#why wasn’t this used

[gutsby]

Easy to Please

Pairing: Sleazy Landlord!Joel x Reader

Summary: Months pass, and you can’t make rent—again. You find another way to pay your sleazy landlord. Again.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (m!receiving). Dubcon à la power imbalance / sex for money. Infidelity. Pervy!Joel. Talks of abuse. Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—please read at your own risk.

Note: This fic was loosely inspired by my three favorite songs about female adultery—‘Thinkin’ Bout Cheatin’ by Mae Estes, ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ by The Eagles, and ‘Cheatin’ Songs’ by Midland. No, I don’t support infidelity. Yes, it makes for fun fiction.

Word count: 3.1k

You hate the face he makes when he cums.

You hate the way he tastes when he’s done.

You hate the grit and the heft of the man, every lone hair that sprouts silver from his chest, and the way he pats the open space beside him in bed after you roll away.

‘Never seen a girl so goddamn allergic to cuddling!’

What makes his observation worse is that you know you’re hating it more and more with every passing day.

Today you have seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson tucked into your purse. You walk with a sluggish gait, knowing you’re $310 short of making this month’s rent and last. But you go on anyway. It’s not like Joel can’t see you from where he’s seated on the porch.

The pleasantries you exchange are short. By now, you have only to breeze past him in his lawn chair and say, ‘I can’t stay long,’ and he knows the rest. He grabs his six-pack, then his Pall Malls, and asks after you all the same.

“How’s the wrist?” he says.

You sprained it over the weekend. You aren’t sure how he heard. At any rate, you ignore the question and set your bag down on the counter before going to the fridge. You deflect with a question of your own—what the hell happened to the lemonade? He had a full jug last week.

“Got thirsty,” Joel answers, shrugging.

You’re always thirsty, you tell him, and you eye the case of Heineken that he’s placed by your purse. You don’t need to see his face to feel the smile starting to form.

“Don’t I know it,” he says. Insinuating.

You’d hit him over the head if you’d been able to reach. He’s still smiling when your shoulder checks his—closer to his elbow, from the feel of it—and when you leave the kitchen, he leaves too. He trails behind you with an ease that says this is the sixth time this has happened since August, and you’re hardly a week out from Halloween.

It’s not just rent you need to pay; it’s other things. Transmission in your truck’s gone to shit. Phone’s been on the fritz since you dropped it in the tub. Talking heads on TV say the country’s on track to get hit with another recession, and from the way your boss has been slashing your hours in half, you think they may be right. The crack in your bathroom window was tiny last week. Today it’s gone, because your husband put his fist through the thing on Sunday. You patched the hole with duct tape.

Joel’s covering the cost for the pane to be replaced, but that’s because he has to. He’s your landlord—proud owner of the Delta Commons trailer park since ‘97—and that’s what landlords do. Everything else is yours to pay.

You’re a part-time student, part-time waitress, and a full-time caretaker for your ailing spouse, or so you call him. Joel knows Stetson’s not sick, just perennially unemployed and drunk. You pay for most things, and it’s rarely enough to cover your rent. Stetson doesn’t care.

And that’s where Joel comes in.

No pun intended, but in his mind, there’s really no nicer way to say it: you fuck his brains out to make up for the shortfall in rent. You blow him before work to make sure your husband and you will have enough to eat that week. You bite the warm, freckled skin between his shoulder and his neck while you ride him, because you know that gesture will get you a little extra cash when you leave. You smile after swallowing him, and Joel knows that it tastes like shit. You’ve gotten good at faking it lately.

What he hopes isn’t totally fabricated is the way you call him big. Strong. Handsome. So stupidly well-endowed that you have to wince for the first few seconds when you sit on it, and go slow when he takes you from behind

“O-ow!” you whine presently.

His dick isn’t even in you yet. You just stubbed your toe on the edge of his dresser on your way to the bathroom.

“You alright?”

“Fuck me!”

I will, he thinks.

“Want me to get an ice—”

“Let go-OW! FUCK!”

Joel barely even touched your wrist and you were flinching away with a brand new pain. You rub it, almost defensively, then pin him with an icy glare. Nice going.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Now he’ll be lucky if he can swing a half-hearted handy from the one that isn’t hurt. That’s how mad you look.

You turn your body away, and for a second, Joel assumes that his fate has been sealed: you’ll bumble over to the rug by his bed, toss a pillow on the floor, and assume what he already knows to be your least favorite position. You’ll kneel, and talk of migraines and your long, grueling day and in the end find an excuse not to use your mouth. That’ll be okay. But with the debts you owe him now, it also won’t be enough, and Joel will have to ask you back again. He hates sounding needy, but baby, deal’s a deal.

Luckily you don’t give him the chance to use that line. Much to his surprise, you get on the bed. You lie down. You seem to take a little more care settling in this time, but you take off your clothes. It’s a lime green tank top and some ratty jean skirt, but it’s enough to tempt him.

And not just tempt, but oblige him to accept, unblinking. He crawls over the bed to get to you, and he finds that his spit’s filling his mouth a little quicker. His hands are starting to shake as they slide over the duvet, and the tree trunks he once called his legs are runny, like eggs.

He has to remind himself, bluntly, of your last name, the shiny ring on your hand, your husband’s name, your—

“Age—what’d you say your age was again?” Joel asks.

You look confused for a second, but you tell him.

“Twenty-one.”

Way too fucking young to have gotten hitched three years ago. But then he remembers this is Leakey, Texas, and your family hasn’t strayed more than ten miles from the center of town in four generations. You told him that.

“I thought you said twenty,” Joel says, a little uneasy.

“I did. Up until this past Sunday I was.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Happy birthday.”

You blink.

“You gonna take your pants off or what?”

And he does. Maybe embarrassed at first, but then the jeans come off, and his boxers go next, and without so much as a word or a breath, his worries are sliding away like water off his back. Like his clothes now peeling off.

Like your smile growing thin at the sight of him half-stripped on the bed in front of you. Joel doesn’t flatter himself to think he’s even half as handsome as he was in his youth, but he knows he has his draws. What endears him to you today is, unfortunately, his wallet. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be convinced to like him more.

More than Stetson, he thinks without humor.

Dumb son of a bitch can’t tell his ass from his elbow and yet he’s won himself you, living it up these last three y—

“Oh.”

He sounds like an owl now. His clothes are off, and you’re rubbing him, pumping him gently in your hand, which you were so kind to make wet with your saliva. It even sounds better than his, the way it squelches with every flick. Joel can only say so much in strangled breaths.

He tries anyway:

“Feel like a dream, sweet pea.”

Sweet pea.

Your pace quickens. Joel swears he can see the corners of your lips twitch, but then he thinks you’re just wincing. You move down to the floor beside the bed. Kneel almost politely while you nestle yourself between his parted legs

Your mouth is warm. It’s always warm. Joel wouldn’t expect a girl’s tongue to greet his dick like ice, but yours is always heated to a thousand degrees, it feels like. He enjoys the sting. Your lips envelop his big, leaking tip, and he swears he can stay like this forever—in you.

On you, too. He’s got his palm resting flat on your head, and he doesn’t mean to, but he pushes. He bunches your hair in a fist and drags your face to make you swallow.

Mean old man, you must be saying in your head when he stuffs your mouth full. Makes your eyes prick with tears.

Sweet girl. My sweet pea, he thinks, affectionately, and continues to rub your scalp. He holds your teary gaze.

And then you’re moving up. Down. Coating his length with shiny spit and tiny whimpers as your lips move gently back and forth, again and again. Joel’s grip tightens in your hair, and he begs for more. More.

“More,” he orders, jaw clenched, “Fit a little more’a me.”

From where you’re kneeling below, you look put off.

Then you pull off, and you wipe your wet chin.

“Chokin’ me,” you grumble, “‘S’too big.”

Normally, Joel loves to hear that.

Now, however, he’s sliding his touch to your chin and tilting your head up to him. Thumbing at the spit dribbling out on either side of your mouth and subsequently coaxing your lips further apart.

He slides back in, and you don’t fight it. You like it. Holding his gaze in a soft, docile look while your lips stretch deliciously around his shaft, you must love it. Every inch and every twinge of pleasure from the brush of his cock going in and out must be your favorite thing.

Joel hopes it is, anyway. He holds your face now, and your throat convulses involuntarily. You’re so pretty.

“Such a good, sweet girl, ain’t ya?” he presses, watching the coarse grey hairs at the base of him tickle your face.

You respond well to praise. You preen under those words, and try to nod. But his cock is so deep down your throat you end up choking again. Joel watches all of it smiling.

Petting your head and not pushing again. Grinning.

“Love my cock nice and stuffed in that pretty throat?”

You blink instead of nodding, but it’s more than enough.

“Love me deep?”

And the head of him sinks somewhere he’s never been. Your eyes are like two wide pools, and your lips leak everywhere—your chin, your cheeks, your neck.

Joel’s smearing it all with his palm and smiling so wide that he thinks he might pull a muscle. He pants heavily.

“Just what you’re made for. Just what you need.”

You look like you might agree. He keeps going.

“My fuckin’ mouth. My pretty, pretty mouth.”

He holds your face. He thinks he might cum.

“Ain’t a damn thing Stetson can do for this mouth, huh?”

And then he doesn’t. Joel barely blinks, and you’re already bucking your head out of his hold, mouth skittering away while the spit spills out. You’re practically drenched down to the chest when your face rears back. Your eyes are alight and no longer smiling when you grit:

“Don’t.”

Joel should’ve known better.

He’s hit a raw nerve, and now he really wishes he hadn’t.

It doesn’t stop there—but it doesn’t get better, either. Things progress in much the same way as they always have but with none of the need, or the warmth, of before. You climb back up and straddle him quick. Not meeting his eye, you just sit down, and slide down, and don’t wince at all. You don’t tell him that he’s big, and he doesn’t get the chance to even groan at the first influx of pleasure before you’re riding him. Bouncing and grinding your hips against his with all the passion of someone perusing the newspaper. You don’t whimper or moan.

Of course, Joel enjoys the feeling. He also wants someone to punch him in the throat for what he’s done.

“Hey, hon—” he starts, voice strained, “Hon, I’m sorr—”

“Shut up,” you snap.

Your movements hardly falter, and now your hand is seizing the headboard. You’re clenching him tight inside your wet, drooling cunt, and it’s obvious you’re trying to make him cum as quickly as possible. You swallow hard.

Joel isn’t sure what to do. On the one hand, his body is being flooded with pleasure, and on the other, he fears you may never do this with him again. Quickly fixing on the latter, he cups your face in one hand. It’s still wet.

His fingers smear the spit, and somehow you look even prettier. You keep grinding your body in desperate little fits above him, and really, you feel fucking amazing, but Joel is too focused on other thoughts. He squeezes you.

“Baby—” he tries again, but you shush him just as fast.

Your hips are moving viciously now. No matter how sore your legs might have been from a long day toiling away—just a couple hours before your shift at your next job, if Joel’s remembering correctly—you’re working him well. Doing him in. Fucking his brains out, but you aren’t his.

His fingers smear the spit even more. Never will be his.

“Sweet pea—”

“Don’t fucking call me that!”

Now he can’t deny that his climax is close. But this isn’t how he wanted it to end—with you so incensed you can hardly look him in the eye. His hand rubs more, helpless.

And just when he’s seconds away from painting your insides white, losing it all to the pleasure, he sees it.

His wet, sticky touch has uncovered a residue.

Joel pulls his fingers away in a blink, and simultaneously, your eyes are fluttering closed. You’re focused now on climax; because of that, you don’t see what he sees.

What he’s stunned to find on his fingers: makeup.

Lots and lots of thick, heavy makeup on your cheeks. Concealer, he thinks he’s heard it called once or twice.

No matter the name, he quickly comes to see what it’s for. Just as you’re hitting your peak, squeezing the headboard behind him, and coming undone with a shockwave trembling all through your body, Joel pales.

The makeup that you applied so heavy tonight hides bruises. Black and blue and awful hues of greenish-purple too, your whole face, he sees, is engulfed.

He doesn’t speak. He won’t ask.

He won’t cum tonight, either.

He’ll finish something else.

You leave Joel’s trailer angry. You don’t say goodbye. The screen door screams shut behind you when you leave, and silently, you wonder why he didn’t cum. For once, you wish he had—and hadn’t said half of what he did.

Six hours pass like molasses, and by the end of it all—the close of your second shift—Stetson’s name still echoes in your head. The way Joel said it. It hums along the walls of your skull while you walk, and as you draw closer to home, you remember that strange and infuriating tone.

Then you remember your own less than two months ago:

Don’t talk to my husband. Don’t talk about my husband.

They were two simple rules, and Joel broke them both.

He must’ve defied the first when paying a visit to make repairs that week, and that’s when Stetson mentioned your hand: how you ‘slipped’ in the bath. Tripped and conveniently sprained your wrist the same night he almost tore your arm out of the socket for looking at a waiter a tad too long at dinner. You’d bet any sum of money Joel didn’t get to hear that part from Stetson when he came over to see about the window, though.

No, your twenty-first came and went without so much as a word about your wrist. Your arm. Your face—used to getting caked with concealer every third week or so.

You wince as you open the door. You walk slowly.

At first, you’re met with silence, and you sigh with relief. Then you hear it, and shortly drop your purse to the floor.

You all but fall down yourself at the sight: your husband doubled over across from you, in the kitchen. His head in his hands. You don’t need to see the face to know that it’s bleeding. Profusely. You tread ever slower into the room, thinking somehow, some way he’s going to blame this on you. And when he straightens a little and shows off the full, gruesome extent of his injuries, you blanch to think that it might be. His body’s been beaten to a pulp.

Your pulse hammers in your head so loud you can’t hear him groan. You see him, but you don’t really believe it.

And when Stetson reaches for you, you stagger back.

Your hands skim the counter, but your brain barely registers it. Your husband’s calling to you now, ‘Quit standin’ there lookin’ stupid, do somethin’, huh?!’ He’s screaming, and you’re not hearing it. Barely feeling like a sentient person at all but just a doll stumbling backward on two wooden legs. As you walk, your palm stays stuck to the laminate underneath it, and suddenly, you feel it.

An envelope.

In this state, you aren’t sure why you grab it, but you do.

You take the lone white paper, and you turn to leave. Your hands shake as you hold the thing, and your legs are hardly any better, but they carry you, miraculously, from the kitchen to the threshold of the back door. Then out. Stetson’s not just yelling but bellowing, loud, every last obscenity known to man as he holds his bloodied side and limps in his perilous, pathetic way. Fortunately, you’re gone just in time to miss the bottle he hurls.

Outside, you walk. And walk. And in the still of the night you’re obliged to find your way through a miscellany of trailers and trucks and old, creaking vans by moonlight, and the throbbing in your head begins to slow. You don’t rush to get far, and you don’t have your keys even if you wanted to drive off. You keep walking. Watching nothing.

When your eyes drift to the envelope in your hand, you barely see that either. You’re just blinking as you look, and breathing as you wait for the sight to make sense.

Inside, you find seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson staring back. Next to them are a few dozen others—enough to cover August, September, October, and several months before that, if you had to guess.

You hope you’ll get the opportunity to thank Joel, and maybe tell him that you don’t really hate him, someday.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 271

“Grandmother is visiting,” Damian suddenly said with no warning and with his usual not-quite demanding tone. 

“Who?” Tim wasn’t the only one to startle, seeing as Bruce had practically froze, a downturn to his lips in a silent show of confusion. 

Damian scowled. “Are you deaf Drake? Grandmother is coming to Gotham to, quote, make sure I am being properly cared for.” None of them had known that Ras was with anyone actually. At least Tim was pretty sure that would have been in the files. 

“Oh?” Dick didn’t quite crouch to Damian’s height but it was a near thing. “She-” “He,” Damian corrected, interrupting him. They all exchanged a glance before Dick continued. 

“Is he coming to the Manor or…” 

Damian scoffed again, a tiny bit of a flush against his face. “No, Grandmother will most likely be staying with Akhi-”

Now wait one moment-

“YOU HAVE ANOTHER BROTHER?!” 

[houseswife]

infinitely funny that wilson turned vegetarian while house was in prison to show that he’s moving on with his life and is capable of making personal changes that don’t revolve around his boybestfriend situationship but then the MINUTE they reunite he’s like “let’s get dinner! I’m craving MEAT 😋😋’. what kind of symbolism is this. I’m going to say a slur

[stealingyourbones]

Out of all of the people The Ghost King Phantom expected to relate to, it definitely wasn’t the scrawny red headed photographer of the Daily Planet. Jimmy Olsen has gotten so many temporary superpowers over his time being Superman’s friend. Hell, he once gained a 4th dimensional being’s reality warping abilities when he was given said dimensional being’s powers during a fight. Sure there’s a dozen or so heroes with the same amount of powers he has, but none as suddenly granted to them as a all powerful god that can relate to a teenager.

[renjunnipeikko]

dunno if this has been done yet but: airplane didn’t first become aware of peerless cucumber in the comments of pidw, he first saw peerless in the comments of a different web novel (that perhaps was one of airplane’s earlier works?) and so when initially drafting pidw he was inspired to write a villain just like cucumber bc “he’s MEAN MEAN for no reason, a literature snob, and pretends to be all high and mighty while looking down on others. also likes to kick down the little guy” and boom. sqq was born. cut to years later post-transmigration when sqh just casually drops this info with “lol i always did find it funny how much you hated the guy considering he’s literally based off you”

[lesbiassoon]

I’d be embarrassed to drop this shit LMAOOOO

[myfairkatiecat]

“Sophie became exactly like Keefe in Stellarlune”

Loud incorrect buzzer

Sophie, beginning in Neverseen and slowly in increasing amounts begins to pick up Keefe’s way of speaking/his form of snarkiness/his style of humor because she spends a TON of time around him and our speech patterns are influenced by those around us. Also, she got older and more confident, so a lot of her shyness melted away. But she is the girl she’s always been—just a lot more confident and making a lot more of the same style of jokes as one of her closest relationships. That is way more realistic than y’all give it credit for

[vvitchllng]

In addition to Everything Else that happened this episode, I can’t stop thinking about the moment where Laudna asks him why Seedling isn’t enough why he wants This sword and Orym’s whole demeanor shifts and he looks Laudna dead in the eyes and says you’re right why Would you reach for a darker power.

Orym and Laudna are the characters with the most interparty conflict and they’re the same!!!!!!! At their core their strongest motivation is their drive to protect the ones they love at the cost of themselves if necessary. We see it all the time with Orym throwing himself in front of his friends over and over again, making deals with fae to try and keep them safe. And we see it all the time with Laudna and Delilah, where over and Over again she lures Laudna with the promise of being strong enough to protect her friends, to keep them safe. We saw it again tonight when Delilah manipulated her to get the sword by telling her it was a danger to Orym!!

Both of them looked at the power that caused their pain and decided to take it for their own, to use it to protect their loved ones instead, because if it was capable of such devastation against them, it was capable of delivering that same devastation to their enemies. Laudna asking why seedling isn’t enough (why he isn’t enough, the frustrated self-deprecating response “I have Push-ups!”) and Orym returning the question because Laudna Does have her own power separate from Delilah, she just doesn’t think its enough for what’s coming!!!

They both lost their families, but where Orym had the rest of his family, a purpose, a home, Laudna lost Everything and only had the voice of her murderer as comfort in the cold. So now they’re both taking on the power that destroyed their lives, but Orym can be rational and willing to have a discussion about doing so, while Laudna absolutely Cannot do the same because of how entwined she is with Delilah (with Delilah quite literally guiding her actions in addition to the years of psychological manipulation and abuse), and so they’re the same and yet so utterly different that they keep coming up against this fundamental inability to understand the other’s position because despite the same underlying motivations, their responses are so different.

Why would you reach for a darker power, why can you not understand why I’m doing this, why can you not see I’m doing this For You. Distorted reflections of each other wanting to be understood and at a loss when faced with the differences between them, what a fucking dynamic.

[rigginsstreet]

The thing about billy is that he was marked for death the second his mom left him with neil.

He was either gonna die by Neil’s hands or, as we saw on the show, he was gonna go down such a self destructive path it would send him into an early grave of his own making.

So him dying at 18 isn’t really shocking. The part of it that was never written in the stars for him previously is that in his final moments he got to take some of his power back. He made the choice to stand against his abuser (the mindflayer) in the name of saving someone else. He got to fight back against the thing controlling him and contribute to its demise. Something he likely would’ve never gotten a chance to do with neil.

The tragedy is that he dies anyway, and no one can even give him the courtesy of acknowledging what that tragedy is. Not the writers, not the fandom, not the characters within the show.

His death becomes Max’s tragedy, it can’t even be his own. Nobody cares what billys death means in the context of billys life. Just like how nobody cared about billy when his mom left or when his dad was getting physical with him or when he started lashing out because of the abuse.

Nobody ever cared for billy, so why was he expected to care about anyone else?

He was never treated as a person, just a presence. And an inconvenient one at that. So of course he was never gonna make it to a long fulfilling life. And nobody ever thought to step in and intervene because well, Billys a problem, right? So what does it matter if he’s gone?

And you start to realize how inherently cruel the entire stranger things narrative is because there’s a clear line of people “worth” saving and those who aren’t. And if someone’s too much trouble then well, they’re expendable.

Billy was too much trouble for his mom to make her clean escape. He was too much trouble for not fitting in to Neil’s ideals of the perfect son. He was too much trouble for max as a brother. Too much trouble with all the rage and hate he had built up for the world around him for not protecting him.

So in the end, really, what was left for him to do?

[hollow-l1es]

guys. Jayce promised viktor he would destroy the hexcore. Then he didn’t and the hexcore fused itself with Viktor to save his life. Viktor left and Jayce got absorbed by the arcane. He saw things. And then he understood that Viktor was right. The hexcore had to be destroyed. Only this time the hexcore…is Viktor.

He did not fail.

[jjyo--01]

you’re edwin payne. you’re a british schoolboy in the 1910s and you keep to yourself, mostly. you find your penny novels more interesting than people. there’s one boy who seems to like you but you’re too afraid to talk to him lest you make a fool of yourself. you fall asleep one night, unaware that anything might be amiss. you’re violently wrested from your slumber and dragged away scared and confused. your kidnappers are your classmates and they gag you and pin you down. one familiar boy starts chanting and—oh god, what are they calling you? you struggle against them but their grips are just too tight and before you know it the room is silent. you glimpse something crawling in a dark corner. so do they. now it’s your captors’ turn to be scared. in an instant, they’re gone, combusted into flames at a single touch. a demon reveals itself to you and you beg for mercy, for your life. it’s the only thing you can do. but the demon isn’t interested in sparing you, and he drags you down to hell.

at least he said he was sorry.

now you’re in hell. you think you’re dead, but you’re not. the demon is there too, and now he owns you. you think you’re dreaming—no, not dreaming. this is a nightmare you’ll wake up from at any moment. but the more time passes, the less faith you have that this is true. the demon says he doesn’t want you, he has no use for a living human. and so you find yourself alone, tethered in darkness while the demon searches for a trader. he finds one, and you’re brought out to meet him. this demon is different from the one who brought you here, you can feel it. more evil, more sinister. nevertheless, you attempt to take it in stride. you extend a hand and introduce yourself. the demon takes your hand with a hungry grin and you are transported in the blink of an eye. you find yourself in a poorly lit, dingy room with hallways of equal quality stretching and connecting with each other as far as you can see.

it’s eerily quiet and you instinctively know something is wrong. you stand and survey your surroundings. there’s no one here except you. but there is something. a massive lump sits in a dark corner, covered in shadows. you can’t get a proper look at it, but you don’t dare draw any closer. it shifts it’s position and you hear the clanging of a thousand pieces of glass. now you’re confused, but you’re not curious enough to investigate. you need to find a way out of here as quickly as possible, so you make a break for it. you ignore the thing and duck through the nearest hallway as fast as your slippers will take you. then you trip and fall, not quite stifling a sharp cry. you’ve scraped your knees and your palms are bleeding. but it’s no matter, you’ll force your way through the pain.

you realize you’re lost so you turn back, but you freeze before taking your first step. the thing that you couldn’t get a good look at is standing in the doorway, blotting out what little light shone through. it starts crawling toward you—slowly at first, but it picks up speed. the clanging rings in your ears and fear strikes through your heart. you run, but it’s faster than you. god, it’s faster than you. then your leg snags and a shooting pain runs up your body. you look down and see dozens of tiny limbs clawing at your skin, ripping it apart. you hear yourself scream, a bone-chilling, bloodcurdling scream with which you didn’t know your lungs were capable. it’s tearing into your body now. your arms, your torso, your chest. blood fills your throat and then you can’t scream anymore. you feel like you’re on fire. the last thing you see is a head made of a dozen glass faces.

and then you die.

and then you wake.

you see the same dark room as before. you clutch your stomach, the one that had just been ripped out, though the skin is now unmarred. your chest is similarly intact, as is your throat. there is no evidence that you’ve been mauled to shreds, but you feel it in your soul. your body remembers it too. just as you’re coming back to your senses, you hear the creature clambering back through the hall closer to you. you make yourself as small as possible, but it’s dragging something along with it. you squint, and see the most gruesome sight imaginable. it’s you. it’s your body, mangled and broken, covered in blood, hardly recognizable. your gut twists and you feel dizzy. that’s you. it was you. but now you’re here, and your body is there. so what does that make you? you don’t have time to think before your let out an involuntary sob. something squeezes around your heart as you realize your grave mistake. the creature turns its focus onto you. you know what’s about to happen and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

you’re edwin payne. yesterday, you were reading your favorite book instead of listening to a lecture. now you’re in hell, and this is your unspeakable reality for the next 73 years.

[ahalliance]

antoine + étoiles insane moments, p.2. aka the ass saga. p1 here

transcript + context for some of the clips below

[Video Transcript:

[First clip plays.]

Rivenzi: You want to see Etoiles’ ass, of course…

Antoine: Yeah, I’m gonna stare at your ass, Etoiles…

Etoiles: Fuck, what dread, during Popcorn [a talkshow Etoiles had been invited on the previous week], when I went up to the map and you said that, and I thought ‘whoa—‘

Antoine: Sorry

[Second clip plays: the moment during Popcorn]

PA/Domingo: Antoine Daniel has posted a tweet for us: ‘I wanted to look at this map of Africa, but Etoiles’ ass in the shape of a standing bell is driving me crazy. Smiley face with eyes in the shape of hearts.’

[Third clip plays: a continuation of the first clip.]

Antoine: Sorry, bro…

Ponce: Oh but that tweet, besides

Rivenzi: A standing bell…

Antoine: What’s more is that I never tweet and when I do it’s to tweet this sort of shit

Ponce: That’s exactly what I told myself. When PA read the tweet, I thought to myself, ‘but he never tweets!’ And he tweets to talk about Etoiles’ ass

Antoine: There needs to be a good reason, you see

[Fourth clip plays: a clip from the Team du Lundi’s minecraft server.]

JDG: Someone (in chat) said, ‘I can’t tell whether the atmosphere is good tonight or—‘

Antoine: It sucks, it sucks

Florence: You don’t need to ask every time, it always sucks

Baghera: Always sucks. Especially when Etoiles talks about ass [which had been a previous topic of discussion for him that night]

Antoine: Stooop, I enjoy it

Mynthos: You enjoy it?

JDG: It’s true tonight that it’s more weird than bad

Antoine: I like it when Etoiles talks about ass….

[Fifth clip plays: a second and different clip from Popcorn.]

Etoiles: —you’re not allowed to tell me that [Xari claimed to not know much about cinema]. I know you, I studied, because you’re my rival [in pop culture]. I really enjoy what you do in life, Xari, and you’re really knowledgeable about cinema

Antoine: What do you mean he’s your rival? And I’m just shit?

Etoiles: You, you’re my lover

Antoine: Oh yeah, sorry, my bad

PA/Domingo: One of the three is gonna die soon. There’s a whole situation, there’s a whole lore

[Sixth clip plays: a clip from the QSMP.]

Antoine: Don’t you want to get married, dude?

Etoiles: Well, I don’t have the time to fuck

Antoine: What the fuck?!

Etoiles: I don’t have time to fuck, dude. I just need to kill everyone

Antoine: No but just a marriage, you see. You’ve watched Game of Thrones— you haven’t watched Game of Thrones, you can’t know how marriages work in that series

Etoiles: I’ve watched it, but I’m married to the street, dude. I can’t give out my heart that quickly

Antoine: Yeah but you can give out your ass quickly, no?

Etoiles: No, frankly, my ass—

Antoine: What the fuck?!

Etoiles: Giving out your ass takes time, dude

Antoine: What the fuck…

Etoiles: Then again, I need to think about it. I’ll give you my answer. I need to discuss, and everything

Antoine: I’m tired of getting betrayed. You get married with someone else—

Etoiles: Never in a million years!

Antoine: —it’s like yesterday. Apparently Maximus got the mic from his ass removed while I wasn’t there. I was supposed to be the one to do it

Etoiles: Oh okay, so I’m your second choice?

[Overlapping]

Antoine: No! It was just to help him—

Etoiles: No, but, okay

Antoine: He got— listen—

Etoiles: There’s no problem!

Antoine: Fuck, nevermind

Etoiles: There’s no issue! Oh, so you’re opening my chest and stealing?

Antoine: I was just looking! Out of curiosity

Etoiles: Yeah, that’s it

Antoine: I don’t even understand what’s in it

Etoiles: Yeah, out of curiosity. Dude, your opinion on my cave?

Antoine: Well frankly it’s big

end Video Transcript.]

[lycandrophile]

I bet the transfem tag doesn’t have half as much transmasc porn deliberately tagged wrong as the transmasc tag has transfem porn

For every transmasc post I see there’s two porn accounts to block

Just pisses me off. I want to see posts about transmascs!!!

while i think you are probably right about the fact that there isn’t going to be as much transmasc porn in the transfem tag (though i can’t say i’m 100% certain, it’s not like i’ve ever scrolled through both tags and actually counted) and i do find the amount of porn in our tags frustrating, i want to talk a bit about the way this issue is being framed.

the thing you have to remember about porn bots is that you can’t think of them as real people. the whole point of them is to make money by pushing those links into popular tags so as many people see them as possible. they want people to click the link, so they show it to as many people as they can. so when you see these posts, you have to keep in mind that there’s not an individual person sitting behind a screen making specific decisions about whose tags to fuck over or what kind of porn to advertise, those decisions are most likely made based on some sort of algorithm designed to make as much money as possible.

so let’s think about it critically — why might we be seeing so much transfem porn in transmasc tags?

well, a lot of these bots are probably using our tag because tumblr has a lot of transmascs who use those tags. the trans communities on different sites are going to have different demographics, and if you’ve ever seen a poll going around with different choices for transmascs and transfems, you’ve seen just how dramatic the difference in numbers on here can be. these bots are targeting our tags because there are a lot of us here and we tend to be very active which means the bots have a better chance of getting clicks, not because an actual person decided they wanted to fuck over our tags specifically.

and why does the porn tend to be transfem porn? i can’t say for sure, but i’ll tell you my theories. first of all, i’m guessing these bots are using trans porn because tumblr has a lot of very active trans tags, and they probably take that into account — they assume that people in trans tags are more likely to want trans porn. the tag matches the link’s key words in that way, so that’s what their formula for getting clicks thinks we want to see. and i’m guessing it’s transfem porn specifically because there’s just more of that — transfem porn is much easier to find than transmasc porn, and it’s also probably seen as a better bet for these bots because being more popular means more people will want to click it. and that doesn’t stem from people preferring transfems over transmascs or anything like that, it stems from the rampant fetishization of transfems. these accounts aren’t actual transfem sex workers choosing to put their content in the transmasc tags, they’re bots doing what they think is going to make money. they don’t care how transfems feel about it being used and they don’t care how transmascs feel about seeing it instead of what we were actually looking for.

so while i absolutely share your frustration with our tags being overrun with porn, i don’t like how the issue has been framed by a lot of people as a transmasc vs transfem issue. i get how on the surface, it seems like our tags are having more of a problem with it and that must be for a reason, but the reason doesn’t actually have anything to do with our identities — it has everything to do with what bots think is the best way to get us to click their links.

this problem has nothing to do with transmasc vs transfem, and everything to do with the fact that tumblr won’t take care of its bot problem. if you want to get mad at someone for the fact that you can’t see the content you’re looking for without wading through countless porn bots, that’s where your anger should be going: toward the site that hasn’t done anything about it.

i wanted to lay this all out because while you didn’t explicitly blame transfems for this issue in your ask (you more so just said they don’t have to deal with it to the degree we do), i’ve seen posts with a similar tone that do imply that transfems are somehow behind this issue, and that honestly frustrates me more than the issue itself. blaming transfems for this isn’t fair to them — this is a bot issue, not an issue with real people on the site — and it also doesn’t do us any favors because it makes people less likely to take us seriously when we talk about things that are actually specifically targeting our community spaces.

and even though you didn’t take that explicit blaming stance in your ask, i think this issue being brought up as a “transmasc issue” at all reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of exactly why it happens the way it does. so i want this to serve as a reminder that when we have a conversation about something in our community, we have to think critically about the way we’re framing that conversation and make sure we have a good understanding of the root of the problem at hand.

because this really isn’t an issue that should be framed as transmasc vs transfem. i’m sure it’s not any less frustrating for transfems to see porn that fetishizes their bodies plastered all over the site than it is for us to have to dig through that porn to find the content we’re looking for. and it’s not really an issue that has anything to do with the fact that the tags are for transmascs at all. you say someone is deliberately mistagging into our tags, but it’s deliberate on a level that has nothing to do with the individual tags being used.

if we want to have conversations about the ways transmascs are uniquely mistreated, that comes with a responsibility to make sure the things we talk about are actually examples of a unique form of mistreatment and not symptoms of a totally different issue. we have to be careful not to pick the wrong battles, especially if doing so could artificially pit us against transfems who haven’t actually done anything wrong.

i worry that the struggles we’ve had in making our voices heard within our community have made some of us start to see our transfem sisters and siblings as the enemy by default, so i want to strongly caution everyone contributing to these conversations to think deeply about how you’re framing what you’re saying and if it’s actually appropriate before suggesting that any particular issue is a matter of transmascs vs transfems. there are definitely situations where the root of the issue is lateral aggression or intracommunity conflict, but this isn’t one of them and the fact that so many people have interpreted it that way really doesn’t reflect well on us.

i’m just as annoyed by the porn bots in our tags as the next guy, but this isn’t the way to go about having that conversation.

[theladart]

Rapidash/Rainbow Dash ponymon fusion: Firestorm!

Inspired by @pinxpony‘s Pinkie Pie/Flaffy fusion, Flaffy Taffy (hope you don’t mind the tag :P)

Edit: Found out that the rapidash pic I got for reference is a fakemon mega evo designed by CaseyDeanFakemon on Deviantart

[turtleblogatlast]

One of the biggest things that makes me see Leo as trans is absolutely the size of his carapace in comparison to his brothers’.

And I’m not talking about height! I’m specifically looking at his shell here, because when you compare him to the others, particularly Donnie who is nearly the same height as Leo, it’s very clear that Leo’s carapace is much longer in proportion to the rest of his body.

Like - standing side by side, even though Donnie is shorter his carapace ends noticeably higher up than Leo’s does. And I like this not only because it really helps push the idea that Leo could very likely be trans (or intersex!), but it’s also just a fun design difference between them.

(It also lends way to future scenarios of Donnie eventually getting taller than Leo, but sitting down still has Leo being the taller one haha.)

[chirpsythismorning]

El being *12 hours earlier* than the Cali timeline when she arrives at Nina. Will saying ‘it’s been 9 hrs’ in the scene following his monologue in the van.

We know that at some point their timelines merged when they arrived to save her…

But we don’t know when exactly those alignments took place when they were still apart… which just makes you wonder…