. I almost run into at least two people, I definitely trip a guy trying to get off the tram because I’m not looking, and I’m caught scrambling for the door after nearly missing my stop. My walk home is slowed by my unwillingness to take my eyes off the live feed. I’m sweating through an ill-advised sweater vest thrown on at 6 in the morning on my way out the door and my feet sting from the 5 hour shift I just finished — but I don’t care. The Kraken are down 0-2 and it feels like if I stop watching, if I even think about hurrying home through the swampy, muggy afternoon, the game will run away from us. 

“The Kraken are a wagon” is a sentiment I’ve come across repeatedly in my idle googling about my team. They’re a new team, my friend tells me over discord — she fell out of love with ice hockey years ago, some time back when the Kraken were first drafting their inaugural season lineup — and as soon as I hear it I am enamoured with them. A baby team! One that’s still building an identity, trying to figure out its core; and I’m already so charmed by their jerseys — toothpaste red, white, and blue, a squiggly tentacle ‘S’ for Seattle and a glaring sea monster’s eye — but a baby team? That’s the kind of story I can gorge myself on.

So they have me. I’m in and I’m reading primers and checking player stats, and I only find out about the “Kraken wagon” later. My squids have been in free fall all season, I learn this not long after I catch a game (their 0-3 defeat to the Minnesota Wild). This is what I get for choosing teams based on jersey colours, it’s not too late to swap loyalties — my regulars, who have by now heard all about my latent ice hockey obsession, tell me this as I pour their coffees. They don’t get it yet. If I truly didn’t like the Kraken, I’d have given up on them by now. The jersey colours, at this point, are immaterial. The jerseys are a cute bonus.

Here’s the rub: no one ever expected them to make the Stanley Cup playoffs in their second ever season of existence, but they did — or, some past incarnation of them did. The shadow that this playoffs run casts, even now, is where the “wagon” accusations stem from. But I didn’t join them when times were good. I joined them after an 8 game-long skid into the boards.

It’s hard to love something when all you ever see are the worst parts of it, some might assume. Looking through the Kraken tag tells an entirely different story. Loving the Seattle Kraken has come so easily to me largely due to the tiny group of die-hard followers I’ve come into contact with. I have a tab perpetually open on my second monitor at home when I’m watching games, set to the Kraken’s liveblog tag, and each time I’ve tuned in has been the ride of my life. It’s clear from the speed at which we like and reblog each other’s posts that we’re all regularly checking the tag when something happens. It’s like the world’s most intimate Twitch chat section, the world’s least intimate discord call. We’re mutuals and besties, strangers and fellow fans — I imagine if we were in the stands together, we’d look at each other when our Kraken score and cheer together, maybe we’d scream and laugh in half-disbelief.

The Dallas Stars are at the top of the Western Conference’s central division table, and they play like it. In the first few minutes of the match, Duchene and Seguin blast through and slip one past Daccord, no easy feat given he’s been on fire himself recently. Time after time, the Kraken’s power play is wrecked. The Kraken are being given the runaround, having to doggedly chase down intercepted pucks where the Stars’ passes always seem to connect. Recovery from 0-2 might seem impossible from where they are at the end of the first period, but the Kraken bring to the second period the same energy they had for their relentless puck hunting. Matty B and Tuna — Beniers and Tatar  — put us on the scoreboard and keep us in it, even as we lose Canner and Belly to injuries. Recovery from such an early and demoralising goal deficit isn’t impossible, just increasingly unlikely when you’ve got no superstars and are trying to throw off the wagon allegations.

That’s another thing: expectations are low. And not in a way that’s meant to disrespect the Kraken players — it’s closer to how animals might ball up and protect their vulnerable, soft bellies from harm. Losing, to be perfectly candid, fucking sucks. Reminding ourselves that any gains — no matter how trivial — still count as a win is one way to stave off the inevitable heartbreak. Another way we do it is, to paraphrase several Kraken bloggers,  “staying silly”.

If I were to distill the essence of silliness, I’d start with hockey itself. This game is a goofy one, in spite of my past assertions about warrior’s codes and narratives and unspoken honour. On-ice collisions can in fact be the height of slapstick comedy; and today the tension of a potential line brawl was broken with, of all things, the arena DJ playing Mortal Kombat music. As for the people? Even as the Kraken went down two goals halfway through the first period, the posts and memes rolled in. 

Watching sports is meant to be a leisure activity. If the stress of it ever becomes too much for me, stepping away is vital. Having the denizens of krakenblr being silly alongside me is like having an extra layer of armour between us and the heartache of loss. We crack jokes about manifesting wins, about freeing our boys from the penalty box (they’ve never done anything wrong in their lives, ever, and even if they did those assholes had it coming), about our players who are babygirls, about the endless double-entendre made by Forslund and Olczyk. For each time we scored, for each penalty taken, each power play and penalty kill the tone set by everyone was simple: stay silly. 

In the last minute of the third period, the Kraken rally for one final push. With Daccord pulled from the net the 6-man rush is relentless, and they manage to get up in the Stars’ faces. This is the grit that so inspired my admiration. Though the recaps on the news feed might only list one or two names on the assist, the last goal of third period is thanks to everyone on the ice. The Kraken players perform as their namesake implies: as one they are a many-armed leviathan, come to drag you and yours down, down, down, into the deep.

Vince Dunn — Dunner or Vincess depending on who you ask — keeps the puck from the blue line, Wenny snatches it away from a tight spot between two Stars, and everyone works to feed it back onto Bjorkstrand’s tape. Bjorkstrand’s shot cracks down the line and into the crease — and how’s this for poetry: from the same goddamn place on the ice he shot the last time he had to even up a game going into overtime — and the ensuing scuffle ends with Tolvy tipping it past Wedgewood. After a deeply frustrating review from the situation room, the goal is called good and we’re confirmed for overtime. Various posts to the effect of, “No matter what happens, I love you all. We’ll be okay,” flood the tag as I refresh my page. With them, it truly ain’t that serious; and going into overtime, even knowing the Kraken have one of the least impressive OT records in the league, truly cements it for me. The Kraken will be my team for the foreseeable future.

I won’t keep you in suspense, if you’re reading this from the outside looking in. The game ends in a loss. But I’m no heavier than I was when the game started. On the contrary, I’m lighter. The little reservoir of dread that had built up inside me in the early hours of the game has been emptied by a tidal wave of sweetness, of sincere well-wishes and optimism. To the Kraken fans I’ve interacted with so far: thank you all so much for what is possibly the warmest welcome I’ve ever received to a fandom space, thank you for making this game and this team so easy to love, thank you for shielding my tender flesh from loss and making even defeats a little fun.

So what if the Kraken are a wagon? It’s a clown wagon, and we’re riding it together; hand in silly hand.

[sorio99]

So, I’ve pretty much entirely stayed out of the James Somerton discourse, because frankly, I just didn’t think I had anything that valuable to say. I wasn’t a fan of Somerton’s, I never watched his videos or fell for his lies, the first time I heard of the dude was in HBomberGuy’s video, and the most impact he’s had on my life is encouraging me to watch Todd in the Shadows.

That said, I did have thoughts as things developed, about his “apologies”, about his claims of depression, and even about the “suicide note” he posted to Twitter. But, I really didn’t feel like I had anything to add to the discussion that wasn’t already being said by at least 50 other people.

But uh, I have thoughts. About the latest developments.

One of the thoughts I shelved about Somerton in the past was that I wasn’t sure if the “note” being real or fake was the worse option. I really don’t have much sympathy for James, given some of the really heinous shit he’s said in the past, but I’ve never wanted him dead. I personally wanted him punished for his actions, and then removed from public view; I didn’t think anything he’d done deserved the death penalty.

While I do still think that, him posting a fake suicide note makes me VERY skeptical.

Here’s the thing: I’ve talked before about my struggles with my mental health, with Suicidal Ideation, and just general depression. There have been many times in my life where I have wanted to kill myself, and even one occasion a decade ago where I actively tried.

I’m also not a good person.

A few years ago, I did something bad to someone I cared about. I won’t go into details, for both selfish and non-selfish reasons, but suffice to say, it’s the kind of thing where I think most people would say I deserve some kind of punishment.

And I can say, based on that point in time, based on what I was feeling then, I could very easily believe that someone like James was actually suicidal.

I knew it could still be a manipulation tactic, I knew it probably was one. I even knew that, if it was real, it was still arguably a manipulation tactic. But I genuinely thought there was a chance, even a solid chance, that Somerton had wanted to commit suicide.

That chance has gone out the fucking window.

Let me be clear, also: the fact that James was horny posting on an alternate Twitter account, and engaging with media was not what convinced me that it was all bullshit. As someone who’s used the god damned Professor Layton games as a coping mechanism during depressive episodes, I’ve seen far weirder and worse responses to being suicidal.

It was how he talked about himself, responded to his defenders and accusers. The fact that while people were genuinely panicked at the thought that he might have tried to kill himself, he was purposefully stoking the flames and trying to make himself look better.

James Somerton is a fucking bastard, and I never want to hear from him, or ANY defenses of him, ever again.

[vincentpriceofficial]

Sex, Violence and Power in Hilary Mantel’s A Place of Greater Safety

Ever since I finished this book I’ve been thinking about how gendered and sexual violence kind of continually lurk in its subtext and then break into the explicit text in periodic but still-shocking instances of abuse. At first I thought this was mostly unrelated to the central political plot — a matter of historical realism as much as anything — but the more I’ve thought about it the more integral and connected to everything else it seems.

CW: #rape, #abuse, #csa

From the first chapters of the novel, we see that women and girls in this time and place lack the ability to say no to sex with their husbands. As a child, Robespierre hears his maternal grandfather accuse his father of having murdered his mother via repeat pregnancies. Much later, Danton’s wife Gabrielle has a conversation with other women about the impossibility of using birth control in her marriage. Within a year Gabrielle is dead, her death eerily similar to that of Robespierre’s mother.

Manon Roland is molested as a child and carries a fear and revulsion of sexuality with her throughout her life as a result.

And Camille is taken advantage of as a young adult by an older man who controls the future of his career. The fact that Camille’s mentor is sexually predatory seems to be common knowledge throughout the professional community, and instead of intervening to protect Camille they humiliate and ostracize him. When Camille disavows responsibility for the relationship to his father (“None of it was my fault” and “I was just a child”) his father outright scoffs at the idea he might be trying to say he was raped. Much later Danton himself marries a young teenage girl and, again, no one seems willing or quite able to intervene. You get the overwhelming sense that this is a society where sexual abuse and exploitation are treated as mildly unpleasant facts of life about which nothing can or should be done.

Later, Camille narrowly escapes being coerced into sex by Babette, the young daughter of Robespierre’s landlord. Camille’s lingering terror of her after this incident is horribly psychologically realistic, but also…. Babette, teen girl predator of adult men, is the one instance of sexual violence in the book that has never sat entirely right with me.

The real Elisabeth Duplay wrote in her memoirs that Georges Danton tried to kiss her and made inappropriate sexual comments to her when she was a teenager. I see no reason to believe this isn’t true, and in light of it I do think representing Elisabeth as a sexual predator herself is kind of a strange and tasteless choice. It feels like an outlier in Mantel’s otherwise very grounded and realistic portrait of an 18th century rape culture.

The choice to represent a single individual person who lived and died hundreds of years ago as a rapist when she probably wasn’t one itself might leave a slightly bad taste in my mouth, but on the other hand historical fiction as a genre does tend to necessitate casting some dead people in unflattering lights just to create conflict and make the plot run. This alone doesn’t bother me nearly as much as Babette’s later “false rape accusation” against Danton (which is obviously how we’re meant to interpret it in the book, as a lie devised for political expediency) and that accusation being framed as a deciding factor in Robespierre’s decision to condemn Danton to death.

For one thing, this plot beat feels out of step with the development of Robespierre and Danton’s uneasy alliance and rivalry throughout the rest of the novel. From the beginning of the revolution the two of them have a grudging respect for each other but don’t like each other, they don’t share one another’s fundamental values or worldview and those differences increasingly drive a wedge between them as the external pressure on both men mounts. Robespierre becomes more ruthless and paranoid while Danton becomes more violent, exploitative and corrupt. Danton is a sexual abuser by this point in the story. He has married a teenage girl and it’s implied that he’s raping her (by the very implication that she is a child he is having sex with, and by a line in her internal monologue where she hopes he’ll get drunk and fall asleep right away so she won’t have to have sex with him). Meanwhile Robespierre is growing more committed to a belief system wherein “the people” of France are inherently morally pure and if they behave badly it’s because of external bad influences, wherein immorality is a societal cancer that needs to be cut out by chopping off the heads of every Evil Person.

At the end of those two character arcs I would have believed Robespierre was willing to have Danton killed without any false accusation scene, without any out-and-out lies being told to him about Danton. It feels like Mantel didn’t have enough faith in her own story and her own central character arcs and did this weird punch-pulling maneuver at the last minute that weakens the story. Two complex and well-developed characters becoming more entrenched in and committed to their own worst qualities over time until they destroy one another is a strong arc with a strong conclusion. One character being “tricked” into betraying the other by a one-dimensionally villainous minor character is weak and unsatisfying.

Babette and her purely malicious opportunism also makes it feel like… the call is coming from outside the house, so to speak. Like, as Robespierre believes, there are individual Bad People who are the problem and if they could be gotten rid of all societal ills would disappear. But throughout the rest of the story we see that really isn’t the case. Perrin hires Camille out of a desire to take sexual advantage of him, but also treats Camille well enough that years later Camille is willing to risk his own position to save Perrin’s life during the September Massacres. Danton is a loyal friend, a charming and charismatic leader, and someone who likes to compromise and negotiate rather than make enemies. And he’s also an abuser, a sexual predator, and a murderer (especially if you accept Danton’s own judgment that he killed Gabrielle “by unkindness”). When Manon runs into her own rapist years later she observes that he is “a perfectly ordinary young man”.

This is a more compelling and a more true portrait of a culture where exploitation and coercion are baked into the “normal” social structure.

Mirabeau has this internal monologue near the beginning that feels to me like the closest thing APoGS has to a thesis statement:

When you get down to it, he thought, there’s not much difference between politics and sex; it’s all about power. He didn’t suppose he was the first person in the world to make this observation. It’s a question of seduction, and how fast and cheap you can effect it.

So like, we’re all here in politics trying to accrue power. (Even if we hope to use that power for good.) We’re trying to exert as much control as we can over as many people as possible. We’re trying to coerce and manipulate and bribe each other. The methods of the outside world are not alien to the revolution; they are inside it from its genesis and present within it at every step of the way. And much, much later the revolutionary government will collapse into chaos not because of the foreign plots against it that Robespierre imagines but because of internal factional power struggles turning desperate and bloody and murderous.

From Robespierre’s first introduction to the story, we are shown that he has an intertwined horror of sexuality and abuses of power. He understands that his mother’s death was a result of abusive or “excessive” sexual behavior on the part of his father. He understands that as an illegitimately conceived child he would not exist if not for his parents’ immoral sexual excess. He spends the rest of his life trying to distance himself from that legacy and to prove he’s nothing like his father.

Asking himself why he’s so afraid of foreign political conspiracies, Robespierre directly draws the link to his own bodily alienation:

Why, he asked (since he is a reasonable man), does he fear conspiracy where no one else does?

And answered, well, I fear what I have past cause to fear. And these are the conspirators within: the heart that flutters, the head that aches, the gut that won’t digest, and eyes that, increasingly, cannot bear bright sunlight. Behind them is the master conspirator, the occult part of the mind.

Robespierre becomes obsessed with the idea that anyone whose policies he disapproves is a malicious foreign agent, bent on the destruction of the republic. This idea particularly takes root when people whose political views he otherwise shares advocate starting a war. Robespierre cannot accept the possibility that warmongering is an honest miscalculation — that people brought up surrounded by propaganda about glorious military triumphs might sincerely believe war could be a good thing for the republic.

He can’t accept that the violence he abhors is in his allies, that it’s in The People, that it’s in him. He can’t accept that Camille is sullied by sexual deviance, or that Danton could be both a powerful force for political stability and a corrupt, largely amoral bully. Robespierre can’t cope with the murky ambiguity and ambivalence that lurks in the “occult part of the mind”; he can’t bear to think of himself or anyone else he loves as a body capable of sex and violence. So he destroys Camille and destroys Danton and we know that he’ll be killed himself a few months later. I imagine him finally keeling over after slowly and gradually bleeding out from a self-inflicted wound, a self-surgery, a botched organ removal. He tries to excise the impurities from his own life and finds he can’t survive without them. He cannot bring himself to negotiate or make peace with the “conspirator within” and instead destroys himself completely.

[atla-recluse]

Some Not-So-Gentle Reminders and Points for the Gravity Falls Fandom (And for Fandoms in General) to Consider, Especially the Dishonest and Clueless “Apologists”

Note: So here’s my official first Gravity Falls post. I’m not exactly a new fan, though I am having a second wind of interest and appreciation for it and everything in it. For this particular post, I guess I just really felt like getting some thoughts off my chest and just kept going after that. Sorry for lack of pics/direct evidence. This was supposed to be quick and most of this stuff should be pretty obvious if you just pay attention and take the bias goggles off. I might come back and add images/media later. I’ll gladly correct any mistakes too, big or small, if need be.

Now consider this:

- Stan, in the scene where he allegedly “broke” Ford’s science fair project, didn’t even touch it! I repeat, Stan DID NOT touch Ford’s science fair project! What he touched, was the table it was set on when he slammed his fist down! Yet he was and still is blamed for it breaking by everyone in the fandom and show, even himself. How has this common claim so rarely been questioned by a fandom that prides itself on being skeptical and solving mysteries? Just use your eyes and rewatch the scene, people!

- The fact that Ford was so quick to accuse Stan—the one person in the whole world out of his entire life that had supported him through thick and thin and always protected him—of breaking his project based on minimal evidence at best, implies that Ford already had a low opinion of Stan by that point and probably much earlier. It implies that even if he did love Stan, he definitely didn’t believe in him. No one had ever believed in or supported Stan until Soos came into his life, followed by Wendy, Dipper and Mabel.

- No matter how you try and slice it, Ford had been outright shown time and time again, through both words and actions, to have not appreciated Stan’s love or devotion to him, or their closeness. At least not outwardly, to us viewers. His true feelings might not always show and we do get some glimpses here and there of his thoughts on Stan, but appearances matter a lot! Someone being open to doing things with another person, seemingly to keep up an air of decency and calm while they’re trapped in the same place together, doesn’t mean that person appreciates the other. It doesn’t even necessarily mean that you want a relationship with that person or to reconcile.

- Ford’s usage of the words “suffocating” and “meant for something greater” when talking to Dipper about familial relationships and specifically the boy’s connection with his sister Mabel, besides many other talked-to-death things, is very telling and shows how much he was terrified of the intimacy he had with Stan. There’s literally no nicer way to put it. He didn’t just want to escape the bullying he received or the crappy town he grew up in. He wanted to escape Stan. At some point in his adolescence, Ford seemed to have grown to view Stan as an obstacle to his success, a weight on his shoulders, a leech or spotlight hog of some sort, or just a painful reminder of awful experiences. This in itself is a very realistic reaction and when you look at the examples, the case for Ford truly being proud of what he had with Stan looks very shaky. Despite what I’ve noted here, I do think Ford did and does greatly love Stan deep down. But he also seemed to be afraid of something, which seems to have led to him wanting to run away from his feelings—and from Stan.

- Again, it’s possible to love someone dearly but still harm them or view them as harmful to you or for both of you to harm each other. If you really want to view Ford’s immediate discarding of what was supposedly both his and Stan’s dream, along with Stan himself, in a somewhat more positive (well, more selfless) light, you could argue that Ford thought he was holding Stan back (instead of solely vice versa). After all, if Stan did depend on Ford as much as we see him do in the series to the point where they were practically a (mis?) matched pair of socks, it could very well be that Ford felt like he was forcing Stan to be the ‘dumb but brawny and funny’ twin to his ‘smart but weak and weird’ self. Maybe he figured Stan shouldn’t have to keep defending him and making a fool of himself to make Ford happy and feel less alone in his ‘freakishness’ into adulthood. Perhaps he thought some separation was what they both needed to finally grow into two fully-fledged, separate beings.

- There’s an argument to be made that Ford is/was extremely narcissistic and insecure. You know what many narcissists (with or without NPD) have in common? They have low self-esteem. Low self-esteem often born from a childhood of emotional abuse and neglect and constantly being told there’s something wrong with you, that you’re not and will never be good enough. Low self-esteem and a need to hide it and look for ways to avoid rejection or coming rejection, even if it’s just perceived. It can be easy to forget that Stan and Ford were both treated terribly inside the home as well as outside it. Ford was on some level the golden child whereas Stan was the scapegoat. There are some narcissistic dynamics going on here. (They’re very prevalent in families, you know?) Childhoods like theirs are known for breeding such people. This means that Ford may have saw himself in a negative light but felt Stan’s love was exacerbating the problem because he was being led to believe that Stan was a problem; The problem child.

- Stan shows signs of extreme codependency to the point of having traits that practically mimic that of BPD/EDD/EUPD (including insecurity and low self-esteem as well). He’s clearly terrified of abandonment yet of closeness too, at the same time. This is likely also caused by his and Ford’s childhood. Many people with BPD come from homes like theirs, too. Now I understand these are cartoon characters, so the urge to diagnose, while understandable, is typically pointless. However, if we’re speaking theoretically on which disorders match up with characters the most based on what we see and find out about them, then yes, Stanley seems to be extremely codependent—especially toward Stanford—and likely suffers from other emotional trauma that was made far worse after he was kicked out.

Do we ever see it so much as implied that this concerns Stanford though? That he sympathizes with whatever current plight his brother is going through even once outside of the finale of all times, particularly before Stanley had seemingly already been erased out of existence? I don’t think we do. Well, maybe once. Stanford gave Dipper a pretty and high tech tie to give to Stanley... I guess he wanted to throw his poor, dumb dog of a brother a bone. (I kid, I kid. But not really.)

You can’t even claim that it was the same the other way around and say that Stan doesn’t pay mind to Ford’s struggles or want to help him out of them ever, because the show often goes out of its way to illustrate to us the opposite and often also makes it clear just how much Stan adores Ford. Spending their childhood protecting and sticking up for him. Dropping/giving up everything for Ford repeatedly. Being concerned over Ford’s sanity/behavior when he visited him that fateful day in 1982. Still holding out hope he’ll change his mind on their old dream despite the hell he’s been put through. Forgiving Ford for everything even after he almost ‘dies’ to clean up the problem that, mind you, FORD CAUSED TO BEGIN WITH. Ford “ruined” his own life! (And is implied or explicitly shown to have had a hand in bringing about the intense hardship of others’ lives. E.g. Stanley, Fiddleford....the evidence is there.)

- In fact, there can be no talks about “who was more responsible for Weirdmageddon” without acknowledging who was the first one to shake the devil’s hand: Ford! I mean, of course it’s mainly Bill’s fault, he’s the villain! The point is that it’s harder for others to do wrong when we refuse to help them. We know romantic relationship cheaters are jerks but what about those who knowingly help the cheaters cheat? They never get a pass, now do they? Then the same can especially be said for Stanford, who did not refuse to help Bill—even despite warnings about summoning him—until it was too late and the cat was miles away from the bag. At that point he had no one to blame but himself for the problem continuing to escalate. I mean, don’t you remember the many questionable ways he tried to contain it?!

- Stanley is not even close to being the dumb twin. Not in anyway. On top of all the skills he’s learned over the decades, he’s actually implied to be close to as smart or even equal to Stanford. His whole life is actually a testament to how amazing he truly is at surviving and, given the right tools, thriving. You know what some of you sound like when you have nothing but crap to say about this main’s relatively positive traits, irrespective of his actual wrong-doings? Stanford Pines, pre-realization of all the ways he has screwed things up for those around him. You know, who the man was only after he erased Stanley’s memory. Though a lot of you seem to self-insert and project onto Stanford to an unpleasant extent anyway, so I guess that’s not surprising. You know who else you end up sounding like? Filbrick Pines. Yeah, that one. I don’t know, seems a bit disturbing to be. You know who else you often end up sounding like? Bill Cipher, if I remember properly. In fact, wasn’t it implied that much of Stanford’s negative views of Stanley and not needing family, was influenced by Bill? Hmm.

- You can not blame Stanley for pushing Stanford into the portal while completely ignoring the context of the scene and all the actions that lead up to that point. Ford sent Stan a vague postcard (implying he may have known how to reach Stan all along). Ford allowed Stan inside and in the basement where things were bound to be the most dangerous. Ford told Stan to take the book and get as far away from him (“sail as far away as you can. To the edge of the Earth”) as possible despite knowing their were a lot of tender feelings there, especially when it came to the two of them sailing together. Ford started the fight when Stan tried to burn the book he was given, that Ford wanted to get rid of anyway! Ford pushed Stan while trying to get said book back onto a bunch of buttons which activated the portal to begin with! The accidental lever turn came after that and the Stan accidentally pushing him into the portal was just the nail in the coffin of their faux family reunion that Ford caused to happen. 

No one made Ford choose an unsuspecting Stan as a tool and means to an end for the mess he put himself and possibly the whole world in. That was his choice. Either they’re both to blame or Ford is solely to blame. What you’re not going to do is put the entirety of the blame on Stan. Call me every name in the book for this, but I believe the BIGGEST innocent victim in that scenario was Stan! You don’t need to blame him for every single terrible thing that happened to Ford because Stan already blames himself for everything! Even when it doesn’t look like it could have been him responsible for it! He already is full of shame and remorse that fill every step he takes every single day. He worried every day for thirty years that the blood of one of the only people in his life that he’s loved, may have been on his own hands.

- I think it’s possible that one of the reasons Ford latched on to Bill despite all the red flags, was because Bill reminded him of Stanley. He wanted a friend. He wanted his best friend back. Bill played the role almost perfectly—until he didn’t anymore and Ford realized his mistake. This could mean that there’s a chance he realized the biggest difference between Stan and Bill since he did end up contacting the former after Bill’s betrayal, and in his own words, chose Stan because he trusted him. He still trusted Stan. It could have been less than when they were children though and all that time with someone that reminded him of Stan yet ended up betraying him ‘too’ may have caused him to start associating Stan with Bill. I can imagine that after he was sucked into the portal, Ford’s associating Stan with painful betrayal may have worsened. But bringing him out of the portal could have slightly improved it. And seeing as they finally sailed away by the end, he realized must have he was wrong to ever associate them, if he had before. I bet they’re probably still sailing around the world together over a decade later right now.

- If the thought of both twins not returning home and choosing to live with their grunkles and exploring gravity falls/world and sailing the sea together, bothers you, ask yourself how it would have been soooo much better if only Dipper had stayed while Mabel went back home? You see the issue with that now? I won’t argue whether or not it’s okay for a 12 - 13 year old boy to stay in a far off place with an adult family member. After all their parents didn’t mind sending them alone to Gravity Falls for the summer to live with their great uncle anyway, which was likely dangerous/irresponsible of them for many reasons. I just think it’s suspicious that some people can only see the issue if someone suggests that both twins should have left their parents and life in California behind to resolve the issue of the apprenticeship and keeping close to one’s sibling all at once.

- The Stan Twins told their story in ATOTS but only we, the audience, actually see it play out. The characters don’t. The way brothers explained it may have made it seem to each other like the other still had no sympathy for them and didn’t think that what they did was wrong. Stan even called Ford’s dream college “stupid” while the flashback was being shown and he was explaining his side of the story. The fact that neither apologizes for the painful things they helped contribute to in their young adulthood which affected them, probably didn’t help either.

- In one of the scenes from the ATOTS flashback, Ford yelled at Stan “Help me Stanley!” as he was slowly sucked into the portal. He wanted Stan to save him! These were Ford’s final words to him that Stan internalized and are what Stan immediately set out to do! He likely worked for decades with these last words in mind, not knowing whether Ford would still be alive when he brought him back to their world! Ford even threw the book that they’d fought over to Stan before he disappeared. How do you think that looked from Stan’s POV? Like a visual cry for help on top the audible one I bet! Also, Ford had some awful nightmares thanks to Bill. It was terrible what was done to him and pushed him to the point of insanity. However, he wasn’t the only one with fears, regrets and a troubled past. Imagine what Stan’s nightmares must have been like, especially the ones with Ford in them? The parts of Stan’s dreamscape that we got a view of were depressing. The dreary colors, the symbolism...

- Both sets of twins are extremely sensitive to and immediately take things to heart, especially insults/criticism and all of them can at times act less mature than their actual ages. They all feel inadequate in some way. They just showed these traits to different extents and unhealthily cope in different ways. Be careful with their feelings and what you say to them because all of them wear a front as a cover for protection. They also all occasionally lack common sense, act silly and say and do the oddest things at times. Plus they all need someone who genuinely loves them dearly to hold them down and would die for their family (or die of heartbreak if they didn’t get there in time).

- Stan and Ford after decades apart and so much animosity between them, are sailing on a ship. They could be together in the middle of nowhere very often. Knowing of all those negative feelings that were present, it leads me to think about all the ways their trip could have gone wrong. Many understand that their father was abusive, but what if they were or became abusive to each other? I don’t want to believe this would happen and I doubt we were supposed to consider such a thought. However, the terrible possibilities are still there. At worst, I prefer to think that things are at times bitter but then sweet.

- It’s very fascinating to me how so much “Stanford Defense” seems to be built upon throwing other characters under the bus to make him seem less culpable for his own choices. It boggles my mind how the same people who claim that characters such as Stan and Mabel are never questioned on anything (laughable to say this point, especially coming from them) seem to be the ones doing everything in their power to keep people from so much as voicing displeasure anymore at any part of Ford’s character. I swear I’m ever seeing the same names on different sites arguing with people about how wrongly ridiculed he is. It’s really is starting to look like all the “Stanford gets soooo much unnecessary HAAAAATE and is always bAsHeD” people are trying to take things in the opposite direction. Which is just as upsetting if not more so, because such behavior only leads to the shutting down of discussion and critique. That’s horrible for a fandom to go through, just like the other way around. Can’t Gravity Falls do better than that?

- Your faves won’t ever be every single person’s faves. Sometimes people will even dislike a character that you like. That’s fine! That’s life! Just don’t forget while loving said character, that this does not have to mean you approve of everything they say or do. You don’t need to jump to one’s defense whenever someone makes a point. Especially a valid one that can’t truly be disproven anyway. It makes you look delusional and like you’re in a parasocial relationship with that fictional character. Learn and never forget the difference between arguing an important point with societal implications and solely defending a character for the sake of it, please.

- Mental illness is not a joke or something to wear as a badge of honor. It’s also not something that, if noticed, should be swept under the rug. In the case of fictional characters, I think it’s quite admirable when people can see certain traits of themselves or their loved ones in characters past the stereotypical ones, but that also gives us a chance to talk about those traits and just how hard it can be to live with them and why sympathy and amnesty is so important to healing and moving forward. I believe Stan and Ford especially show signs of extreme mental illness in the show that I have a hunch were placed in them on purpose. This seems to be one of those cases where we’re supposed to see our own family dynamics in them.

- It’s asinine to claim to love a character but ignore or even outright deny their faults and flaws, even when they admit to it! If you love someone, love all of that person, even if you’re often at odds with them. When someone says they love Stanford for literally deny things about him that are proven to be true, I’m left wondering if that person actually loves him—or just the idea of him. Same with any other character this happens with. Enough with the need for our favorite characters to be pure, perfect versions of ourselves. Enough with the need to wipe away issues and to go as far as making up traits for the character, or even stealing their traits from another to make him or her look better and the other character look worse. You’re in effect masking what depth is actually present and risking putting a bad taste in the mouth of those that are neutral on them; souring them to the character and even fandom. 

- Even the characters with potential who were unfortunately underutilized—such as Caryn Pines, the mother of the Stan Twins—still tended to fill their main roles in the story pretty well, even despite time restraints. Some of these and other side characters even managed to gain their own small group of fans and fan-creators on their behalf, within the larger fandom. That is pretty wild and deserves some praise. Nice one writers!

- Sometimes it really does help to just remove yourself from the story and just be meta with your takes, i.e. to distance yourself when discussing something because it helps make you less biased and more evidence-based. There are times where we really do see something in a character that indeed was not there or meant to be there. Death of the author can only allow for so much leeway in interpretations. Authorial intent will always matter. This show was very detailed and there are so many things you only noticed after looking again. Some theories exist that imply the whole story for the Pines Family would have mattered no matter what in-universe. We need to be careful when arguing things, we may be/end up wasting our time even more than we think. Oh and ...cartoon logic haha. Also no one loves or will ever love the Pines Family like the Pines Family can. Nor like the creators/writers themselves do. We also can not understand them the way the ones who made them can. When in doubt, it tends to be best to just trust them and their intentions, and your gut as a last resort.

- The Gravity Falls ending was meant to be a happy, fairytale-like ending. That’s how it’s been implied to be the case by the creator (probably not with the company known for fairytales, Disney, even asking him to) and is the reason why every character was so quick to forgive and forget, and why everyone but the ‘super bad guys’ got their ideal ending. Sometimes it’s really not about what would have been the most interesting or profound (or logical) to viewers when making directive choices but about what would make us feel most at peace.

Note: This was all written with mostly one perspective in mind. There are however, many others ones and I do think lots of them are valid takes too, some of them I may even agree with as well and may have hinted at. Also, although it can be hard to tell with so many questionable decisions made, things not done that should have been and even some writing errors here and there, I do think all four of the Pines Family members and those adopted into the family, truly love each other and express it in different ways. That’s what this whole show is really all about and how it ended: With Love for Family prevailing.

[toxicanonymity]

I’m thinking about the reader that mentioned Raider Tommy. I’ve also been thinking about when their paths might cross. I was wondering if he would poke fun of Joel for going “soft”? But what might Joel’s reaction be? I feel like he might have a setback. Maybe he thinks that his obvious caring for Sweet Pea has made his men and others think he’s “gotten soft” and he obviously can’t have that since his basic lot in life is to show people how dominant and alpha he is. So, maybe it makes him turn more violent again, trying to prove he hasn’t lost it? Or maybe he does what the other person mentioned and basically tries to make an excuse, like Sweet Pea is just his responsibility now and he has no choice?

Great thoughts! 🖤 This is an area where there might be some deviation from canon or fanon. Idk when they separated in canon but in this world Joel might have pushed Tommy away really early in the outbreak in the course of leaving his entire life behind, unable to handle any reminder of who he was and Sarah's death. They probably did some bad stuff together, but Joel hadn't evolved into his full post-outbreak persona. Something happened and Joel snapped and they split.

In my head, this Tommy was always kinda dark even pre outbreak. Like maybe he was hardened by serving time. But also became worse post-outbreak.

Tommy only recently came back to the general area. When it comes to what a bad guy Joel is, Tommy probably hears more about Joel than he's ever seen first hand. He might even reap some benefits of Joel's reputation lol, nepotism baby raider. So I'm not sure if Tommy would be the one to accuse Joel of going soft, but Joel's men could for sure, and either of the reactions you describe would track (and/or hurting/killing people to make examples out of them ). When Joel and Tommy eventually cross paths, Tommy could have other words for him.

[scavengedlegacy]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Axis Investigations Office PARTIES: Emilio @mortemoppetere and Natalia @scavengedlegacy. SUMMARY: Natalia finds out she's being tracked by Emilio and confronts him. He accuses her of doing the stalking. CONTENT WARNING: stalking, brief mention of family death

The night before, Natalia had been sitting across from an old client who was coming to make good on their part of their deal, and he had mentioned passing on her name to someone else. It was a normal event in her particular line of work, it wasn’t like she could publicly market stolen goods and secrets for trade. But when they described the man who had asked about her, it gave Natalia pause.

When he first moved into town, Natalia had clocked him as someone who she needed to watch. It was a gut instinct that had quickly proven to be right. He was a Cortez. And while her beating heart disqualified her from being his usual prey, knowing that he was looking for her made her uneasy. Was there a vampire that she had helped that he was looking for? Was the trinket the last one had traded to her something he wanted? 

Standing with her back to the wall, just inside the office of Axis Investigations, Natalia crossed her arms and stayed far from the chair that a client would normally take. “Who hired you?” Her tone was less questioning and more accusatory. “I can’t for the life of me think of what you would want with the scavenger, so, someone had to hire you. I’ve gone through all the suspects in my head, just rotating through names, and they’re either too lazy to go looking, too tied up in their own fucking principles to decide the ‘best option’ let alone agree on who to hire — and none of them would hire outside their own groups.” 

—

You saw all kinds of different cases in Emilio’s line of work. He got the feeling most of the ones you saw in Wicked’s Rest weren’t exactly standard for P.I.s in the rest of the world, but he’d gotten good at clocking them anyway. Missing people usually turned up in the stomach of something in the woods. Suspicious changes in behavior tended to find the subject with less of a heartbeat than they’d had before the shift. Stolen items were sometimes better off not returned when they were rediscovered in cursed shops. Emilio danced the line between detective and hunter pretty well for a guy who could only use one leg, and he was good at clocking which cases were supernatural and which weren’t pretty early on in the process.

But this one… This one could still go either way. The woman who’d hired him had been nervous. People who hired him usually were. No one ever really hired a private investigator because they were having a good day, after all. She’d told him someone was following her, and she was afraid it might have something to do with some illegal dealings she’d been a part of, so she couldn’t go to the police. Emilio didn’t care much about legality, especially not when it was for laws that didn’t matter, so he took the case without question. He did some digging, he found a name. 

Natalia Moreno seemed to have her finger in a lot of pies throughout town. And just as Emilio had found her on his radar, she seemed to have put him on hers. It wasn’t entirely surprising to find her in his office; if anything, he was surprised she hadn’t shown up sooner. From what he’d found out about her, she probably wasn’t someone who liked people digging into her work. “I’m not going to tell you who hired me,” he replied flatly, leaning back in his chair and mimicking her stance, arms crossed over his chest. “Es una política de la empresa. I tell you, other people want me to tell them, it goes out of control. People want privacy. You should understand.”

—

It was company policy. The words could have made her sick if she let them sink in past the surface. Too much like her parents who stood in a room with a bunch of other aging Scribes, making decisions for everyone around them, damning them with their desire to remain hidden and ‘neutral.’ Natalia wrinkled her nose and then rolled her eyes, letting the words roll off her in the same movement. 

“And yet, something tells me, Mr. Cortez, that if you were coming to me and asking me for information, you wouldn’t take ‘company policy’ and walk away, would you?” She watched him for a moment longer, a beat of silence before the blank look on her face cracked into something of a smile. Close to humor. She pushed off the wall and then pointed at the chair across the desk, “Can I sit here?” Natalia didn’t wait, she sat down and propped her feet up on the desk, making herself comfortable. If they were going to be posturing the entire time, she might as well do it where it looked like it was her office, instead of his. 

“So then, explain this company policy to me, love to hear the full thing. Especially the ‘in the event someone’s life might be in danger’ part. Because unfortunately for people like us, company policy has to be flexible to some degree, doesn’t it?” Natalia tipped her head to the side, wondering what had been asked of him, if he was just there to find her and out her, or if he had been asked to do something more. (She wasn’t a vampire, she reminded herself. And for all accounts, she didn’t remember the Cortezs making a habit of killing humans.) “Unless this is about money?” She blinked a few times, letting the question breathe before she shrugged her shoulders. “I mean, you wouldn’t be the first to sell your morals for a couple bucks.” It had been a long time since Natalia had felt desperate. Longer still that she had to rely on someone else for the answers. 

—

“Ah, I’m a bad example,” Emilio replied, waving a hand dismissively. She was right, of course; when met with ‘company policy’ that prevented him from doing his job, he had a habit of finding some way around it. Digging, or pushing, or threatening if he thought the person deserved it. But he felt differently when he was the one holding the cards… especially in a situation like this one. If Natalia was the person who’d been following his client, sharing the information of who’d hired him could put their life in danger. He had no idea if Natalia was dangerous or not; he’d prefer not to find out the answer to that question in a way that got his client hurt. 

And if he explained that, there was a chance she’d understand. If she wasn’t a worst case scenario, if he let himself believe that she was a decent person. But… Emilio and trust issues went hand-in-hand, most of the time. He didn’t want to risk trusting someone who was going to screw him over and Natalia, for all he knew, was just waiting for her chance to do that. So he crossed his arms, he tilted his head up, said, “Sit wherever you want. I don’t care.” 

He narrowed his eyes at her questions, irritation rising. “It isn’t about money,” he said flatly. Fuck knew if he was in this for the money, he’d be doing a shit job. Axis offered discounts to anyone Emilio found less annoying than the typical client, didn’t charge people he empathized with a little too much. “Try to think from my seat. Someone hires you. Says there is someone following them. Someone else comes in. Asks for information about this person. You see how this is a bad idea.” He leaned forward a little. “I don’t know you. I don’t know why you want to know what you want to know. I’m not putting my client at risk. Nothing you say will change that. If you want to waste your time, you can waste your time. I’m good at that. Or you can save us both a headache and fuck off.”

—

“A hypocrite, you mean.” As if Natalia didn’t wear that hat often when it suited her, pretending to do or believe in one thing as long as it fit the narrative she was trying to portray. The world was full of imperfect people: Scribes and hunters chief among them. She was curious, though, what had driven him to this line of work and why he was dealing with petty bullshit between humans. But a beat passed, and her mind opened up further, wondering, perhaps, if the person who had sent Emilio after her wasn’t human at all. 

She tipped her foot on his desk, rolling it back and forth while she listened to his short rebuttals. Not caring about what she did or said in this situation, not caring if she wasted her own time and how happy he would be to waste Natalia’s if that was what she wanted. But before all that, he told an all too familiar story. Of a client walking in, saying someone was following them, likely begging for help. “Someone was following them?” She repeated, brows furrowed as she looked up from the tips of her shoes to his face. “They said someone was following them? Did they accuse me directly? Or…” 

Sitting up straight, Natalia pulled her feet off the desk and threaded her fingers together on the surface of his desk. Janessa Hommel came to mind. “Let me… wager a guess as to who it was. Mid twenties? White? Blonde hair? Green eyes? Small scar under her left eye? Looks like she hasn’t slept in a week?” She sighed, working her jaw as she held eye contact. “My client looked like that. Said the same thing to me. Said someone was following her, she was sure of it.” What would have caused her to come running here as well? Had something escalated? Natalia ran through the last meeting she had with Janessa. “Did your client accuse the shadows? Say they were longer and darker than normal?” It had sounded absurd when Natalia had first been told, but there was often a shred of truth in the most outlandish claims in Wicked’s Rest. “Or we can just, you know, do this back and forth pissing match too instead, I like this part. It’s fun. Keeps the mind sharp.” 

— 

“If that’s what you want to call it.” He was self aware enough to know that it wasn’t an entirely unfair accusation. Hypocrisy was something Emilio wore well. Vengeance tended to be soaked in it, after all. He’d come to accept it a long time ago, allowed the word to drape itself around him like a blanket. It didn’t do much to keep him warm, but at least he could accept the truth when it was hurled at him. It made it a hell of a lot harder for anyone to weaponize against him. 

He watched her now, the way she sat with herself. She was putting on a show, just like he was. Feigning apathy, pretending to care less than she did. It was interesting. You could tell a lot about a person just by watching them. It was something Emilio relied on heavily, especially after his move to the States. When you didn’t speak the verbal language well, fluency in body language became a necessity. Tense shoulders and narrowed eyes meant the same thing in Spanish as they did in English. That made it a lot easier. He watched her reaction to his revelation, tilted his head to the side slightly. Surprise, concern, thoughtfulness. It seemed genuine. 

She described his client pretty well, but… that didn’t necessarily get her off the hook. There was a chance she knew what Janessa looked like because she had been following her, after all, so Emilio only crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. But then she went on, talking about the specifics of what his client had said when she’d hired him, and… There weren’t a lot of ways she could know that without speaking to her. The possibility that Janessa had been bugged was there, but if that were the case, why would Natalia be here? She wouldn’t waste time looking for information she already had, especially not if it meant exposing herself to a private investigator who might not know about her involvement. “She was paranoid,” he confirmed. “Afraid. Desperate, by the time she got to me. What was she working with you on? We both share what we know, this goes faster. Or I can toss you out in the snow and have a drink, then work this by myself. Up to you.”

—

Natalia tipped her head to the side, a smile coming too easily to her face. False, but present. “I think that’s what most people would call it. Hypocrisy, maybe even condescending? Depends on the tone and angle you want to take. Shades of gray, perhaps? But either way, you don’t do as you say. We both know you’d force the information out of someone if you thought it would help your cause.” There was a reputation that was attached to the Cortez name, one that Natalia wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with, but perhaps, it was one that he was banking on people not knowing. From what she had heard, which was unfortunately very little, he hadn’t been making the same violent waves that the Cortez family was known for.

Then again, as far as she knew, he was the last of them. 

The way he kept his distance from her, but there was an olive branch offered. One that Natalia knew better than to pass up. Information for information. She had no guarantee that he’d hold up his end of the bargain, but that was a risk worth taking, wasn’t it? Better than being on the shit side of a slayer. Turning her head slightly from Emilio, she pretended like there was something far more interesting on the far side of the wall. “She kept talking about the shadows last I saw her. Something was following her but she could never place what it was. She said…”

Closing her eyes, Natalia tried to recall the exact wording. “Something was trying to take her place.” It was a strange sentiment. Darker than what she would have imagined for a stalker, not that having a stalker was something to sneeze at, but the wording was… hard to shake. “Every time I saw her, she had a fresh wound bandaged up. I don’t know if it was paranoia causing her to accidently harm herself or if the harm was the cause?” Natalia thought outside before finally looking at Emilio again. “She missed our last meeting. Last night, the Wormhole. I keep a strict schedule with my clients.” It wasn’t much, but it was the truth. And she figured that was better than embellishing anything. Especially with him. “Your turn, what did she say that tipped you in my direction?” 

—

“I’ve been called much worse.” He made no effort to deny any of it. Trying to do that would be an insult to them both. She was right, after all — Emilio could and would go to certain lengths to get information when he needed it. He had more limits than he used to, sure — these days, he only got information ‘the hard way’ from people who he knew had earned such methods — but he wasn’t so stupid as to think that he was a good man, and he wouldn’t pretend to be one. He did what he needed to do. She struck him as someone who did the same. But Emilio didn’t know if she had the same limits he did, and that was part of the problem. She was an unknown variable and, to him, that made her a threat. 

But he knew enough to use even a threat to his advantage. He was learning — slowly, sure, but still — that you could solve things without a knife, sometimes. An exchange, an agreement… you could turn a threat into an ally with the right deal. He’d done it more than once now, and it hadn’t bit him in the ass too hard just yet. It would someday, he knew; that was inevitable. But until it did, he might as well keep using people to his advantage. 

“Take her place?” That was an interesting tidbit. A stalker was one thing — it could be explained away in a thousand different ways. A human threat, or a vampire who liked to play with its food, or a fae looking for a constant source that they could snatch up and keep locked away somewhere. But something trying to replace someone? That narrowed the field a little. The wounds were another clue. “When was the last time you saw her? Did she seem… different at all?” His brow furrowed, gears turning in his mind. “She came to me, like I said. Told me she couldn’t go to the police because she was worried whoever was following her might have something to do with some… activities she was a part of that the police might not agree with. So I looked into her activities. Found your name through that. Thought maybe she’d missed a payment to you or something and you were trying a scare tactic. But you wouldn’t be here talking to me if that’s what it was.” If Natalia were responsible for this disappearance, she would have been more likely to kill Emilio than to talk to him. He knew that. “So I’m thinking… You and me are after the same thing here. On the same side, maybe.”

—

There was a smile at the corner of her lips when he admitted that. “Me too,” Natalia offered. It was almost a sign of friendship. Of kindred spirits meeting. If he was anything else like her, then this confrontation wasn’t going to be the deal breaker it would have been with anyone else. “But I am going to mark those statements as correct then, since you didn’t deny anything.” Raising her hand, Natalia made a checkmark in the air for dramatic effect. 

He repeated the line and his immediate reply pulled Natalia’s attention away from the rocky start of their conversation. “She kept saying it, over and over again, every time I saw her.” Which had only been a handful of times, but the fact that Janessa had said it each time had stuck with her. It had to be important, otherwise why was it stuck so firmly in the front of her mind during their short meetings? “I was supposed to see her last night but she never showed up. Instead I got a little rumor about you looking me up.” She hadn’t even realized the two were connected until he had been accusing her of being the mysterious stalker. “But last time she did make our meeting, she looked like she hadn’t been sleeping. More paranoid than before.” Closing her eyes, Natalia tried to imagine what she looked like again. The dark circles under her eyes, her unbrushed hair, the desperation.

She said she had nothing to give me, had been Natalia’s initial reply, but she kept it behind closed teeth. The last thing she wanted was to point the finger back at herself and try to defend how she hadn’t charged Janessa anything because when she had first met her, she had seen that look of desperation in her eyes even back then. Natalia wasn’t usually someone’s first call in a stalker case, but she wasn’t about to make her exceptions public. “You didn’t beat the shit out of one of my clients for this info, did you?” She hoped it had just been a conversation, but that’s not exactly what the Cortezs were known for. Standing up from the chair, she looked him in the eyes, considering what he said, before nodding. “Better allies than enemies.” In this situation, at least. “But I take it if you got as far as me, you didn’t get any leads about who the real stalker might be, no?” 

—

It didn’t bother him, the way she took his lack of denial as a confession. It kind of was one, after all. Emilio wouldn’t pretend that he wasn’t a hypocrite, or that he was never condescending. He was, beyond shadow of a doubt, both of those things. But… “I’m not a liar.” He had that going for him, at least. He was more than willing to admit to his flaws, more than ready to confess to being less than perfect. Wasn’t everyone?

Of course, there were far more important things to worry about here. If their shared client had found this fear large enough to repeat it every time she spoke to Natalia, it must have had something concrete behind it, right? It could have been simple paranoia, but it had clearly been a big concern. It wasn’t something Emilio thought someone would assume without reason. It was a big leap to make, a bigger one to admit to someone. So… there had to be something behind it. “Did she ever say why she thought that?” There had to be more to this story than someone paranoid that she was being stalked. Emilio got the feeling the stalker in question wasn’t the human sort. “She was… on edge when she met with me, too. Looked like you said — tired, paranoid. Felt bad for her.” Bad enough to give her a discount, though he wouldn’t advertise that. “Thought it might have been an ex-boyfriend at first, but doesn’t look that way. Then, I thought it might have something to do with you. Now, though…” 

Odds were, the stalker they were looking for wasn’t the human sort. But what was it? Emilio would need to do more research to be sure. He might have had a near encyclopedic knowledge of the undead, but no one could know every supernatural creature out there. There were just too many to keep up with, especially in a town like this one where the rules seemed constantly broken. Snorting at Natalia’s question, Emilio raised a brow. “I have other tricks up my sleeves.” Namely, Javi. The bartender tended to know a lot more about other people’s business than anyone had any right to, and he was more than willing to share that knowledge with Emilio for a price. (A monetary price, now that Emilio wasn’t sleeping with him anymore. It was getting expensive.) “I don’t have anything… concrete,” he confirmed. “But with what you’ve told me, I think I know where to start.” He paused a moment. Then, “I don’t think we’re looking for something human here. I don’t know how much you know about this shit, but I’m not holding your hand through it if you’re clueless. There’s not time for that. Not if we want any hope of finding a person instead of a corpse.”

—

There was something about the way Emilio said so fully that he wasn’t a lair that brought a smile to Natalia’s face. “Good, I hate liars.” A pause. “But withholding the truth, that’s different, isn’t it?” It wasn’t the jab it could have been, if anything, there was too much humor in her words. Because she had skirted the truth a number of times, but that wasn’t the same as outright lying, was it? (Then again, even if she was a liar, a healthy dose of self-hatred wouldn’t be the worst thing.) 

Her eyes shut as the question bounced around in her mind. Had there been any hints as to what it could have been that was following her? Were there any other clues other than her clear exhaustion and paranoia? No. Natalia’s brows furrowed, frustrated with herself. “Not that she said, and nothing that I noticed. I chalked it up to paranoia with her being stalked.” The word left a foul taste in her mouth. There had been too many cases of stalking on her college campus, too many times where she had heard women asking for help from anyone who would listen because the police couldn’t do anything — and now she was worried that she was part of the problem. Not acting fast enough, not solving it fast enough, and now she was missing. Likely dead. 

Shaking her head and the feeling from her body, she looked up toward Emilio once more. “Glad we’re on the same page there, then. Last thing I needed was a Cortez on my ass.” He said it wasn’t human and Natalia, at first, nodded her head in agreement before offering him a smile. “I promise the stupid look on my face is just for show.” There were a thousand things that she didn’t know about in the world. The quakes in the sky could punctuate that point if it cared to rear its ugly head once more. “You won’t need to hold my hand. I can’t say I know everything there is about the supernatural, but I know a whole hell of a lot. Like I know your family was renown for being hunters. Specialized in vampires. Figured I didn’t hit the marks for you to be on my ass, but I guess the times are changing.” She stood up straighter. “I know about fae, not all of them or their subtypes, but enough to know that when I said I promise, had you been one, I could have been royally fucked. I know about werewolves and I know about..." She couldn't remember if Felix had ever put a word to what they were. “The cat people?”  

She paused, shifting her weight. “If you have a name for what you think we’re after, I have access to some archives that might be useful to us. There are more like me. Human, not hunters, but still… knowing.”

—

“It’s not my job to tell everyone everything all the time,” he replied with a shrug. He didn’t tend to lie directly unless the situation called for it, but he had no problem leaving out important details. After all, there were things that people were better off knowing, and things you’d be killed for admitting aloud. “I’m sure you can agree with that.” He didn’t know her well — or at all, really — but he could tell she wasn’t the type to give more information than she had to. And he could respect that.

Paranoia. Emilio was an expert in that, wasn’t he? “Sometimes it’s… for a good reason. The paranoia. Can’t always write it off.” He was paranoid and he knew it, but given the amount of people out there who pretty specifically wanted him dead, he figured he had a right to be. And given the fact that the client he and Natalia shared was now missing, it seemed her paranoia had been pretty well-founded, too. But he could hardly blame Natalia for writing her off; plenty of times, Emilio had done the same. And plenty of times, it ended with someone dead. He hoped that wouldn’t be the case this time. For Natalia’s sake, for the client’s… This one, he thought, really needed a decent goddamn ending.

He tensed a little at the way she said his name, eyes darting down to his pocket where a knife was carefully stowed away. But she wasn’t undead, and most things with a heartbeat didn’t have a grudge worth having a conversation before killing him over. He hadn’t found anything in his brief dive into her that suggested she could have ties to anything he’d had his hands in. Maybe she was just… someone who knew more than she ought to. Still, he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone when he spoke. “Then you’re lucky you only have one Cortez to worry about.” He watched her a little closer now, trying to gauge her reaction. Was she a threat? He’d decided she wasn’t before, but maybe he needed to reevaluate now. She confirmed she knew about his family, knew what they hunted. Nostrils flaring briefly with an anger he didn’t entirely understand, he leaned back in his chair. “My family killed vampires,” he agreed. “I kill anything that needs killing. As long as you don’t make that you, we won’t have a problem.” She seemed to have a decent grasp on things beyond that, though. Fae, werewolves, balam even if she didn’t know the right word for them. “And what are you? You know about me. Seems polite to return the favor.” 

Archives? He thought of Arden, wondered if this was a situation like that. Should he ask her, he wondered? Would she know Natalia’s name if he said it? He made a note to test it out later. “I have a hunch,” he said. “I could be wrong, I don’t know. This isn’t exactly my area. But… Look in your archives, your books. See what you can find about doppelgangers. If I’m right, we go from there. If I’m wrong, we start from scratch. Sounds good?”

— 

It was funny, in a way, that everything coming from Emilio’s mouth was something that Natalia would have said. In another life, perhaps they could have been friends. Folding her arms, a frown touched the corners of her mouth. “Paranoia is in frequent supply in this town. It’s not always something that requires action.” Which she had failed to tell the difference in this case, but she had a feeling he understood. After all, a private investigator in a town like this? There was no doubt in her mind that he had seen his fair share of people worried about all the wrong things. “I was wrong here, clearly.” 

He tensed and there was this feeling of satisfaction in the back of her mind. Like she had won something here. His eyes darted toward his pocket and Natalia kept a straight face. Thankful, for a brief moment, that she had studied psychology and not art like she had wanted. Reading people was far more useful. “Oh, I know. But I’d rather not deal with any Cortez.” She hadn’t known them to hunt humans but the look in his eyes? And the confession that he killed anything that needed killing? He was one she’d have to watch out for. The last thing she wanted was a knife in her back. Or a stake. Who knew what his favored method would be? Family was a sore nerve, as she knew it would be, which was why she didn’t mention what had happened to his family or that she knew about the tragedy — she just wanted to give him enough so that he’d understand that she wasn’t some blind child walking into danger without knowing. 

“A scavenger,” she offered at first, knowing that wasn’t what he had asked. “Human. I’d meet you at the 3 Daggers if that would prove it for you.” If he had any other questions, he could pay like anyone else. Natalia was sure he could afford to trade something for it. Or he could look it up himself, prove how good of an investigator he was.

“Doppelgangers?” The word took her by surprise, but Natalia nodded her head immediately after. Off the top of her head, no one she knew had interacted with any directly. But maybe there was a reason for that. Maybe they didn’t know. Or they had been replaced. Natalia’s mind fumbled around, thinking of anyone from the Scribes that defected over the years or had been acting odd — and outside of Natalia herself? No one came to mind. Not immediately, at least. “Agreed. If there’s anything to be found, I’ll get it.” That was a promise. And it had been too long since something went ‘missing’ from the Library. “I’ll be in touch.” She knocked on the desk before heading out the door. Doppelgangers. Natalia had a lot to think about.

[prince-aegon-targaryen]

Old deleted scene way back from Chapter 8 in my fic The Fool and the Dragon. But it’s my favorite deleted scene so I thought I’d post it at least.

“What is the Baratheon girl's name?” Faune persisted.

“I had chosen Cassandra but now I might trade her for Maris. I feel like I built a connection between us after I left the boy’s eyes on her bed before I left.” The joke shed light on a gruesome part of Aemond’s life that Faune hadn’t ever desired to know about. Mutilation of a murdered boy was not something Faune wished to think of her prince doing - but that was the part that felt real in the jest. Aemond seemed to suddenly remember who he was speaking to as he quickly looked up with his eye widened. “Forgive me.”

“For the comment or the murder?”

“I only apologize for the first.” Aemond clarified. He shook his head at his own action. “You’re… too gentle to be hearing of such events.”

Faune looked down at her food. “I’m aware you find enjoyment in hurting others, it’s no surprise.”

She realized she may have misspoken when she heard “Elaborate.“ said in a tone that hadn’t sounded overly pleased. Faune looked back up to see Aemond staring at her, fingers toying with his cup awaiting her response.

“You’ve… I mean you’ve been cruel even since we were children. In little ways then sure but still- I’ve known it was in you.” Faune said.

Aemond’s face was unreadable, his food now going unnoticed as she had his full attention. “You make me out to be Maegor, but please I am curious to know more of how you think of me?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

“It was not my intention to offend you. I had assumed you were fine with that aspect of yourself.” Faune shifted in her seat uneasily.

“But you do not deny your accusation even in your weak apology.”

“You do enjoy hurting others Aemond, it is true.” Faune said argued, but couldn’t manage eye contact with him as she did. She did not want to fight.

“Have I hurt you so greatly?”

Faune breathed deeply. “I do not desire to go there.”

“Forget I asked.” Aemond said. He took a drink from his cup and slammed it back down to the table louder than necessary.

Faune watched as the prince returned his attention back to his plate, fully intending to ignore her for the rest of the meal. She didn’t feel so hungry anymore, however. Her fingers traced the bracelet she wore, thinking into the past. There were many things she could have said, but one stood above the rest.

“Leon Hill.”

Aemond stopped eating.

“The bard?” he asked after a moment.

“You called me pretty fool for years afterward, only to be cruel.” Faune said, remembering the song that Leon Hill once wrote for her. She hated the song at the time, but she now would love to hear it at least once more just to remember how it went.

Aemond leaned forward suddenly, eye blazing. “If I was cruel I would have told you what I did to him - but like the situation with Lucerys. I would prefer your innocent ears not to hear of such violence.”

Faune clutched her bracelet, She shook her head.

“You’re lying. You’re lying to upset me.”

“Perhaps.” Aemond said before he returned back to drinking.

Faune couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell if it had been an admission on Aemond’s part or if he had made it seem so to scare her. She felt her breathing pick up. She hoped he was joking. But doubt lingered on her mind. Leon Hill never wrote to her or said goodbye. He could have very well died that night and Faune wouldn’t never know for sure.

“Did - Leon made it back to Lannisport. Please tell me he made it back?” Faune asked, feeling as if she was falling from a tower.

Aemond’s face was blank giving away no emotions. “Your comfort tonight depends entirely on what you think I’m capable of. For I will not tell you.”

“Stop it!” Faune shouted. “Did he make it back?”

Aemond gave an empty grin, “What does it matter? This is in the past - a distant one at that.” There was a brief crack in his composure then, a flare of his nostrils - but Faune persisted through his warning of anger anyway.

“I loved him I must know-“

As quick as a loosed arrow, Aemond reached across the table and seized both her hands locking her in place. His eye burned through her. “I should have done what you fear I did. If I was to do it all over again I would. If I am to see the bastard tomorrow, I will.” Aemond said, never blinking throughout the rant. “I regret being so scared of you finding out and hating me, the joy of seeing him burn would have been well worth it.”

Faune attempted to pull away but his grasp was too tight. “You’re cruel. As I had been saying.” she said, finding his stare too intense and looking away.

“I have only ever been merciful when it comes to you. With Leon and Alan both” Aemond let go of her hands and stood. “Keep the tale of Lucerys as a reminder of what might have happened to the men in your life if I wasn’t kind to you. You could have woken up with a gift on your bed much as Maris had.”

[serenemy]

A Note From One of My Multiple Personalities to the Other(s) for Use the Next Time One or More of Us Lose(s) Contact With “Reality”

when i said “i thought everyone knew,” i meant i thought everyone knew the racism accusation was a real fight in that discord and be on notice it could potentially be a real person. i did not think everyone would know who that post was about. the whole point was the ridiculous lore that i had accused so many people of racism, so how could anyone know. it was always absurd. the elephant felt the need to volunteer uninvited that he considered my position stupid. in response i made a point about systemic and unconscious bias. i don’t remember anything else even remotely approaching an accusation of racism. it’s not clear to me eg that the central planner is. i don’t think he is. tho i remain wary. there is a reason he was one of my favorite people in that chat. yes i bitched about him behind his back about our areas of disagreement. but usually it was tinged with affection from my perspective and i said this on the record in dms you weren’t parties to from the beginning. what i actually said to the people i actually like is:

i disagree with him about many things but his intentions are so true and pure he is one of the people i would want to have in the foxhole with me if the shit ever hit the fan, even over certain people such as chucklefuck and chucklefuck who seemingly are closer to me on practical political strategy

here i must digress. we were only ever in agreement on strategy with regard to trumpism. i’m a libertarian free marketer. wonderfuck is an authoritarian socialist. i develop real relationships primarily based on moral values. all the other things people look for are secondary to me. i don’t let the people i really like get close. HOW MUCH MORE MUST I CONNECT THESE DOTS I BESEECH YOU YOU ARE VERY INTELLIGENT MEN

anyway i don’t remember calling anyone a racist except known self professed racists or randos i immediately block after saying it. the incidents you all refer to did not involve that. THEY STILL EXIST YOU CAN READ THEM FFS. THE DISAGREEMENTS MANBABY IS TALKING ABOUT ON X WERE SO SO BENIGN. he deleted his account but the replies by me that might look harsh were ones where we were actually agreeing *about someone else* being a racist. not him. and he brought up the subject and levied the accusation and i was just agreeing

anyway, i posted the first thing before deciding what i wanted to do with it except get things off my chest. when i first posted it in various places i seriously didn’t think anyone—with one limited exception—could be sure who it was about or whether it was real. the limited exception was the other discord mods who i thought might recognize enough details to at least wonder if it was real and if so have a theory about who it was about

but only if they read it which i considered unlikely. and the reason they would recognize details was precisely because i had enlisted their help to deal with the harassment it was about and through them issued the explicit warnings i’ve referenced

the reason i thought no one would/could know was because i specifically asked the person it was about whether anyone knew. he had asked me for secrecy. i never agreed because as i said then i just don’t do shit in the first place if i’m gonna feel ashamed about people knowing. i’ve failed that test fewer than a handful of times in my entire life and none of them were about this person

that’s part of what’s been so dumb about all this. i’m a lonely, open book. people could just ask. i would talk for hours without filters. i long to talk for hours with no filters. to some of you, specifically ffs!

anyway at one point later i was planning to start multiple bits that involved being romantically hard up. to some extent they all related to an idea about online content sparked years ago by a conversation with my sister who is a writer and involving combining the baubles i make with my fiction dabbling. to the extent i still haven’t executed it, it has to do with adhd, chronic illness, overriding higher interests (including one i previously had access to online: trying to lock a down a parasocial friendship with the person behind one of my favorite accounts), and (in the past) concerns about how much i was willing to and/or wanted to complicate my participation in a chat that is the only one i have ever belonged to outside discord and i personally think is probably one of the best chats on x with the exception of two members who suck and which contains a lot of religious married men

in any event i never agreed to secrecy and found the request childish and weird. (he also was weird about me needing to give his number to my family. like, dude, i am a grownup. i have a kid. i don’t just drop off the map for a bit ffs. also he constantly has nightmares about his father finding out about his various romantic/sexual pursuits and in retrospect i should have recognized that as the major red flag it is in a 35 year old man)

nevertheless as it happened at the time i was thinking about the bit i hadn’t told anyone online. but to make sure the content couldn’t be connected to him any way—i FUCKING ASKED HIM and he said no one knew

this happened in writing. ONLY THEN DID I BEGIN TO ROLL OUT THE BIT. now at this moment i have so many fucking conspiracy theories about everyone but me knowing. how could so many people turn out to be bizarre. in any case if that is what happened then i can’t imagine between this and the warnings i gave him through moderators why he went forward with harassing me about that ridiculous subject he had never once explained coherently to me and twice confirmed he believed i never intended to accuse anyone of racism or suggest people were being racist

maybe he did it because he was badgered into it by others. he is literally in some ways weak enough to do that, i think. maybe he knew he could lie his way out of it because he’s pulled that off a few times before. or maybe he did it because i forced his hand by temporarily posting but then quickly deleting something in the mods channel i couldn’t be sure anyone had seen that would have strongly suggested it to anyone who did. i should have thought things through more carefully so i wasn’t going back and forth in real time like that. i should have talked to the enchanted footwear

what i now think is that girl channel shit on discord and a bunch of other stuff were literally a ploy to get me off twitter. i loved that discord so much at the end. because i thought all that engagement was genuine 😔

i also thought the chucklefucks getting axed from ig chat was real. not just a ploy to get me out of the x chat, off of x, and separated from certain people. what that made me feel like was that if other moderators will axe them for the harassment how i can i do less for my own server? but i had made all these promises about not kicking people out preemptively and or without warning and i didn’t want to break that. occasionally i think i should have unilaterally axed them and let everyone who wanted to quit over it. but would i have just ended up overlord of a chat of people who don’t want me but remain for reasons i don’t get. like literally there was a mirror chat on another server already?? and also, like, i’m a grown up. i don’t fight over chats. ultimately i really just meant what i said and sort of think it had to happen the way it did to happen at all. i hopefully made the public record i wanted to make. i stood up for myself and the causes i believe in (which he knew i care about! btw; it’s not like i’m subtle about this or anything really) and i avoided being overlord of a chat of unwilling subjects

at the same time i see now better how things look if you knew i was getting run out of the other chat. (like was it literally scheduled for new year’s eve?🙃 and lmaooooo for the night i said i wasn’t leaving twitter ever)

i’m actually really grateful to the other dipshit for making the call and have never wanted “revenge” on him. remember he was in my dms prolifically too and *all* of his still exist including photos and details about his personal life and family. if i had ever been after revenge or upset about the boot i would and could have aimed a different direction

i have thought long and hard about why me assuring everyone i didn’t want back in and wasn’t bitter about it wouldn’t lay it to rest. here is what recently occurred to me: you know i caught a notification for the name change to the x chat because an old phone didn’t refresh until i unlocked it days later and i happened to notice it as i was dm’ing a person related to all this on ig. and i mentioned it to him and maybe he told you too and maybe you said some truly vile shit about me, maybe people (maybe even this person i was dm’ing) returned once i was gone. maybe even people who quit because they thought we were somehow being “evil” (to me? arising from me?) and the dynamic made them uncomfortable

and because you think i saw all that truly vile shit you assume i had that as a motive for revenge. i only saw a few notifications days later. the only damning thing i saw was the name of the chat. nothing else because i clicked the first one i saw without thinking, doing so unlocked the phone via facial recognition, the app refreshed and all the notifications disappeared. as i’ve said i had material to aim in other directions if i wanted revenge but i legitimately don’t feel that way. if knowing what was in all the missed notifications would have made me feel that way, relax, you got away with it

i’ll assume the worst and i still don’t gaf about revenge against anyone. what are you fucking twelve??? i’m supposed to be the immature one

i’m now thinking sea lion didn’t delete his old account to make our old dms disappear after all. that would explain why the discord still exists even though i think a lot of the creepy stuff overlaps both, which i’ve always wondered about. to be clear it was the old x DMs that make it the most clear we agreed it was all fantasy AND that it was premised on his making false claims i’m pretty sure he made both knowing it was false and in fact never planning for it to be anything else. this person hates his mom, which i also should have recognized as a glaring red flag. he also heard my values about intimacy as we became friends and before we met up. but he acted like he understood and respected them. but then after we met up and we started watching tv shows together it became obvious from the way he talks about women characters he actually loathes women (but not men) with values like mine (he lauds the men). he doesn’t hide it. it’s vicious and consistent

i’m fairly sure he loves dipshit more than he ever has or ever will love any romantic partner who is a woman

the old twitter dms might be where he pushed to come visit me and i tried to delay. so maybe he did delete it for that reason because it so shockingly, directly and easily contradicts that story he told on discord

if he did delete his old twitter to make me think he was gone so i would leave? that’s hilariously and offensively and revealingly nonsensical! i loathed him by then and said so openly to him and others. y’all just don’t listen to women. i legit don’t understand you. there has to be some kind of regional thing or class thing or educational snobbery or something happening here that i don’t understand in addition to the neurodivergence issues

not enough livre tournois maybe

him being gone from that chat and from x made x and that chat my favorites. HOW COULD YOU NOT SEE THAT WHEN I SAID SO STRAIGHTFORWARDLY TO LITCH RALLY EVERYONE WHO WOULD LISTEN?? do you see how you guys kinda just don’t listen to women (maybe it’s just women like me you do it to and it incorporates issues of class, education and upbringing) because we’re not really real to you or something? i really don’t get how so many seemingly smart and moral people can see this so differently than i

i said polite things about him to other chat members when he came back because the polite things i said were empirically accurate and i was so desperate to stay in the x chat because of my special interest area, i wanted to keep the peace. i’m pretty sure if the other dipshit hadn’t kicked me out of the chat i would have shared the piece in the chat itself after he had brought it up to me again and seemingly as part of an orchestrated thing. i wasn’t livid about getting axed from the chat. i wasn’t livid about phone notifications i never saw. i was livid about personal things between me and him

you’re not the lead in every story

it has always been the case that less of me was about any of you than you assumed. i guess because in your minds i’m so low status that i would be desperate to attach myself to yours??? my dudes, only one person in that chat talks as if he is high status or wealthy. we all know which one i mean. and i’ve never met a person of actual high status or wealth who talks like that. the people of actual high status or wealth i have known in my life try to keep those things secret from the general public. you’re not all that. you’re highly interesting during a time i was lonely and pining for my family

i love smart discourse. i fucking long for it. i’ve realized a lot of people use social media for other things. to win or score points or spar or get clout or something. i’m literally here for the opposite. i want to learn things and solidify, build or change my ideas. unless the person is being an asshole, i don’t care about being right

only about the opportunity to become right

my “arguments” don’t “shift” because i’ve been proven wrong. i’m agreeing i’ve been corrected and correcting my pov to be more accurate so we can move on with the parts of the discussions i find interesting

i think for more of you than i realized, you use both the app and the dm for very different purposes that i maybe still to this day do not understand

i do want to be very clear no married person related to that chat or the associated discord ever flirted with me or crossed lines in DMs. not in any way for even a second. the only member who did in the smaller x chat was the person the piece was about. and he was respectful about getting permission at first. a couple others did briefly in the larger associated discord. but they were all single and sufficiently respectful (i could give tips for future use to a couple though if i’m being honest)

and i did have the “thing” for another (married) chat member. basically a neurodivergent level “special interest” in making this person as close a parasocial friend as i could. i’d do it again too if i got another chance. the thing is: this was never a secret! i told everyone. both the sea lion and the absurd one knew in detail. i would have gladly talked about it for hours to anyone who would listen. i longed for someone to spend hours talking about it to. i keep few secrets. i used to think this was virtue. now i know enough about my brain i wonder if it isn’t just survival: ie i don’t have the executive function or memory capacity to do secrecy, lies, scheming (other than some very limited criming that relates to none of this and requires no executive functioning because it requires no lies from me. i shan’t be explaining further to the people who tarnished my bit) so i just don’t do it

in any event i didn’t want to meet this person irl for reasons i’m not sure about discussing but have alluded to online and bear some connection to the concept that i find it easier to get casually close with people i don’t care that much about. if i let myself get close to the ones i like best they will eventually notice how weird i am so i will either eventually get hurt or i will have to carry on a facade i’ve never been able to maintain long enough to sustain eg a marriage without starting to decompensate on the reg. there are definitional implications here about who i sent regular DMs with, who acted like we were a trio of friends and who i let meet me irl. i love that enchanted footwear most of all (if you’re wondering if he is the dragon i hate you and you know less than john snow) and mostly stayed out of his dms until all this happened and i mostly do again now. the exception was the one i have a thing for but that’s why it was so important it stay online/not *really* be romantic though i used this person for content for the bit. this person is very much in love with his wife and i was unable to even land an online parasocial friendship with him

but do you see my problem here? i’m a wanna be romance fiction writer trying to do a bit about romance and longing and i haven’t been able to get close to people for decades and my only experience with intimacy in like sixteen years was, while very good in some ways, also very bad in others. on the other hand obviously now that i have diagnoses and understand my brain i can explain up front so maybe i could now have real closeness again even though that one experience was so disappointing even on a friend level. but i was literally just learning all this and starting to process and i was thinking given chronic illness and living remotely it would probably have to start online. which i prefer anyway! because irl can be hard on me. it always was but now it triggers flare ups of autoimmune stuff unless i’m *really* comfortable in the situation

i let my excitement for that possible future cross signals with the plan for the bit *and* involvement in the chat. because while i was plagiarizing from multiple chapters of my own life, one of them was using the person i have a thing for. do you see why? he’s in love with his wife, lives thousands ? of miles away and won’t even be casual online friends with me. he is unobtainable. that means i can safely feel the things that are the heart of the stories i write. that on top of the special interest angle plus i also know nothing about him including what he looks like so he was both a catnip of a mystery for me and to some extent i can write any leading man over his basic story (what little i know of it) i want

for like a year and a half i felt like people were watching me everywhere and judging my content. but it was never reflected in engagement. so i kept telling myself it was all in my head. i was careless with content because the lack of engagement suggested no was noticing it anyway. at one point i did wonder if lots of people were reading. so i posted something here i thought would put it to rest. still no one said anything and to this day i am not 100% sure. it would explain many things tho

i did not take into account that multiple members would literally be sitting in a separate chat with every other member but me, discussing everything *and never saying anything.* i still don’t know if it happened but if so. you guys 🙃

i also did not take into account the three way DM members might know about it and say nothing. i still don’t understand. i specifically and frequently gave them openings to do so because i considered them my safety valve if people were reading and it was causing a problems

you have to understand my perspective here. when i opened this account i literally described what this was going to be to one of the members, he became one of only three followers, and *we specifically exchanged jokey words about him reaching in and pulling me out if i went too far and got lost inside my own house of leaves* (it wasn’t called that the time but the point was the same regardless)

this person is like half my age. the two in the three way DM are 16 years younger. i couldn’t imagine they would find it interesting. i thought on the off chance anyone noticed at all *and* recognized themselves or someone else one of those three people would say so and i would either switch up the material or get permission to keep using it. again we talking pg-13 stuff here. at best. i’m pretty sure

i did think based on unusual questions i had been asked by an unexpected person in DMs that two completely different older members of the chat might have seen some of it. this was my fault due to a particular link i used to share a bland creative writing piece about pete buttigieg and dolphins. but i specifically answered the questions in ways to reassure anyone it wasn’t about any member of the chat or anyone online at all anywhere

again i want to be clear about some things. the two other older members i thought might have seen it were not at fault for doing so and at all times acted with utmost respect toward me and their wives and exactly as they would if they didn’t know anything about this account. and my reason for suspecting even those two i regarded as extremely tenuous

even if the two younger members of the three way DM saw it, the married one never did anything remotely approaching or resembling flirting and his wife would be comfortable with every word of our chats both in the three way and alone

i do want to say in my defense the non flirtatious married person in the three way was non flirtatiously in my DMs *a lot,* from the beginning. there was a period after the discord opened where he and the person the essay was about were both independently consuming so much of my time in chats i created the three way to streamline things and be able to tap out

so i’d have more time to friend-stalk the other person, if you must know

i think i now understand dipshit wanted to get rid of me from the x chat. both early on and later. but it didn’t keep him out of my dms! it didn’t keep him from occasionally giving me hours long lessons on topics i love! and there was a stretch where i think he thought i would be a good minion. before this i thought surely this person had to be over 50. then during this stretch i thought the opposite: he might be a late teenager to early twenties

anyway, those two used that chat consistently and routinely, and during long stretches daily, including for conversations *only involving the two of them.* like, assholes, if you don’t like me or want me around, just use a two way?? i also think this about the other chats. why not just open other ones without me? it’s not like there are a limited number of them that can be opened is there? i really thought my conduct was only responsive to bullshit from other people, that it was orders of magnitude more consistently appropriate than the quote unquote “normal behavior” of senior dipshit. but i also thought that people staying in the chat definitionally meant they like me? whyyyy would you go about this another way. i continue not to understand

anyway they used that three way to communicate with both each other and with me up until the day ****I**** ended my relationship with the sea lion

i am sorry to the people i put in awkward positions. i’m sorry for subjecting you to my combat mode. i’m sorry people felt like they had to watch out for me or come to my defense. i’m sorry if i violated the boundaries of a shy and kind person with my undesired attention. i’m sorry for not recognizing all the other people who were trying to be real friends because i was so fixated on my one thing

two people i’m not sorry to or about are the sea lion and his absurd albeit very interesting associate. i would call them sidekicks but in truth i suspect one of them is a minion controlled by the other. nothing else makes sense for him to keep harassing me about that ridiculous racism non issue after all the warnings i telegraphed. he knew what i had. he knew what i planned to do *and he kept going anyway.* neither this nor outing himself as the sea lion have ever made sense to me

i can only assume the former happened because he is a minion so obsessed with the other one (he said things along these lines) he was literally more reluctant to say no to the goading than to risk me going through with it, which he probably thought i wouldn’t because of my special interest, and knew he could lie convincingly if i did. that stuff he posted about me on discord shocked me to my core. when i say i didn’t realize he was a literal monster until late i mean i still didn’t fully understand until that moment when he said those things. it was all so shockingly, diabolically crafted and highly highly intelligent (like me he comes across as mentally compromised irl but has certain areas of high precociousness. i didn’t realize until that moment that lying about women he’d mistreated was one of them. i’m now consistently over 90% sure he has harmed other women not in ways that necessarily constitute crimes though some could but in ways that involve significant pushing of boundaries, strategic lying and an element of grifting)

as to the latter i now think he outed himself because unbeknownst to me he had already outed himself and then lied to me when he denied it

anyway that aside i’m mad and sad i succeeded in getting wildly younger men’s attention and then had to break character to explain it. on the one hand i can understand now how awkward and uncomfortable my golden retriever puppy dog like efforts to befriend that one person made things for everyone else. but on the other hand think this through from my perspective. i’m significantly older, chronically ill, neurodivergent, socially awkward and the one person i’ve been with in like 16 years was a bad, unsexy experience for both participants and has definitely left me wondering if literally i just previously enjoyed a kind of pretty girl manic pixie privilege thing when i was young that is lost to me forever and the terrain and men will be very different going forward. i was excited about slow build friendships online, not more terrible sex. i just talked about wanting to get laid to the dipshits because i thought it would make clear the bit wasn’t about someone they knew in the i thought off chance they knew about the content

i also tried to say sooo many things in chat and in the three way dm and on discord to put it to rest. i made a dozen points about being too sick to travel. i said infidelity between a couple with kids is more destructive than dropping napalm on your house with your family inside. i said the pictures were catfishy. i said i wanted to start something with an unrelated mutual in the discord. i acknowledged cognitive deficits that made me an unfit romantic partner. i said i was an over the hill slut with daddy issues. your good friend had terrible sex with me and i leaked pee all over him the whole time

yet now i have to break the bit because not one of you would use words to say something about it being an issue and instead badgered loser into harassing me so i’d leave voluntarily or something?? whyyyy??? because i’m subhuman? i’m from cattle country and went to shitty schools and don’t know many things??

not enough livres tournois

my goal was to never explain and eventually expand it to ig and maybe bluesky (i eventually went with threads) and i hate that it’s now forever tarnished and my muses are shaken and finding it hard to sing the right songs

i feel bad for some of my choices but so should you

a thing you should know is one of the reasons this house is made of leaves specifically is due to adhd i can’t write first drafts offline. i have to have the instantaneous gratification of immediate posting to begin at all. so these are my first drafts (same with x and threads threads). but unlike them, here i can and do change them over time as i reread and see weak writing, unintended ambiguity, errors in accuracy, the story progresses or changes in my head etc. this one has already existed in multiple forms and may exist in multiple more as the leaves shift like moments lost in time. eventually it will evolve to exist at least temporarily in the form pursuant to which the code that facilitates the unrelated OR COULD IT BE RELATED crime is embedded. payment comes. maybe then i shift the leaves again to “leave” (swidt) no trace. maybe i shift a thousand times more not because i’m worried any longer about the trace but because the Story has decided to Continue or Evolve. or maybe it was all a false trail i laid for diversionary purposes and i delete it altogether. or the code is not only real but still right in front of your very noses but i leave it anyway because i know

not one of you dumb motherfuckers will ever crack it

apropos of nothing necessarily i categorically do not have mental health conditions involving breaks with reality, bipolar disorder, hallucinations, multiple personalities, schizophrenia, psychotic breaks or anything similar. i have never been diagnosed with or treated for anything remotely like that. i love stories and spend too much time inside them and have since i was a kid. it’s one of the fundamental underlying ways i failed my kid. for a whole bunch of reasons i won’t now bore you with i did not understand either that i was failing or that this was why. but i’ve always spent too much time inside my own head. it’s hard for me to stay out for the prolonged periods kids and eg spouses need. because i didn’t start getting diagnosed with neurodivergences until my kid was in grade school i didn’t know how bad it was. i really thought i was a great mom until i started getting sick. sometimes i’m legitimately and honestly sure that i was and that my family has turned my post sickness failings into bigger issues that didn’t really exist. but, subject to the ways poor memory can impact this, and maybe that’s more than i realize or admit, the only times i have ever not been dead sure about the difference between real and unreal were:

1. for a stretch of less than a week after a traumatic brain injury in the fifth grade

2. a couple times in college when i tried lsd and it does that. i quit trying it for that reason. this never happened to me on shrooms and if it did i wouldn’t take them either

3. when people aren’t direct

4. family members who traffic in unreality and myth

i have “voices in my head” in the sense that i have muses and stories and characters and conversations with myself. not in the sense of hearing voices telling me to do things that i think are real or receiving messages through the television. i don’t have disassociative personality disorders/multiple personalities/schizophrenia. i don’t have anything like that. no doctor thinks anything remotely like that and many have looked

the reason i am terrified of unreality is not because i slip into it. it is rather because of two other things, combined. one my slow processing time means i legitimately just often do not understand what is happening a lot of the time in many contexts. so people being polite or subtle instead of direct is unnerving. i’ll get it wrong it if you’re being polite or subtle. but the other big one is i had a care giver growing up who traffics still to this day prolifically in unreality. and i have only realized at this late stage in life how profoundly that fucked up my sibling and me, still causes problems now and still scares, haunts and hurts me. it’s why i took trump so personally. he made an unnerving number of people some close to me stop saying true things and start saying untrue ones. i’m still scared of it and now i have a better understanding of why

if you were involved in the plot of the true story that serves as a device to facilitate the crime that requires no lies, and you do not understand why i have chosen tonight of all nights to address these things, then carry on. but if you know exactly why, please do one of the following:

fuck aaalll the way off. why if you don’t like me do you keep doing this??? i genuinely do not understand and find it somewhat unnerving. ngl i also find it flattering and because i really am all the things i say i am except in ways that transcend this plane of existence/don’t have relevance to you i am lonely and bored a lot. which is why i offer this further option

play the game then motherfuckers

see if i care. i evidently lived rent free in a super interesting but highly irritating person’s head for like a year and a half. i’ll do it again if given half a chance as [redacted] and my mom kicked the pet livestock borders off the ranch because they didn’t listen to her about how behornt their bull was and move him to the other pasture like she said and he broke through our fence and impregnated the neighbor’s cows off schedule. and you’re truly the smartest most interesting people i’ve ever gotten to be around. i should have tried to get into better schools not for the prestige but for the mental stimulation. i see that now. plus i might still be able to land that one friendship. you don’t know. i really do feel like he’s a solid maybe right now

i jest

or do i?

consider this: is what i have achieved here a tumblr house of leaves, yes or no?

maybe it’s Outsider Art

gonna have to add that to the choices on the owl list

[anenbylittlepotato]

MC introducing roasting the bros to new exchange students

Side dateables here

"The scary looking guy there is Lucifer. He seems like a dick at first, and you will eventually learn, that he is, actually, a dick. He hasn't really stopped. But he's got enough moments of being nice and soft that he gets a pass I guess. He's also fucking gorgeous so I think it's excusable. But, just a heads up, don't piss him off and almost get killed by him twice as I did. I almost died. It was terrifying. And also hot. But mostly terrifying. Also, he acts like every fatherly figure that's ever been in my life! Emotionally absent, makes shit up to accuse me of, reacts to things with violence, prioritizes how I make him look over my mental well-being, and lectures me for three hours over something small! Hooray!"

"The guy over there that looks like the biggest fuckboy ever is Mammon. He is the CEO of getting bullied. He also might try to steal your wallet, but luckily he's a fucking dumbass, so he'll probably fail. Probably. He always gets in trouble because he has literally no impulse control, which is honestly a mood. He can't keep his mouth shut for the life of him, and it always makes Lucifer very angry. But at least he won't try to kill you, unlike some people. He might threaten you but he most likely won't follow through with it. Actually... I don't think I've ever seen Mammon get angry enough to hurt anyone... I... Huh... Wow... Anyway, he's also simultaneously incredibly clingy while also being the biggest tsundere ever. Which makes no sense but okay."

"The guy that's sulking over there with his Ruri-chan phone case is Leviathan. Honestly, you'll probably only ever see him at meals because he pretty much never leaves his room. Unless his limited edition Ruri-chan body pillow just came in. Then expect to hear him screaming as he rushes across the entire house faster than you'll ever see him move otherwise. And then he'll be panting and wheezing as he walks back to his room because that boy is out of SHAPE. He's also the biggest weeb ever if you couldn't tell. Biggest anime nerd ever. Seriously, he has an unhealthy obsession. He needs to go outside and touch some grass or sumn like fr. He also makes a great gaming buddy. Unless you're playing PvP and aim to win. But otherwise, great gaming buddy, we play Genshin Impact together a lot."

"The guy watching cats videos over there is Satan. He may look like a chill guy, but that's just what he wants you to think. He's actually a ticking time bomb and the pure, unbridled rage that hides beneath his facade could bubble over if you so much as look at a cat the wrong way. However, if you are a cat - or any animal, really, but specifically cats - he will love you unconditionally. He's also very big-brained. The biggest brain. If there's literally anything you need to know, just ask him. He'd be happy to show off how much better than Lucifer he is. He's also the living embodiment of daddy issues and teenage rebellion. He's probably unironically said, 'It's not a PHASE!'"

"The pretty boy taking selfies and putting on makeup over there is Asmodeus. That man is whore KNEE, like DAMN. That man would flirt with anything that moves tbh. He's also the living embodiment of 'Gotta look cute so they forget you don't know basic math.' He's a little creepy because he's not against incest and that's a little icky. But hey, if you want a [REDACTED] then he's your guy, I guess. He's also got all the tea because he is a gossip QUEEN. And he's practically obsessed with himself. He needs to go outside and touch some grass too. 😔"

"The guy over there that's knawing on a vintage candle is Beelzebub. Uh, can someone get that candle away from him??? I don't think he should be eating that. Oh, thanks Belphie. ANYway, now that that's over uhh, as can see, he really likes to eat. A little too much. He eats everything in the fridge on a regular basis 😔. But like, he's literally the bestest boy??? He may be a demon, but he's just so sweet and soft-hearted, and caring??? Like bro??? I would literally die for him??? Unless you eat his food, then he'll kill you. Instant death. One hit KO. But otherwise, he's basically a giant teddy bear. Big wholesome boy, too pure for this world."

"The My Chemical Romance lookin fucker over there is Belphegor. Don't let him out of the attic..................................... Anyway, he is an evil gremlin man. Horrible goblin man. Stinky bastard man. He bullies me >:( Also, little known fact, but he is actually not a demon but, in fact, a cow. Cowboy. Also, he does not know how to function as a person, and, instead, opts to sleep for 17 hours a day which... Fair enough with this family. Just don't fuck with Beel or he'll kill you. And so will I >:( Also, don't fuck with him either or Beel will kill you. Those two are basically two peas in a pod. The literal only way they could be closer is if they were Siamese twins."

[kurosukii]

𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥

pairing: matsukawa issei x f!reader

summary: you’re so glad that you married a loving and doting man who cares for your child as if she’s his own flesh and blood; you just didn’t expect that his son would take a certain liking to you as well...

genre: smut, stepcest au

warnings: 18+. noncon/dubcon, pseudoincest (stepcest), somnophilia, dubcon cheating, milf reader, use of ‘mommy’ (not in the femdom way), creepy and possessive issei, slight voyeurism and exhibitionism, body image issues, corruption, manipulation, panty sniffing, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, unprotected sex, mutual masturbation, spitting, degradation, praise, size kink, breeding kink, biting, nipple play, oral (f receiving), humping, cockwarming, cumplay, creampie, overstimulation, mating press, doggy style

word count: 6.4k

author’s note: for @karasunosimp‘s it’s raining milk collab! thank you for letting me join! hehe so it’s another stepcest au,,, also i’ve already written for 3/4 of the seijoh four EEK (let me know if i missed any warnings!) (MINORS DNI)

° thank you to @meiansmistress @ssrated1volleyballplayer @bokuroskitten @anime-nymph for beta-reading and editing! <33

[11:53 AM]

“have fun at the amusement park! stay safe and always listen to your dad, okay?” you say sweetly to your jumping daughter.

you giggle at her excitement, your heart and cheeks warming when you see her eyes twinkling with unbridled joy as she holds her stepdad’s finger with her entire hand.

“bye mommy! i’ll see you later when we get back! have fun with nii-chan!” she answers loudly, squealing when your husband picks her up and twirls her around as they walk down the path to the car.

you wave them off, returning inside and closing the door with a click. you wince at the sound, louder now that your daughter’s giggles and squeals are gone.

meanwhile, issei leans against the wall with his thick arms crossed as he shamelessly looks you over from head to toe. he slowly licks his bottom lip, clearly liking what he sees.

you’re now hyper aware of your bare nipples brushing against the fabric of your shirt, and paired with the flimsy linen shorts you’re wearing, the room definitely feels hotter with the sexual tension that’s permeating the air

sexual tension that you’ve been blatantly ignoring ever since you married into the matsukawa household.

“why are you always so nervous around me, mommy?” issei asks, feigning innocence. his eyes twinkle and lips stretch into a smirk when he sees your breath hitch.

you don’t bother to grace him with an answer, heavy lump forming in your throat as you speed walk past him and into the kitchen.

he chuckles at your reaction and pushes himself off the wall, following you as his eyes watch your swaying hips. issei is hungry and it has more to do with the woman in front of him rather than the steaming plate of food on the table.

after you’re done fixing up the table and finally take a seat, you pray to any higher being within earshot to ask for strength in dealing with your wayward stepson.

you really don’t like being alone with him and it’s not because you don’t want to be around him. it’s because you’re afraid of what he might do to you.

you weren’t born yesterday and you’ve lived a long enough life to know when a man is looking at you like he wants to spread your legs and pound you until you’re a writhing mess underneath him.

because that’s how issei looks at you and he’s not ashamed about it either. it genuinely shocks you because his father—your husband—can be in the room and issei will still undress you with his eyes.

you thought you were being delusional at first, ashamed at how you secretly accused your husband’s son of leering at and having inappropriate thoughts about you.

it turned out that you weren’t wrong, however, because you came home one afternoon to get something you left, expecting that no one would be there so imagine your shock when you passed by issei’s slightly opened door and heard him pleasuring himself.

you were about to run back downstairs until you heard him groan your name as he was stroking his cock. you choked out a gasp as you stood by his door. he was naked, tanned body glistening with sweat as he fucked his hand.

you couldn’t help but gape at his thick and long cock—bigger than your husband’s, as much as you were ashamed to admit—and you watched him for a few minutes, panties drenched with how much slick and pre-cum was leaking out of issei’s, for lack of a better word, horsecock.

your face burned when his hips jerked and he sprayed his cum all over himself, moaning your name long and hard as his body twitched from the stimulation.

needless to say, you went back to work with soiled panties and a hot face, not knowing that watching issei masturbate to the thought of you would be the turning point that led to the taboo relationship with your stepson.

the sound of utensils falling and clanging break you from your memories; your face burns at being caught red handed and you squirm uncomfortably in your seat.

issei apologizes for the disturbance and continues eating, never failing to wink every time you glance at him. he knows the effect he has on you and he relishes in it, teasing his stepmom endlessly.

he can’t wait to expose you for the little whore you actually are, and what better than to seize the opportunity of the both of you having the house all to yourselves?

“your little one and my dad are out bonding in the amusement park and i know for sure that they’ll be there all the way into the night,” he says, setting down his utensils and wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

the movement of his hands causes the many rings on his fingers to reflect against the light and he looks at you from under his thick lashes, brown eyes smoldering with shameless desire.

“so why don’t we do some bonding too?” he asks and chuckles when you choke on your food. he reaches for your cup of water and hands it to you, thick and ring-clad fingers brushing against yours as you take it from him.

“you’d like that, wouldn’t you, mommy?” he whispers, his voice raspy and deep. you shiver at his sensual tone, fingers gripping the cup hard. you clear your throat loudly after swallowing, willing yourself to ignore his advances and innuendos.

“i’m tired, issei. i’m going to take a nap after eating,” you say sternly, glaring when he seems not to take you seriously. he laughs lowly, letting out an okay, whatever you say, before standing up and stretching.

your cheeks warm when he groans, similar to the one you heard before, and you jump out of your chair and begin to gather all the plates and leftover food.

“let me clean up, hmm? you did all the cooking and prepping. ” issei stops you with a large hand on your forearm. his skin is hot to the touch but his rings feel cool, the juxtaposition making you lightheaded.

he’s breathing down on you, large body covering yours while his intoxicating scent invades your senses. you shake your head and mumble out a garbled ‘thank you’ before you leave the kitchen and issei, practically sprinting up the stairs and towards the room you share with your husband.

you close the door once you’re inside, breathing heavily as you hear your heartbeat in your ears. damn him, you growl in your head. you ought to give him an earful about personal spaces and appropriate manners.

you sigh loudly as you walk to the dresser, intent on changing into your silky nightgown for your midday nap. you wear the garment to help you feel attractive, despite your age and changed body. you remove your shirt over your head and shiver when you see how hard and pebbled your nipples are.

even though your mind refuses to succumb to issei, your body is a whole different story. you wince when you remove your shorts and feel the dampness in your panties, making shame and guilt course through you as you put on your nightgown.

of all the people in the world, only your husband should make you feel this way. no one else, and certainly not his son. what would he think of you? what would your daughter think of you?

fuck, why are you even allowing yourself to think like this?

you know that if you ask issei to stop acting inappropriately towards you, he would listen—wouldn’t he?

you know the reason why you allowed this whole forbidden staring and teasing to go on for so long was because you felt lonely. which angers you, because you have a loving husband and you couldn’t ask for anything more.

but he didn’t exactly make you feel desired. sure, you’ve been intimate with him but he didn’t look at you the way you want to be looked at—like you’re the sexiest woman he’s ever seen. you feel ashamed, as if all the attention and love your husband gives means nothing to you.

as someone who has gone through major bodily changes, the ugly face  of insecurity easily rears its head when you look at yourself in the mirror—but that doesn’t mean you regret having your daughter, not at all.

it’s just one of those things that has been ingrained in you and you find it hard to escape. which is why whenever issei looks at you with hungry eyes, you can’t help but feel wanted, desired.

it’s as if he doesn’t care about the extra weight you put on or the stretch marks on your body—no, he doesn’t care about any of that. you wouldn’t have believed it if it weren’t for his incessant teasing and the fact that he masturbates to the thought of you.

but you know it’s wrong, that it can never be. you sigh dejectedly as you lie down on the soft and cold bed, staring up at the ceiling. you have to talk to issei about this whole game and tell him to stop it before his father finds out.

and issei’s molten brown eyes are the last thing you think of before you finally close your eyes.

issei hums as he wipes his hands on the towel, looking in the direction you ran off. he smirks to himself as he puts back on his rings, body brimming with excitement and desire. time to pay you a visit.

he walks up the stairs, footsteps loud in the quiet house. he finds himself right in front of your door and leans his ear on the wood. he’s met with silence as he slowly turns the knob and enters the dimly lit room.

his eyes immediately find your sleeping form and he feels his cock stir in his pants, making the fabric tighten around his crotch.

fuck, you’re so god-damn beautiful.

long legs carry him over to you. he puts one knee on the bed, making it dip as his long fingers caress your cheek. his rings complement your complexion, his thumb and index finger lightly squeezing your parted lips.

he watches in fascination as your eyelashes flutter against your cheek and his cock twitches again when he hears your little whimper as he plays with your slightly damp lips.

his fingers continue their ministrations as his sharp eyes travel down your form, smirking when he sees your nipples poking through the silky fabric. to his delight, he notices your nightgown riding up your body, revealing the frilly white cloth of your panties.

he groans softly as his cock hardens and the bed dips even more as he puts his whole weight on it. he stops his movements on your face and maneuvers himself until his large body is over you.

his eyes burn holes through your panties and his breathing becomes heavier. god, he knows it’s wrong to touch and feel you up while you’re sleeping, but you’re so fucking breathtaking and he can’t help himself. after all, he’s been waiting for an opportunity like this to happen.

there’s a slight tremor in his hands as they hover over the exposed skin of your thighs. he lays them gently on your skin and he groans lowly in his throat. fuck, you’re so smooth and soft.

he squeezes them a few times before he gently pries your legs open, watching your reaction carefully in case you wake up. your breaths are still even and he takes that as a signal to spread your legs wider, raising them until your feet are planted on the bed.

he bites his lower lip to stifle his groan once he sees the wet patch on the center of your frilly panties. you’re such a fucking whore and he knows that it’s for him and only him.

he positions his body until he’s lying on his stomach, slightly rutting the bed to relieve the tension in  his cock. his head moves between your legs, directly in front of your heated and covered pussy.

you stir slightly when you feel a breeze on your exposed skin, making issei stiffen. you settle down and he sighs in relief, thinking fuck it before he inhales the scent of your arousal.

he growls lowly in his throat at your smell, sticking out his tongue and licking a long and wet stripe up your covered slit. you moan softly, but that doesn’t deter issei from groaning into your cunt.

he raises his body and sits up on his haunches, hooking his fingers in  the waistband of your panties. he slowly pulls them down and his eyes practically glow as he sees your bare pussy for the first time.

his throbbing cock twitches when he sees a string of slick connecting your cunt to your panties. he gently lifts your hips and stretches your legs so he can remove the soiled underwear, watching your sleeping face carefully before positioning your legs again.

he knows he’s a disgusting man, but what can he do when you’re offering yourself up so sweetly to him?

he bunches the fabric in his hand, ringed fingers making an indent on the cotton as he brings it up to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhales deeply.

he growls at your fresh scent, his body tensing at the new wave of arousal that drenched your panties. he watches as you squirm and move around, rubbing your thighs together as you whimper quietly in your sleep.

his eyes flash. is his naughty stepmom having a wet dream? that explains why your panties feel wetter in his hand...

well, issei is nothing but a man who makes women’s dreams come true, and it just so happens that you’ve captured his attention—and quite frankly, his dick.

he throws your panties to the floor after a few more sniffs and quickly dives back between your legs. he’s up close to your naked pussy, pupils blown wide as he stares at your hole that’s clenching around nothing.

you’re wet but not wet enough by his standards, so he gathers all the saliva he has in his mouth and parts your folds with two thick fingers. he spits on your cunt, the  little sound coursing through the quiet room.

he watches intently as the globule of spit slides down your lower lips and you shiver, moaning at the cold feeling between your legs. you squirm more as your mind gets filled with a certain haziness, unable to distinguish what’s real and what’s a dream.

throwing caution out the window, issei wastes no time and finds your clit, suckling it into the damp heat of his mouth. he groans at the taste of your pussy, his hips rutting the bed once more.

the vibrations from his lips make you moan loudly and arch into issei’s mouth. your eyes are squeezed tightly as you thrash around the bed, making you instinctively close your legs, squeezing issei’s head between them.

his hands grab your thighs, the cold rings on his fingers digging into your skin as he pries them open. he shakes his head with your clit in his mouth, making you cry out and tremble.

god, your dream feels so fucking real. you’ve never felt pleasure like this before and you love it. your fingers grip the sheets as you involuntarily roll your hips, following the motions of issei’s tongue and lips.

his chin is drenched with his saliva and your juices as the bed creaks from the rutting of his hips. frankly, he doesn’t care how loud and sloppy he’s being if it means you’re this responsive.

issei lets go of one thigh and moves his arm under him while his mouth continues to suck and lick your clit. he watches through his lashes as your chest rises and falls quickly, cute moans falling from your mouth.

the silk of your nightgown is dark with how heated your body is, your sweat dampening the fabric. your nipples are so hard that they’re poking through the garment.

his tongue flicks against your puffy clit as he slowly inserts two fingers—the ones that aren’t adorned with rings—into your leaking cunt.

the feeling of his long fingers inside your pussy makes you cry out and your toes curl from the full feeling. the new stimulation and volume of your pleasured sounds awakens you, your foggy eyes wide and confused.

you’re still groggy when you sit up and lean on your hands, your mind processing what’s happening when you realize that it wasn’t a dream at all.

no, it’s real and issei’s really between your legs, lapping away and fingering your aching pussy. your mind clears and you choke out a gasp in between your moans as you watch him in shock.

issei watches the emotions cross your face the whole time and his chest puffs out, his ego rising knowing that he’s the one doing this to you.

your frantic eyes meet his and he winks slyly. you tug at his hair ready to pull his head and mouth off of you because this is so wrong, but he beats you to it. his tongue swirls and flicks faster at your pulsing bud, his fingers increasing their thrusting.

now that you’re awake, he doesn’t have to care about his volume anymore so he lets out loud groans and grunts, the vibrations reverberating through you and making your pussy tingle.

“issei, t-this is wrong! s-top! stop!” you beg, voice immediately turning into a loud moan when he ignores you and bobs his head faster.

he moans to himself, knowing that your body is betraying you because although you’re begging him to stop, your hand is tugging his hair as you desperately fuck his face and fingers.

you taste so good that he can’t stop even if he wanted to.

“i-i mean it! get off—oh my god!” you scream when he gives your clit a hard suck. coupled with the squelching sounds and speed of his thrusting fingers, you cum all over his mouth.

you breathe heavily, face flushed and blissed out as you watch issei kiss your inner thighs before rising between your legs.

his mouth and chin are glistening with your cum and his pink tongue darts out to lick his lips clean of your juices, groaning as he meets your eyes.

you notice the dark patch on his crotch and your cheeks flame when you realize that he came the same time as you, but that doesn’t ease your worries because his cock is still hard and twitching.

once you regain some of your bearings, you realize what exactly just occurred and you let out a little scream as you try to scramble away from issei, shame filling your body.

he doesn’t let you get away from him, however, because he immediately pushes you on your back and crashes his swollen lips to yours.

you yelp at the sudden movement and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, grinding his hard cock on your wet and leaking pussy, further drenching the fabric of his pants.

you taste your essence as he massages his tongue with yours. you moan, tugging at his messy curly hair, trying and failing to pull him off you.

his hands find purchase on your thighs and he squeezes them, making you shiver at his cold rings. you whimper when he wraps your legs around his waist, grinding into you with a force harder than before.

your saliva mixes with his as the lewd clicking sounds of your mouths fill your ears. issei grinds on you one last time before he lifts his head from yours, lips separating with a trail of spit connecting them.

satisfied with kissing you, he stares at your face, gaze smoldering. you try to push him off you, but to no avail. he only tightens your legs around his waist as you struggle against him.

you suck in a breath as you feel the heat of his cock directly on your naked pussy. issei smirks lazily at you, tutting at you as if you’re inconveniencing him. your hands tug at his hair more, desperately trying to anchor yourself.

“if i had known your pussy tastes that sweet, my face would stay buried between your legs for the rest of my days,” he says suavely, his tongue darting out and licking his lips as he looks at yours.

you moan softly at his words and you’re now keenly aware of your nightgown sticking to your skin, making you uncomfortable as your nipples brush against the sweaty fabric. issei notices your discomfort and clicks his tongue.

“i think you’ve been hiding your pretty tits from me for far too long,” he whispers, his hot breath caressing your face. his hands move from your thighs and his fingers hook under the straps of your nightgown.

you shiver underneath him as his hands remove the sweaty fabric from your body, ring-clad fingers ghosting the sensitive skin of your arms.

you whine in distress as issei discards your nightgown somewhere behind him. you’ve never felt so exposed, your bare and glistening body being scrutinised by his dark eyes.

your insecurities start to get the better of you and you move your arms to cover your breasts and mound. issei stops you, large hands putting your arms back to your side.

“don’t hide from me, baby,” he whispers, his head dipping as he kisses the crook of your neck. his hands go to your chest and he palms both of your aching tits, squeezing and kneadingthe soft skin.

you moan, arching into the warm and cool feeling of his fingers. issei continues sucking and leaving marks on the skin of your neck as he whispers his thoughts.

“i know my dad doesn’t fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked,” he claims, making you squirm under his body that’s still clothed.

shame momentarily disappearing, you claw at his shirt and pants. he chuckles at your impatience and his hands leave your breasts for a moment, removing his shirt in record time.

he gets off the bed and makes quick work of his pants, kicking them off and quickly returning to the bed—to you. he didn’t give you the chance to look at his hard cock—not that you needed to anyway, because you already know what it looks like.

you yelp when issei puts his arms around you and settles you down on his lap, giving you a clear view of his cock that’s bobbing against his defined abdomen.

you gulp, nervousness filling your body as you stare at his large cock. seeing it up close is absolutely different—it’s longer and thicker than any other dick you’ve ever seen.

issei’s ego rises as he watches you. he’s always been proud of his size but seeing you? the object of his and his dick’s affections sitting on his lap? well, that’s enough to boost any man’s ego.

“see what you do to me?” he asks, guiding your hand to his throbbing cock. you whimper when you hold his shaft, your hand barely wrapping around him. issei hisses at the feeling of your soft hand touching his sensitive skin.

“you’re so fucking sexy and i can’t stop thinking about how you’d look like bouncing on my cock,” he admits, urging you to stroke his dick faster.

you slowly pump his shaft and moan when you feel his fingers—the same ones from before—find your swollen clit, slowly circling the pulsing bud. your free hand squeezes his shoulder as his fingers move faster.

you squeal when he inserts two fingers inside your cunt, making your hand squeeze his cock. he groans in at the stimulation, making his abs clench.

“i-ssei!” you whine, head thrown back as he pumps his fingers into you faster. the squelching sounds of his fingers scissoring your insides causes a knot to slowly form at the pit of your stomach.

“gotta prep this pussy more, baby,” he says breathlessly, watching your slack-jawed face as you stroke and twist his cock.

“still so fucking tight, can’t wait to sink into you,” he grunts, moving your body so he can get a better angle at your g-spot.

“bet i can fuck you better than my dad ever will, mommy,” he growls, curling his fingers inside of you as he ends his sentence. you lurch forward and cry out, eyes fluttering at the pleasure.

“see? you want my cock—shit—so badly, huh? look at how your hand is squeezing and s-stroking me, fuck,” he stutters, feeling his orgasm approach. his free hand squeezes your hip, keeping your balance.

you shake your head frantically at his statement, still not admitting that you want this, want him.

“stop fighting it. i know you want me as much as i want you,” he grates, curling his fingers again and making you wail at the pleasure. your fingers twist and pump his cock, pre-cum leak from the tip. your hand feels warm and slick as you continue to jerk issei’s shaft.

“gonna cum baby, cum with me,” he whispers into your skin, breaths heavy as the slick sounds of your fluids fill the room.

your body is trembling and you know you’re nearing your orgasm once more. you bury your face in the crook of his neck, moans and whimpers falling from your lips.

“c-cumming, issei!” you scream when his thumb circles your clit just as he curls his fingers again inside your tight pussy, hitting your g-spot perfectly.

he follows after you, hot spurts of his cum staining your hand and arm. he groans and throws his head back as he feels the heat of his essence coat his abs and thighs.

he removes his fingers from your cunt and gently pushes you back on the bed. you yelp when issei grabs the back of your thighs and pushes them to your chest, folding your body in half.

“i’m going to fuck you until all you and i can hear in this house are your cute and sexy moans,” he growls, spreading your legs and baring your clenching hole to his dark eyes.

his cock bobs as he moves forward and he takes hold of his shaft, one long vein on the underside. he taps it a few times on your clit, making you whine and close your eyes.

you take a deep breath as he inserts the tip, body shaking as his large cock goes inside of you, inch by inch.

you open your eyes and claw at his arms when the stretch starts to become uncomfortable. you look down and gasp, eyes wide as you have a clear view of his fat cock splitting you.

“god, you’re so fucking tight,” he growls, squeezing your thighs as he slowly bottoms out.

“you’re so big, issei,” you moan, leaning your head back on the pillow as your eyes flutter at the feeling of his cock stretching your walls.

“mhmm, big enough to fuck you the way you want to be fucked, mommy,” he chuckles then groans when your cunt squeezes around him.

“fuck—do you like it when i call you mommy?” he growls when your tight walls clamp down on him again. you shake your head, a futile attempt in proving him wrong.

“who knew my mommy is so kinky,” he mocks you and before you can even reprimand him, his entire length bottoms out in one swift thrust.

“issei! fuck!” you scream, scratching his forearms as your back arches, toes curling at the sudden thrust.

you feel so fucking full. of all the cocks you’ve taken, issei’s definitely tops the list. you can feel every part of him, from the single vein to the throbbing of his length.

he groans loudly, squeezing your thighs so hard that his rings will definitely leave bruises later. he fights to controls himself, willing not to cum at the feeling of your pussy finally enveloping him.

he sucks in a breath and leans his forehead against yours, pulling out slowly, leaving only the tip of his cock inside your pussy. you whine at the loss, missing the way he stretches you.

he thrusts back in, bottoming out as his tip teases the entrance of your cervix. you cry out in both pain and pleasure, still trying to adjust to his size.

he stays still inside of you for a few seconds before he places his hands on the bed, your calves resting on his upper arms. he starts thrusting, moving in and out of your cunt.

you mumble incoherently, breasts bouncing with each thrust issei makes. you grab both of his wrists, squeezing them as the sounds of your skin meeting his fill your ears.

issei groans and hisses, panting heavily as he pounds your pussy, his heavy balls slapping against your ass. he leans down to your ear, licking the sensitive skin and making your shaking body tremble even more as you whine.

“bet you’re happy now, huh?” he whispers in between his groans, biting your earlobe.

“w-what do you—oh my god, issei!” you stutter, but then he fucks you harder and faster, making you keen and arch your back. he makes your body contort into positions you’ve never been in before—until now.

“do you think you’re quiet when you touch yourself during your late night showers?” he asks you in a condescending manner, smirking when you whine at his statement.

“i can fucking hear you when i go to the kitchen. you’re such a slut. moaning your stepson’s name, imagining that he’s the one who’s touching your pussy,” he growls as he buries his head in your neck, his hot breaths fanning your skin.

“but i guess i don’t have the right to talk, huh? i fuck my fist every night and imagine it’s your tight cunt wrapped around me,” he finishes, nipping away at your skin before his hands return the back of your sweaty thighs.

he slaps them, in sync with his thrusts, making you wince at the metal of his rings. your shaking arms reach for your ankles, setting everything on display for issei.

you’re loudly chanting his name like a prayer, pleasure running through every nerve in your body. for the first time in your life, you’re actually enjoying getting fucked silly—never mind that it’s your stepson who’s making you moan like a pornstar.

his thrusts are heavy and deep as he slowly toys with your clit and you jerk when his fingers draw circles on the aching bud. your body’s trembling harder than before, loud moans and whines falling from your open mouth as drool seeps from the corners.

“i-i’m gonna cum, issei!” you squeal as the sound of the headboard hitting the wall and the squelching noises coming from your pussy make the pit in your stomach slowly tip over.

“cum, baby. cum all over my fat cock,” he whines, throwing his head back as he jackhammers into you, his cock throbbing and his balls tightening as he prepares to empty himself inside of you.

“c-cumming i-issei! fuck!” you scream, your hands squeezing your ankles as your legs shake from your intense orgasm. your cunt is practically suffocating issei’s cock, making his hips jerk and stop.

his mouth falls open into a loud and heavy groan as he spills his hot and sticky cum inside of you. there’s so much cum that it leaks out of you and around his cock as it drips down to the drenched sheets below your bodies.

you finally set your shaking legs down as your trembling body aches from your folded position. issei falls on top of you, elbows on the bed as his sweaty face is smothered by your breasts.

his cock is still inside of you, twitching as more cum spills inside of your soiled pussy. your heavy breaths fill the cool air of the room as you recover, feeling disgusting at all sweat and cum on and in your body.

issei lifts himself off of you and pulls out of your cunt, making you both sigh and groan at the drag of his cock. your mixed fluids immediately trickle out of your pussy and you moan at the thick feeling.

issei furrows his brows as his fingers scoop his cum and quickly pushes it back. you whine as the tips of his fingers tease your hole, squirming away from him as your clit throbs from the overstimulation.

you’re kind of expecting him to roll over you and lie down but he shocks you—it’s evident with the way you yelp when flips your body over to your stomach, his large hands raising your hips until you’re kneeling on the sheets.

“i can’t fucking get enough of you, baby,”  he says breathlessly, chest still heaving at the previous round. but it’s true, he really can’t get enough of you—not when he knows the taste and feel of your pussy.

“i-issei, i-i can’t,” you whine when he holds his cock and hovers before your dripping cunt. he doesn’t pay any heed to your whimpers, mostly because he knows you still want more of this, more of him.

“you say that but your pussy is telling me a different story,” he smirks and you can hear the condescension in his voice as his thumb rubs the sweaty skin of your hips.

he doesn’t give you any time to reply because he quickly sinks into you, your mouth falling open into a loud moan as his fat cock stretches you open once more.

fuck, even if you’ve already taken him, the stretch and ache still feels the same. he’s so fucking big that you know you won’t ever get used to his size, no matter how many times he fucks you.

he doesn’t waste any time and starts rolling his hips, his thighs loudly slapping against your ass. he hisses as one of his hands lie flat on your back, pushing it down to form a deeper arch.

“i know you saw me jerking off. did you like the show i put on for you, mommy?” he growls, his other hand gripping the back of your neck and smothering your face on the sweat-stained sheets.

you moan into the fabric when you hear the mocking endearment, your drool mixing with all the other fluids. your fingers bunch the sheets between them  as the loud creaking and thumping of the bed fill your ears.

“i came so hard because i knew you were watching me work my cock,” he groans, thrusting hard and deep. your cunt squeezes his cock when you remember that afternoon. so all this time? he was shamelessly coaxing you towards him?

you huff, pride slightly damaged when you hear his admission. you’ll show him that he’s not the only one who can fuck like an animal.

you whimper when you spread your knees—which is a feat in itself because issei’s thrusts practically send your body flying forward. you moan when he hits your sweet spot, making tingles run down your spine.

you start meeting his thrusts, no longer letting him do all the pulling and jostling. his eyes flash when he realizes what you’re doing, which only encourages him to fuck you harder.

his hands palm your jiggling ass, leaving marks on your soft skin. you leave your head buried in the sheets, the sheets, stifling your moans and whines because if you don’t, —you’ll definitely make the walls shake with how loud you are.

“yeah that’s a good girl. fuck yourself on my cock, come on,” he coaxes you, deep voice raspy as his own body trembles at the pleasure of your walls clamping down on his cock.

“fuck—look at how your slutty cunt is taking me,” he growls when you roll your hips, the angle sending new waves of pleasure to the both of you.

“god, i wanna fuck you in front of my dad just so he knows that your pussy belongs to me,” he hisses, holding your hips as he takes control of the pace again.

his thrusts become sloppy and erratic, the loud slapping of skin a constant symphony as he maintains the fast pace. you turn your head to the side and breathe deeply, choking out a moan as he continuously hits your g-spot.

“want me to make you a mommy again? get your belly all swollen and round with my kid?” he says, voice shaking as his heavy balls slap against your skin. he’s close, he can feel it.

you’re close too, just a few more deep and hard thrusts and you’ll gush around his cock again. issei leans over your body, his chest covering the entire expanse of your sweaty back.

you squeal when your knees drop and you fall flat on the bed, your entire front rubbing against the sheets. you whimper shakily when your nipples brush against the soft fabric, the extra stimulation making your body jerk back against issei’s thrusting cock.

“issei! g-gonna c-cum a-again!” you squeal, voice shaking from how raw your throat feels. your moans increase in pitch and volume the nearer you get to your orgasm.

“fuck, your pussy feels like heaven!” issei groans, his own voice increasing in pitch and volume as well as he reaches his limit. you feel his cock swell and throb before thick and hot spurts of his cum coat your clenching walls.

“issei—oh my god!” you wail, cumming at the same time as him. your mouth stays open in a silent scream as you close your eyes tightly, cunt spasming as you drench his cock with your essence.

you wince when you feel the squelching of your mixed juices as issei rolls to his side, bringing you with him. both of you are quivering with pleasure and overstimulation, breathing heavy with your chests rising and falling rapidly.

his cock finally softens inside of you, clearly spent for the day. more cum falls out of your pussy, staining your sweaty bodies even more.

his parted lips find your neck, sucking and licking away at glistening skin. you whine, tilting your head, exposing more skin for him to mark.

you sigh tiredly, exhaustion finally catching up to you. you don’t really care that you’re dirty and soiled with sweat and cum—or the fact that issei’s dick is still inside of you. you just want to rest.

your eyes droop, ready to fall asleep enveloped in issei’s warm chest and arms, along with the wandering of his soft lips on your neck—until you hear a very familiar voice shout from downstairs, loud footsteps running up the stairs.

“honey! issei! we’re finally home!”

[3:47 PM]

@semisgroupie​ @kurinoot​ @rosesandtoshi​ @kinsurou​

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[nyraxodeyer]

It was a scoff that rang clear as day when she spoke, he wouldn’t believe it, not when everything pointed to the opposite. In other times, maybe, it all depended, but had this been any other occasion, had she set off to rescue anyone else, maybe sympathy might have been a thing he showed. Something he was sure she would deem him incapable of, and tonight he would prove that right. Her shivering form did set off a feeling, but it hadn’t been strong enough to act on. Because it wasn’t anyone she sped off to find. It was the person that had tried to kill him. She had made a choice, and so had he. Time healed all, wasn’t that how the saying goes? Except Theo didn’t need healing. Some also say that time is unforgiving, but live long enough and time becomes a speck. Kadir should have been a speck, an insignificant piece in their lives, but that only seemed the case in his life. Memories were unforgiving and all rushed forward now, and everywhere he looked, Theo saw a face that he should’ve killed two hundred years ago. 

“The love we must keep,” he repeated, “Oh, you sure are quite the comedian tonight, darling. Using my words against me, for what? Gain the upper hand? Spin this on me? I didn’t need you to have a grandiose display of grief, we may have cared a lot for keeping up an image for the public, but god forbid if the roles were reversed, I would have never dropped all we had in the blink of an eye.” Maybe he had been set on too many expectations from her, like in past times where he took more of the responsibilities of the town and being a clan leader, he should have done the same after all she had never held quite the level of charisma as him. With a heavy sigh at this realisation, Theo shot back the rest of his drink, “Now you’re going to fault me on last names? The way your mind twists and turns things into arguments should be studied. It’s rather phenomenal.” To carry this on, he needed more than one dose. Topping up his drink again he shook his head, “A sign of the times, if you need a reason. And it simply stuck. If you wanted me to take yours on, why wait till now to bring it up? I would’ve considered it.” It seemed ridiculous to state such a thing, and entirely derailed the point of their talk, but knowing her and how she loved to pick on his words or even think on a tangent when they went unaddressed, this foolishness had to be dealt with. “You do realise silence speaks for a lot? Denial and defence only nothing compared to indifference. And so what? What I said was out of hurt. Seven months of it.”    

It was another disbelieving scoff at her words, but rather than the sharp, biting words that spewed from him, his shoulders slumped as he shook his head, gaze falling into the empty glass as he truly wished for once that this had started off differently. “You still captivate me, love, why do you think I’ve always returned to you? Why do you think I’ve kept my word? You’re the only one I will ever truly have love for. You can choose to believe that not, it doesn't matter, I know where your true feelings lie. But yes, there’s one more thing.” It was horrid timing, after all the aggression that spilled from him leaving behind a husk of creature, he should’ve retired for the night, give into the humanness and sleep but instead Theo displayed a redundant use of vampiric speed as he shot of too his quarters, returning in a flash with a small velvet box that if given more time could’ve been executed better. He opened the lid first, gently brushing at the pillowy part eyes on the golden swirls of her name மீனா that was delicately attached to a chain but as thumb moved closer Theo snapped out and closed it in a second, not wanting to be accused of tainting her name further even in necklace form. “I wanted to give it to you in the  morning, but…” he trailed off with a shug and slid the gift to her, “It was all I could manage in the short time I had.” The flowers were not the thing he had wandered the streets of Lunar Cove for, in fact he never wished to venture out, but having missed major holidays, her birthday was not one he wanted to add to the list, “Might not mean much coming from me of all people, but happy birthday.”

Meena hardly blinked as she stood painstakingly still. His cutting laughter filling the silence as her dark eyes remained hyper focused on a blank spot on the wall straight ahead. Not bothering to tilt her chin to meet his gaze, Meena, having found herself in this same spot enough times, was able to picture every detail that his expression likely looked like. "Don't believe me or do," Her drained and raspy voice finally broke through his bitter tittering notes. The choice was his. But, as she stood there, still drenched in the icy water of the February Sound she had dove into hours ago to rescue Kadir, teeth lightly chattering, she couldn't find it in herself to care if he mistook her honesty for an act. These days it seemed like everyone had their own opinion of her, so why would he be any different?

Finally, after a prolonged pause, Meena moved to placed the straw she had held out for him back down on the surface of the counter. Her chilled fingers wrapping themselves around the glass she had fixed for herself, bringing it up to her lips as she made note of how he, out of the corner of her eyes, was pouring some brandy into his glass without bothering to ask if she may like some too. Typical. They had been in each other's lives for over two hundred years and he couldn't even tell when she was or wasn't being genuine, but she was the one who didn't know him? She understood why he laughed. The thought alone was humorous to say the least. He was mad that she was liar when he was the one who had turned her into one. He had molded the passionate, fiery and naive girl he met in the alleyway into a ghost among paper dolls and then had the audacity to scoff at the empty shell she had become.

"I can be, but that hardly equates to the situation at hand," She told him. Her voice soft as she presented him with a nonchalant shrug before she lifted her glass of blood up to him before taking a small sip. "And what was I supposed to do, Theodore Moore?" She hummed lightly out, her eyes following her glass as she placed it back down against the counter top. Her fingers lightly tracing along the rim without an ounce of venom in her voice. She was far too tired for such a thing. "I was already mourning you in private. Would you have preferred me to make scene in public as well? But, wasn't it you who used to scold me for such a thing? You used to go on and on about the public image of the happy couple in love we must keep up or have you forgotten?" She noted. Her gaze finally lifting back up from that of the counter as she calmly pointed out, "As for jumping so easily into being a widow, I see you have absolutely no problem dropping your surname off of mine. And yet, now that you mention it, why is it that I've always gone by Raja-Moore and yet you've always been just Moore, hm? I have never once insulted your name. I may not have denied the rumors or defended it either, but you've been in town for how long, Teddy? A few weeks? And how many conversations have you had where you've dragged my name through the mud? It's a small town and I am the Mayor. You don't think I hear of how you speak of me? How you've always spoken of me?" Theo might not have outright insulted her to whoever would listen as he was doing now, but the way she spoke of him after he died was quite synonymous with how he spoke of her throughout the duration of their marriage. Maybe worse on his part, for although she hardly spoke highly of him now, she had never referred to him as a prize to be one or viewed him quite the object he viewed her to be.

"You can scorn me for whatever you'd like. For not finding you soon enough, for no longer being the captivating girl you first met, or whatever other complaint against me you may have, but if it is honesty that you seek? A part of me has and will always love you, Teddy Moore. I just don't particularly like you all too much Now, if you have nothing else to get off your chest, I've had a long night and I think I'd rather like to head upstairs."

[phoenixyfriend]

Anakin Introduces his Jedi Babies (and Himself)

Context:  Anakin and the Jedi Babies, chrono

Warnings for: canon-typical dismemberment, unfortunately-aimed puppy crushes

Word count: 5,839

-------------------------

The first time a Jedi meets a Skywalker, it’s on Bandomeer.

The planet is close to Mandalorian space. Finding someone associated with Mandalore is, technically, not that surprising. There are even Mandalorian operations on the planet.

What is surprising is the fact that the person from Mandalorian space is an unfamiliar Jedi Knight who is utterly unstoppable.

(Obi-Wan Kenobi has no way of knowing how similar his experiences are to what might have been, on this planet. Mandalore has been interfering in operations here ever since Ylliben Skywalker started reporting visions about the coming catastrophe. Where that interference has helped or hurt... well. There’s no way to know.)

(Is there?)

When Xanatos shows up and starts taunting Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, there’s a giggle from the doorway.

All three have to turn to look at the individual in question.

Mid-twenties, leaning against the doorframe, slim but strong, covered in dark fabric and half a set of armor. A scar by one eye, well-kept hair, and a smirk that could burn the longest fuse. A lightsaber, unlit, in one gloved hand.

This man is... very attractive, Obi-Wan thinks. This is not an appropriate thought for the situation. Obi-Wan thinks he can maybe blame it on the exhaustion.

“No, no, keep going,” the stranger says, sounding like there’s a laugh stuck in his throat. He waves dismissively. “Let’s, ah, let’s hear the master plan. Good ranting voice, maybe a six out of ten on the ‘I’m better than you’ and a four on the actual intimidation. You can do better.”

“Excuse me?” Xanatos hisses, sounding incredibly malicious to Obi-Wan’s ears. “Just who do you think you are?”

“And now you’re overselling it,” the stranger sighs. “Are you new at this? You seem new at this.”

“I would... also like to know who you are,” Master Jinn admits, shifting uncertainly as he tries to keep both du Crion and the stranger in his sights.

“I’m just your friendly neighborhood Jedi Knight, here to fight darksiders because... that’s my life, apparently,” the man says, looking down at his arm for some reason. He shakes his head and looks up at them with a bright grin. “Do you need some help, Master Jinn?”

“You still haven’t told us your name.”

“This is true,” the knight says. “That said, I’ve been told by my boss to explicitly avoid naming myself while on this mission for a variety of reasons.”

“Your... boss,” du Crion drawls. “Not the Council, then.”

“Current supervisor,” the stranger offers as correction, completely unconcerned. “It’s a complicated situation, don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t worry about nonentities.”

The man purses his lips like he’s trying very, very hard not to laugh again. It’s very mocking. “Sure, kid.”

Xanatos has had his lightsaber out ever since Obi-Wan and Master Jinn entered the room, but he does one of those fancy, meant-to-be-intimidating one-handed saber twirls as he turns to face the Knight.

The man’s smirk widens. “You do realize you’re going to lose, right? C’mon, kid--”

“I’m older than you!”

“I did like zero research on you as a person, just your many and varied crimes; how old are you?”

Du Crion’s face goes pinched. “I’m twenty-five.”

“Ah, yeah, no, I’m older,” the knight says. “Only a few years, but I’m also a delightfully obnoxious little bastard who ages real slow for, uh, reasons--”

Obi-Wan is fascinated. This man is very strange. And very pretty.

Obi-Wan may be light-headed. Is he bleeding? Blood loss would explain this.

Obi-Wan isn’t bleeding. Damn.

“--anyway, I’m sure I’ve got a more interesting life with more mature experiences than you,” the knight says. “So even if I wasn’t older in body, I’d be older in spirit.”

The knight’s entire sense of being carries such an air of banthashit that Obi-Wan can barely believe it. It’s almost impressive. Obi-Wan wonders how often this man just opens his mouth and immediately gets punched in the face.

“You talk a lot for a man in someone else’s domain.”

“Hey, look on the bright side,” the knight says. “At least I’m not flirting with you. That’s what my master did with almost every darksider we met except his grandmaster.”

Du Crion pauses.

Obi-Wan has the distinct feeling that he and Master Jinn have lost any control they might have, at any point, had over this situation. They hadn’t had much control in the first place, but anything they did have is squarely in the stranger’s court right now. The silver lining to that is that du Crion is thoroughly distracted and has also lost some control of the situation.

“Besides,” the man continues, completely ignoring the very red lightsaber that is being very obviously readied for his death. “This is not that big of an advantage for you. I mean, hey, the fancy central console that can only be reached by skinny walkways with no railings are a nice touch, all chromed metal and minimal lighting, very dramatic, but there’s no lava. I’m not, like, chained to a rock in the middle of an arena for a public execution at the hands of starving animals the size of a fighter ship. You’re threatening to kill me personally instead of standing in the most expensive box of the theater, sipping your wine and congratulating yourself on step one of a plan that has another fifty-thousand steps and no end in sight. You--”

“Is there a point to this?”

“I’m just saying, I’ve been in worse situations by better darksiders than you. This is sad. You’re sad. Try harder.”

Obi-Wan makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Nobody seems to notice, but Master Jinn does put a hand on his shoulder. That’s nice.

“I don’t have any interest in setting up a public execution.”

“What kind of a Sith wannabe are you?” the knight asks, tilting his head. Obi-Wan distantly notes that his hair is longer than initially assumed; it’s just held back and curled. “Public executions are a whole thing. It’s like you’re not even trying. Tell me you’ve at least got vague plans to hand me off to a pirates instead of killing me so you can make some comment about me not even being worth the effort.”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” du Crion asks, his voice the kind of forced casual level nonsense that shows he’s actually very, very frustrated. Obi-Wan could almost believe that du Crion is as uninterested as he’s pretending to be.

“If I was trying to get myself killed, I’d... pick a fight with the Trade Federation, maybe? I mean, I survived that when I was nine but they’d probably take me more seriously this time.” The knight taps at his chin. “I don’t even know where the actual Sith is, but--”

“There are no more Sith,” du Crion scoffs.

Oh, the knight looks pitying now. Obi-Wan likes that much more than he should. It just really suits the man’s face.

Quin’s going to make so much fun of him later.

“I have fought multiple Sith,” the man says, slowly and clearly, as though explaining something to a child. “My master fought more than that. I lost my arm to a Sith when I was nineteen. You can say they’re gone, but I don’t trust like that.”

“It’s not a matter of trust,” du Crion says, rolling his eyes. “It has been a thousand years since the Sith were wiped out. Much as I’d like them to still be around, I’m not going to--”

“Oh!” the knight exclaims. “You’re lying! You do think they’re back, this whole mess is you auditioning.”

Du Crion stares at the man as though he’s lost what few marbles he had. “Excuse me?”

“You want to be the next Sith Apprentice,” the man says, cheerfully unconcerned by the mounting tension in the air. “That’s adorable. Well, no, actually, it’s very bad, both for you and for everyone else, and now it means I can’t just kill you in battle like I was planning because the Jedi are going to need you for information. Blast.”

Du Crion’s eyes widen. It is not in fear, but in incredulity. Obi-Wan thinks that it’s all in the eyebrows and the tight, befuddled smile. “You were planning to kill me, Jedi?”

“I mean... yeah, kinda,” the knight says, shrugging. “Quick and clean option, that.”

This time, Master Jinn is the one that makes a disbelieving noise that both of the bitchy twenty-somethings ignore.

“You’re a Jedi,” du Crion points out, entirely pleasant.

“...yes,” the man says, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Technically.”

Du Crion is very much distracted by this. “Technically?”

The man wiggles a hand. “Arguments can be made. I certainly was trained as a Jedi and consider myself to be one. My knighting was according to protocol, and at the Temple. Technically.”

“...but?” Master Jinn prompts.

The knight smiles like he’s got something very spicy in his mouth and is unwilling to admit it’s too much for him. “But nothing! Don’t worry about it. There’s a fight to be had with a Sith wannabe who doesn’t realize he’s not going to measure up.”

“Arrogant,” du Crion accuses.

“No,” the knight immediately says. “You just don’t fight a galactic war without learning which opponents are actually going to kill you.”

Obi-Wan leans into Master Jinn’s side, his legs feeling a little too much like jelly. He whispers, “I have so many questions.”

“As do I, Padawan,” Master Jinn mutters back, and something in Obi-Wan’s heart twists. He’s a padawan! Master Jinn’s actually going to go through with it!

The fight does actually happen, at that point. The knight lights his saber and leaps forward, flashing through Djem So movements without a moment’s hesitation. For all the trash talk and boasting, the fight isn’t actually over very quickly. Du Crion is good, even without having had a chance to spar against a real person since he left the Order. Power flows around him, dark and heavy and sharp in ways that the Force usually isn’t, and the red saber snaps through the air with a speed Obi-Wan can barely track. Xanatos du Crion is, without question, danger incarnate in this moment.

The unknown knight is better.

There are attempts at banter, mostly by the stranger. Du Crion is too focused on the fight to bother responding. Obi-Wan just clings to Master Jinn, trying to stay awake and aware. It’s difficult, given the past few days, and even with help from the Force, he’s flagging.

The way the knight moves is... captivating, though.

(Quinlan’s going to laugh at the top of his lungs, later. Obi-Wan’s going to blush and stutter and bury his face in a pillow, and Bant’s going to pat his back like the amazing friend she is, and Quin’s just going to laugh, like an asshole.)

The fight doesn’t end cleanly. The knight cuts du Crion’s saber in half and, in the same movement, cuts the man’s hand off.

Obi-Wan’s seen too much blood in the last few days for it to shock him, but the smell is... unpleasant.

“I don’t suppose either of you carries Force-nullifying cuffs?” the knight asks, holding his saber to du Crion’s neck with an expression that is amused and satisfied in equal measure.

“No,” Master Jinn says. He seems... very bothered. Well, du Crion was his student once. Obi-Wan can’t imagine he’d be very calm if he had a student that went dark and started killing children. “Was cutting off his hand really necessary?”

“I feel like half my fights end with either someone dying or someone losing a limb,” the knight muses. “Sometimes that limb is my own, even!”

Obi-Wan isn’t sure if the man is manic or just trying to throw them off their rhythm. It probably doesn’t matter.

“Okay, I have Force-nullifying cuffs of my own,” the man says. “But these things are expensive as hell, and they weren’t paid for by the Order, so just giving them to you isn’t really on the table. That said... my ship kind of got shot down on the way here. If you could give me a ride off-planet--”

“Our ship was also shot down.”

The knight blinks at him, and then kicks du Crion in the hamstring. It’s not a very hard kick, but du Crion shoots him a look of offense that’s probably justified. Getting kicked when one is already down is never a great feeling.

“Stop shooting people,” the knight scolds.

Obi-Wan feels vaguely like he’s having a fever dream.

“Okay, new plan,” the man says. “What kind of ship did you come in?”

“KYL-3400 small transport,” Master Jinn says, with not a little hesitation. “Why?”

The knight grins. “I’m going to cannibalize it for parts.”

-------------------------

Jango has known Anakin Skywalker for six years. Many of those years have been spent being yanked into babysitting for the man. For reasons Jango doesn’t feel like examining, this will likely continue.

“You’re late,” he says, as the man in question stumbles out of a battered ship that looks only barely like the one that left three months ago. “I thought you said Bandomeer was a quick fix.”

“Ship got shot down, had to help some Jedi, ran into fucking Onaka on the way back,” Skywalker grouses. “I feel like shit. Where are my kids?”

“Buir says you have to go to medical.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. My kids, Jango.”

“They can visit you in medical.”

“And, what, Mereel’s gonna go there for a debrief?”

“Your debrief is going through me,” Jango says, and doesn’t let himself flinch when Skywalker makes a face. “He’ll check in later.”

“Yeah, no,” Skywalker says, taking a step forward and then swaying with a curse. “Listen, this actually does need to go to Mand’alor direct, not just the Alor-in-training--”

“Please don’t do that with my language,” Jango immediately says. “That’s not--no. ‘Alor-in-training’ isn’t a thing. Don’t do that.”

Skywalker turns on his heel with a frustrated snarl, and Jango’s eyes widen as the stupid tunics the man wears flare out.

“Is that a blaster wound?”

“No.”

“Yes it--for fuck’s sake, Skywalker!” Jango growls and just goes over to grab the taller man by the shoulders and march him to medical. “I’m calling your sister.”

“Don’t tell Shmi, she’s got enough to--”

“I’m calling your sister,” Jango snaps. “And you’re going to deal with it. Ka’ra, do you even think? Is there a brain in that head of yours?”

“I’ve been told my braincell is lonely.”

“I’m going to shove you in a trash compactor, dikut’la jetii,” Jango mutters. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“If I say yes, will you let me go deal with it on my own?”

Jango strangles his own scream and shoves Skywalker into the nearest examination room. “Fix him!”

The medic looks up, raises a brow, and turns to Skywalker. “What did you do?”

“What didn’t I do?” Skywalker shoots back, grinning like they’re sharing battle stories over a drink in a cantina.

The medic--Mirka’lu, he thinks--crosses her arms. “General.”

Oh man, the medics must be angry with him already if they’re already jumping titles like that.

“I’m just a knight--”

“General Skywalker.”

The man in question grimaces. “I maybe got shot during an altercation with some pirates.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And... I maybe--maybe--picked a fight with some Hutt enforcers.”

Jango’s going to wring his neck.

Right after he calls Shmi.

-------------------------

Komari does her level best to not shift nervously under the judgmental eyes of the man they’re pretty sure is the Mand’alor. Her master’s got the situation under control. She’s just there to observe. They’ve got an entire team--

“Is that your way of telling me that your Order did minimal research on the situation before coming to intervene, and the only reason you bothered to reach out is because one of my men, weeks ago, let you know that Death Watch is setting traps for both my people and yours?”

Komari feels the flare of annoyance from Master Dooku. She doesn’t react, but she can hear the tension when her Master speaks.

“I assure we would not have attacked on Galidraan unless attacked first, or if we’d found solid evidence of the actions we were informed of,” Master Dooku says, quiet and even. “All your messenger did was save us all a little time.”

Mereel smiles thinly. “Saved us all some lives, more like it.”

“Perhaps.”

“Ah, jetiise aren’t the only ones with Force-Sensitives,” the Mand’alor says. “I’ve more than a few under my command. Visions aren’t foolproof, I’m aware, but I’ll be damned if such a warning goes completely ignored.”

Master Dooku makes a low humming noise. “Be that as it may, I’m unsure of what it is that you’re expecting out of our... presence. We are not here to help you claim your presumed throne. We are only here to stop the killings we were told about.”

“I don’t need your help to reunite my people.” Mereel waves a hand, batting the mere suggestion away. “But I’d appreciate the help with taking out the terrorist group that’s actually going out and murdering the helpless, this planet’s farmers and doctors and children. Kyr’tsad isn’t just a thorn in my side, Master Jedi.”

“And what proof do I have that you aren’t just the same kind of monster as you claim they are?” Master Dooku challenges.

It’s a little brazen, considering how dicey these negotiations are. For all that Komari herself doesn’t wince, someone behind her outright hisses in dismay. She agrees with the sentiment.

Mereel just laughs at them. He catches the eye of one of the armored individuals along the wall, human or close to it, and nods to himself.

“Right,” the man says. “Well, we have our own Jedi. Would you like to meet him?”

Master Dooku is immobile, as if carved from stone. The rest of the group is... not.

“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Master Dooku says, and Komari feels the tension in him wind further through the training bond. There are a million questions to be had here. None of them can be answered without the supposed Jedi.

“Great,” the Mand’alor says. He leans back in his seat and turns to the door. With the press of a button, the door slides open. “Ben!”

A child darts into the room, stops, and bounces on their feet. Probably male, Komari thinks, and very anxious. The child’s eyes dart about the room, taking in every single Jedi in sight. When that gaze lands on Master Dooku, there’s a flash of recognition and... not hate, but distaste. Confused and distant dismay, maybe. The child turns back to Mereel.

“Mand’alor,” the child greets, still bouncing. “Am I needed?”

“Thought I told you this meeting was for grown-ups,” the Mand’alor says.

Ben shrugs. “I wanted to listen in.”

“That door is soundproofed and you know it.”

“So?”

The Mand’alor grins. “Do me a favor and go fetch your dad.”

“Buir’s still sleeping,” Ben says, grave as dirt. It’s a strange expression for such a small child. He can’t be older than eight, and Komari’s pretty sure even that’s a stretch. “Shmi’s gonna be mad if he has to wake up before the bacta’s done.”

“I just need him for negotiations,” Mereel assures the child.

“Aggressive negotiations with a lightsaber?” Ben asks, and Komari nearly chokes.

“No, just regular ones.”

Ben nods sharply, and then turns and runs out.

“That boy...” Mereel mutters, but it’s fond. “Anywa--”

“BUIR!” Ben’s voice echoes from the hall, faint but audible, along with some very loud banging on what is presumably a door. “DAD! WAKE UP, THE COUNT IS HERE!”

The Count? Komari wonders. Even Master Dooku seems surprised.

The question is clearly on more minds than just her own. Mereel raises a brow at Master Dooku and gestures vaguely. “Didn’t know any of you were nobility. You a Count, Master Jedi?”

“No,” Master Dooku says, and before the Mand’alor can press further, he adds, “but if I were to retire from the Order, the title would be mine to inherit. As I have no intentions of retiring, I am not and will not be a Count, but I assume that is what the child is referring to.”

“Ben,” the Mand’alor corrects. He seems pleased with the reasonable answer. “Ylliben Skywalker. I suggest you refer to him by name.”

“You have a fondness for him,” Master Dooku notes.

Mereel shrugs. “No more than any other child, objectively, but his father is one of my more effective allies, and he gets antsy about things. Saying ‘your child’ won’t be a problem, but ‘the child’ is... well.”

The smirk is a challenge that Komari doesn’t feel ready to meet. She’s glad it’s not hers to handle.

“Why do you ‘have’ a Jedi?” Master Dooku asks, pushing the conversation back to the point Komari’s sure he was initially aiming for.

“Found him in a snowstorm, brought him inside,” Mereel says, grinning. “And then he refused to leave, the shabuir. Troublesome man, like you wouldn’t believe, but useful.”

“Like a feral tooka,” someone behind Komari mutters. She feels a part of her soul die.

You can’t just say that in front of the Mand’alor! she screeches in the depths of her mind, despairing.

“Exactly,” Mereel agrees with a laugh. “Skywalker’s a feral tooka.”

Komari dies a little more.

“Talkin’ shit about me, Mereel?”

...oh no.

This one’s pretty.

The man is tall, dressed almost entirely in black, and looks like shit.

“You look like you got run over by a herd of bantha,” the Mand’alor notes.

“I got back less than a day ago,” Skywalker growls out. He leans against the wall behind the Mand’alor’s desk. He folds his arms. He glowers around the room. “The kriff is Count Dooku doing here?”

“Master Dooku,” the man in question says, a little pained. “As I informed Mand’alor Mereel, I may technically have claim to that title, but I am a Jedi. So long as I remain a Jedi, the title isn’t actually mine.”

Skywalker makes a face, and then shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever. Jaster, what the hell do you need from me?”

“Well, some manners would be nice.”

“I got shot and am putting myself in a position to get yelled at by baar’ur Mirka’lu for coming here when I’m supposed to be on bed rest,” Skywalker growls out. He kicks Mereel’s chair, glaring at the back of the man’s head. “You’re lucky I put on pants.”

Mereel seems unbothered by this statement or treatment.

Komari thinks her eyes may currently be the size of dinner plates.

“You’re the one from Bandomeer.”

Skywalker’s head snaps up to focus his gaze on Master Dooku. “Say what?”

“You’re the one my former Padawan encountered on Bandomeer,” Master Dooku says, something satisfied in his tone. “He said you refused to give a name, but the physical description does match.”

“Oh, lovely, Jinn’s been gossiping,” Skywalker mutters. “That’s just--”

“General Skywalker,” Mereel says, voice finally slipping to something more stern than amused. “If you could please focus.”

Skywalker rolls his eyes and mutters something about painkillers.

“Buir?”

Skywalker’s head tilts to the side, and he holds one arm out to the side. The kid from before--Ben--darts in to cling to the man’s side. A slightly taller Togruta follows in and ducks in under his other arm. Both children keep a wary gaze fixed on the same person, and their adult...

Every look from this man is a new challenge to Master Dooku.

“They’re yours?”

That is the exact question Komari was hoping her master wouldn’t ask.

“We’re in Mandalorian territory,” Skywalker says. “They’re Force-Sensitive orphans with an incredible amount of potential. If I didn’t claim them, someone else would have.”

It’s not an airtight justification--the man could have just sent them to the Temple--but the air around him is roiling with aggression. This man does not like Master Dooku, and is more than a shade protective of these--his--children. Komari shifts her weight and worries as the pregnant silence grows heavier.

“As you say,” Master Dooku allows, and some of the bowstring-tight tension in the room loosens, drains away like foul bathwater. “If I may... I was unaware you were a General, nor that Mandalore had a standing army large enough for such a position.”

“He’s not,” Mereel says. “Used to be, won’t tell me where. It’s not my business, or yours. Title’s a holdover from whatever war he was fighting before we got him.”

Komari is not the only person whose heart drops as Master Dooku says, “Qui-Gon claimed that the rogue knight he’d met on Bandomeer mentioned a galactic war against the Sith.”

Mereel blinks, and then turns his seat around to look at Skywalker. The other Mandalorians look at Skywalker. Every single Jedi also looks at Skywalker.

The Togruta child sticks her tongue out at Master Dooku.

“I did say that,” Skywalker says. “What of it?”

“You know, when I said I didn’t care what fight you were running that turned you into a soldier, I kind of assumed it was something on the level of, say, a system-wide civil war,” Mereel drawls. “Not galactic Force nonsense.”

Skywalker shrugs. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

“Because you’ll lie?”

“No, I’m just going to be really annoying about it,” Skywalker tells him. The Togruta giggles and shoves her face into his side. “Or, hell, I’ll let Ben do it. We both know he can talk circles around basically everyone in this room.”

“Skywalker.”

“Mereel.”

The two hold gazes for a moment that lasts just a little too long, and then Mereel breaks it off. “We’re talking about this later.”

“Of course, Mand’alor,” Skywalker says, with a grim sort of smile. “Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

Mereel doesn’t seem particularly impressed by that.

Komari wonders if anyone else remembers that Skywalker was supposed to be here to make negotiations easier.

-------------------------

Yan Dooku is having a Day.

He’s not entirely sure whom to blame for this mess. Perhaps Yoda, for suggesting he handle this mission. Perhaps the governor of Galidraan, who decided collaborating with terrorists for his own gain was a good idea. Perhaps Jaster Mereel, whose influence and power is enough that Yan needs to tread carefully. Perhaps Qui-Gon, for giving him just enough information about Skywalker to cause some drama.

Perhaps Skywalker for being a recalcitrant, ornery bastard who delights in Yan’s suffering.

(One of the Mandalorians calls him that to his face, and Skywalker informs the man that “my mother always told me I didn’t have a father,” and stares until the Mando stammers out an apology and turns on his heel.)

(The smirk on Skywalker’s face is certainly informative.)

“Hi.”

Yan looks up from the datapad he’s been using to try and punch out a report, for all that he can’t find the words he needs, and sees the Togruta youngling from Skywalker’s side hanging upside-down from a ventilation grate.

He blinks evenly at her. “Good afternoon. Is that your normal manner of traversing the building?”

“Yeah, when Jan-Jan isn’t yelling at me about it,” she says, and drops from the ceiling. Seemingly without paying attention, she directs the grate itself back into place with the Force, screws reattaching themselves with only the slightest whisper. She’s done this many, many times.

“I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.”

“Jango Fett,” she clarifies. “Ad be Mand’alor.”

Child of the king.

He does remember that much from the briefing.

“I see,” Yan says, rather than try to tackle whatever the usage of such a nickname implies. “I’m afraid nobody’s seen fit to introduce you, youngling.”

“I’m Sokanth Skywalker, but most people call me Soka,” she says, with a bouncing, shallow bow. Full of energy, this one. “I’m eight.”

“The General is your father, then?”

“Mm-hm! He adopted me when I was almost two,” she says, and climbs up onto the bench. She wraps her arms around her knees and beams up. “Ben was still a baby, and we didn’t go get Shmi until a few months later when Skyguy could afford it.”

“Skyguy?” Yan prompts.

“My dad,” she explains, head tilting a little as she studies his reaction. “I... I’ve always called him Skyguy. He took care of me before he adopted me, for at least a year. He says I called him Skyguy when I first started talking, back then, and then he didn’t make me stop when he adopted me.”

“I see,” Yan says. “Does your father know you’re speaking with me?”

“Probably.”

“And would he approve?” Yan hints as heavily as he can. “He doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

“That’s because we’ve all seen what you could be,” she says. “But you’re not the Count yet, so it’s okay.”

Information. “Ah. Visions, then. That would explain some things.”

“Ben gets them the most,” she keeps talking. “But it’s not just that. It’s like... patterns. The Sith are going to target you, because they’re going to think you’re worth corrupting.”

“And you’ve seen enough Sith to know that?”

“Yeah.”

“Visions are not foolproof,” he says, trying to keep his tone gentle. He’s not used to interacting with children of this age, and this one comes with a father in the Mand’alor’s confidence, someone he can’t afford to irritate by making a daughter cry. “I have a friend who is very prone to visions, and some come true, some don’t, and others--”

“Are self-fulfilling,” Sokanth finishes for him. “I know that. But my dad’s actually fought Sith, y’know. The guy who cut off my dad’s arm used to be a Jedi Master, like you, and he was all fancy-schmancy and a history nerd for Sith stuff, and didn’t like the Council or their decisions very much. Like you.”

That’s... very personal.

“A surface-level similarity is not enough to make the claim that I am to become a Sith,” he says.

She blinks at him, eyes too large for a face that’s so near to human in bone-structure. It’s unnerving. “Whether or not you Fall is your choice, Count. All I can tell you is that you are the kind of person they look to groom... if only as a pawn.”

The words are too old for a girl her size.

“You speak as if you’ve faced the Sith yourself,” Yan says, well aware now that he needs to tread carefully, but... “You’re too young to go out into the field. I can’t imagine your father would allow a child like yourself to go up against someone that dangerous.”

She blinks those too large eyes, and tilts her head in the other direction, and then smiles. “You care. That’s good. Keep that compassion, Count.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I feel like you’re evading the question.”

Sokanth giggles. “Maybe. Buir doesn’t like us talking about it much. It makes him sad, ‘cuz he can’t help us not hurt, and a lot of it is really scary. It’s like... my memories are too big for my head. I don’t get a lot of visions, but I get a lot of dreams of things that happened that I’m not alive for. And buir does remember those things happening, so it’s true, and it happened, but I only... sort of remember it, and when I think about it too hard, it hurts my head. Or I get nightmares about it, and I don’t like those. Ben’s got it worse, though. He has more to fight.”

It’s a lot of information.

It’s confusing information.

It’s... possibly information that the General has asked her to feed him for reasons he can’t even begin to guess at.

“In this war your father fought,” Yan asks, “were you a soldier as well?”

“Commander,” she corrects, voice soft. “That’s what the dreams call me, before they start screaming.”

“How old are you really?” He asks, before he can quite stop himself.

She laughs, suddenly bright again. “I’m as old as I look. I’m eight. Just because the Force gives me memories I shouldn’t have doesn’t mean that my brain isn’t a kid. Sometimes Ben tries to act older than he is ‘cuz of the memories, y’know. Buir gets sad whenever he does that, ‘cuz he thinks we deserve to be kids before the galaxy goes to hell again.”

“He’s sure of such a thing?”

“It always does,” she says, with the air of someone who isn’t sure how their conversation partner could be quite that dense. Her voice takes on a sing-song cadence, like she’s telling a fable instead of a philosophy. “War always comes eventually. Not every sentient is selfish, but enough are, and they tend to be the ones that claw their way to the top. The rich and powerful will take and take and take, and then, when there’s nothing left, they will use their living stepping stones to tear each other apart. All we can do is be ready to end it as quickly as possible once it comes.”

Yan lets the claim sit for a long, quiet minute. “Did your father tell you that?”

“No,” she says. “Ben did.”

The six-year-old.

“He has a way with words,” Yan manages.

“Sometimes he uses his stuffed animals to host courtroom dramas,” she says. “He makes me look up the right laws so it can be procedurally accurate, ‘cuz he’s a nerd but so am I, and it makes Skyguy happy when he sees us playing like that instead of just doing saber forms and stuff.”

Yan has... no idea what to do with that. “I wouldn’t normally call courtroom dramas a normal children’s activity.”

“Yeah, but Ben’s a nerd,” she says, as if that’s all that needs to be said. Maybe, for her, it is. “And there’s only so much time I’m allowed to spend hunting.”

Right. Togruta.

“And what was your father doing at that age?”

“I’m not allowed to talk about that,” she says immediately. “Because it’s very private and he and Shmi get upset if we bring it up, ‘cuz of trauma and stuff.”

Shmi. The... sister, he thinks. People seem to be unclear on that. He’s heard a few refer to the teenager as just “one of Skywalker’s,” so that’s something to consider. She’s near-perfectly halfway between the children and the General, in terms of age, so it’s a little ambiguous where she fits.

That said, he’s been in a lot of places in his time as a Jedi Master. It’s taken him a little longer than it should have to realize, but he thinks he’s got at least part of the puzzle.

Skywalker’s a slave name. Tatooine, specifically.

It’s not confirmation, really, but...

Well. He thinks it’s better he doesn’t dig, on that subject.

“Hey,” Sokanth says, tugging at his sleeve. “Can I ask ya something?”

“I cannot promise an answer, but you may ask.”

“Can you spar with Skyguy? I wanna see who wins.”