#you're either column a or b

[joelhoney]

#1 girl

pairing: dbf joel miller x afab/sorority sister reader

kenny here... tumblr Blipped me u guys. but i loved this too much to let it waste into nothingness. so here we go again take two using an ancient blog i never even used (from 2016 mind u...) enjoy!

You're too wrapped up in sorority duties to remember somebody's supposed to pick you up and drive you home tonight. One pissed-off Joel, curious conversation, and cowboy hat later, your evening takes an unexpected turn.

warnings: no outbreak au, dbf!joel, self gratuitous age gap (21/51), shy reader w/ some bursts of confidence, blowjob (m receiving), handjob (f receiving), dirty talk, praise, degradation too..., overuse of pet names... must b all

Of all the ways you imagined spending your fifth day of spring break, the last was in your dad’s best friend’s pickup truck with lame rock playing dryly through the console radio. In fact, last is generous—the idea itself had never even been conjured in your head.

The reason why is because you and your dad’s best friend—Mr. Miller—don’t typically interact beyond the confines of dinners, mandatory laughter, and the occasional one-on-one about something like boys in college, or classes in college, or the drive to college. Nothing much had changed when you moved the brief drive away to UT Austin, and between you everything’s remained the same, even now in your senior year.

For instance, a break—summer, spring, winter—would begin with your parents picking you up and shuttling off to the house, and end with an affair of the similar sort. Quickly into your first year, though, you learned to always insist you either leave school late or leave home early for spring break to take advantage of campus parties, especially because your senior year had cemented your shiny new position as President of Alpha Phi.

Any officer position in a sorority already came with a good deal of responsibility, let alone the presidency; and in addition to having recently turned twenty-one, the role required you to exhaust every drop of social battery, every ounce of skill you had at party hosting and alcohol obtaining without the use of a flimsy fake.

The eliminated nerves of using fakes made you much less nervous during parties, which often led to you letting more loose than usual. This party you’re in was thrown by some frat on campus, but this house is your last place of four; first two pregames, then a bar, then here. At some point at the bar your sisters had surprised you with a fun gift for the night, so you’re also wearing a pink sash, onto which rhinestones spelling out #1 Girl have been glued with precision.

Already you’re dizzy, wiping clammy fingers on the stiff cotton of your tight tank top, the curve of your tits spilling over the Alpha Phi logo. It’s small on you, the hem high above your navel and higher above the loose, low hem of your denim shorts. If they fell low enough on your hips, the high arch of your pink thong would��ve shown itself—maybe it did at some point, you’re too loopy to care.

“Oh, no,” you’re saying, but you can barely hear yourself over the rap song playing and everyone singing along, “no, I hate Jäger.” You’re shaking your head at your best friend and Vice President, Lia, who raises two handfuls of the opaque liquid. She shakes her head, sets them down on the table you’re leaning against.

“Lighten up, duuude. We’re taking them to celebrate your first and last spring break as President.”

“Aw, fine,” you muse loudly, giving in. “Only this once.” Out of obligation and genuine gratitude, you allow yourself to stomach your least favorite drink—then another, and another, a bit of each shot dribbling down the column of your throat and stickily onto your chest.

Lia snaps at the red bra strap that peeks out of your tank strap, laughing. “Settle down, Prez.” A partygoer, rowdy as they come, roughly deposits a sweaty cowboy hat onto your head and you yelp in surprise, steadying it. Whoever gave this, I’m keeping it! you holler, laughing as you feed yourself a shot of something your tongue enjoys more.

Absolut crowds the inside of your mouth when you take it back, interrupted only when a hand comes to shake at your shoulder. In your rush to turn, you nearly hit them with your hat.

It’s Cole, a good friend and member of the frat whose house you’re currently getting tipsy in. His eyes are rimmed and the whole air of him smells like weed. He offers one greeting: “Yo.” His eyes slide down to your chest, where your tugged-down tank has exposed a few inches of your red bra’s lacy cups.

“Hey,” you say, the syllable sounding sticky. “Up here, you ass. Jägerbomb?” You offer a smile.

“‘M a’ight. Listen, some…” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to place what he’s here to tell you. Then he nods, having remembered—“Right. Some old guy’s out front asking for you.”

“Asking for me? Old… guy?” Your eyebrows scrunch together, mind foggy. “My dad?” Shit. You’d completely forgotten they’d be picking you up today or tomorrow. Maybe they’d been waiting for hours—it’s one-thirty, the clock on the living room mantel reads. 

“Nah, man, not your dad, this guy’s… he’s got a red pickup truck, um, he’s, like, he’s old looking.” He raises a hand above his own head. “Tall.” His voice is drawly with the weed high, but as soon as he said red pickup, you knew exactly who he was talking about. One look at your phone confirms it—five missed calls and a message, 11PM, sent by your dad: Joel’s in the area for work. He’s going out with buddies but can swing by the house to pick you up. I’m giving him your #.

“Fuck.” You blink. “Fuck! I gotta go.” 

You never usually have to pack shit to go home, considering the drive isn’t too far. Briefly you consider making a detour to collect things from your sorority house, but you decide to sacrifice the laptop and the few important chargers. So, armed with only your phone, you wrench your way out of the crowd, a few goodbyes thrown in your direction and back.

The front door is open so the partygoers spill onto the front yard, intermittent conversation littering the area. Along the pavement, frat guys’ Civics and and Priuses are parked beside an old looking red pickup truck; leaned against it is—

“Mr. Miller,” you blurt out when you’re closer to him, voice steady (your mind is just as well, shocked back to lucidity from his presence). “I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d be picking me up today—tonight—” You heave a sigh, apologetic, refusing to meet his eyes. “Sorry.”

His arms are crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his button-up rolled up to his elbows. Even from a few feet away you can make out the shape, the lines of muscle on his forearms. He looks tired, moody—more than usual—and your heart pangs with guilt at the idea that you could be the reason behind it. But despite your best—really, your best—efforts, your stomach still swoops the same way it did when you were seventeen and naive, enough to find next-door-neighbor Mr. Miller extremely handsome. Hell, extremely hot.

It didn’t make sense. You’d suspected your little crush would be that—an adolescent, childish thing, evaporating more and more into thin air with every drive made to campus. But he never stopped being handsome, never stopped his corny jokes and the pet names that got you warm every time you visited over break. You had plenty of eye candy on campus, athletes and gamers alike, and yes you’d been picky, but had managed to sleep with a select few—despite all of it, only the remnants of your fantasies of Mr. Miller satiated you when your hand creeps into the apex of your thighs late at night, lust wrangling shame into silence for a few minutes.

You blink and the train of thought is over—the real thing is here, eyebrows set low, mouth frowning.

“Kiddo,” he starts, his voice thin with exhaustion, “look, I’ve done my share of… drinkin’, and that. I get it. But you gotta…” He clicks his tongue, eyes looking your outfit up and down. “You gotta let me know, let your parents know, where you are, and if you’re okay. ‘Cause I really did not want to spend tonight drivin’ from house to bar, to bar to house, feelin’ like I was lookin’ all over Austin for you.”

“I know,” you supply quickly, nodding. Your hands, fidgety, find purchase on the fibres of the silk sash strung along your figure. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Miller. I didn’t check my phone the entire evening, and—”

“It’s okay.” He says, nonchalant, lifting himself off the side of the car to walk to the drivers’ side. Gruffly, he adds, “Car.”

You’re quick to tug the door open, settling yourself on the passenger seat and breathing nervously. Your legs are littered with body glitter, your chest with the tack of Jäger. You spot him outside, his walk slow. He’s annoyed—rightfully so—stopping just shy of the door to pinch at the bridge of his nose, his lips miming a slow exhale. When he finally wrangles himself to sit, it’s quiet for a minute, then another.

“Y’have fun?” He starts the car, thrumming it to life. You nod, then offer a verbal answer—yeah. He nods, wiping a palm over his face. “What were you up to?” 

“I, um… I organized a pregame for my sorority.” You toy with the rogue strands of denim of your shorts. “We went to a bar, after… then another… then, well.” You gulp. “Here.” The last question escapes you in a shaky, breathy squeak. “And you?”

“Hah, sure, kid. Had some contractor thing, half an hour from here. Then drinks with a coupl’a buddies from work. Could’ve been home by eleven-thirty,” he says roughly, driving through the still-vibrant streets of campus, “but it’s nearin’ two and I’m on a college campus.” The urge to apologize bubbles at your lips, high in your stomach, but you remain quiet. After a few stretches of dry silence, he asks again. “That party must’ve been real fun for you to leave your old man—and me—on radio silence, wun’nit?”

“Sure,” you manage, stammering. “We were celebrating my sorority presidency.” The dark scenery of Austin blurs past. 

“Oh, sorority presidency,” he repeats, both teasing and genuinely curious. “I did hear your dad mention you were in Alpha Phi, s’that right?” You nod. “What’s that, then? Do presidents get cowboy hats?”

Your face grows hot, hands reaching up to clutch at the rim of the hat atop your head. “No, this—somebody put it—it was a joke, Mr. Miller.” A huffy laugh escapes you. “Sorry.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, and you wrench the reminder he’s 51 he’s 51 he’s 51 through your head while he pauses, “‘m drivin’ you around Austin late at night, and I’ve known you for your whole life. How ‘bout we drop the Mr. Miller act, alright?”

“Oh. Okay,” you say. His hands grip the steering wheel firmly, and your eyes wander to his arms, to how he’s basically stuffed into the shirt he’s wearing, big and broad and bulky. His eyes remain focused ahead, so you let yourself indulge a tad bit more—lower, to the material of his jeans. It’s dark in the truck, so you can’t see much, just the flex of his thighs. “Joel.”

“Attagirl.” You chew at the inside of your cheek, already feeling arousal simmering in you, low and dirty. You’re going to soak through this godforsaken thong. “Mind if I make a pit stop?” You shake your head profusely, watch as he pulls into a gas station parking lot. “Want anythin’, girl?”

“N—” your lips form, but you scrap your original answer. “Gum, if they have it.”

“Be damned if they don’t.” He slams the door shut and you watch him enter the store, watch him through the glass panels. He’s so broad. You’d nearly completely forgotten how stupidly you liked him, and now it’s coming, throttling back full-force, especially with the thrilling aspect of it possibly coming to fruition. You are, after all, an adult. And so is he, paying for his shit with a tight-lipped expression, arms crossed again, arms big and—Jesus.

You squeeze your thighs together, willing yourself to get your shit in place when he pulls the door open again, his eyes scanning your seated figure. He tosses you the packet of gum, and you respond with a sweet thank you, Mr. M—Joel, and you fiddle with the packaging as he starts the car again, driving until scenery grows more and more familiar, closer to home.

“By the way,” he says, voice husky with the unuse of not talking for a while. “Think it’s best you spend the night at my house tonight, kid. It’s late. Later than late.” 2:44, the console digital clock reads in blinky red text. “Your parents don't want the door rattlin’ open at this hour, so I’ll let you in the guest room.”

“Oh,” you say. “Sure.”

“D’you have a change of clothes?” He asks, even if he knows you climbed into the seat with nothing but your phone and a cowboy hat. You shake your head and he tsks. “You’re barely covered, sweetheart. Best be careful walkin’ around when the night’s this chilly.”

Barely covered. You think of every possible response, but what leaves your glossed lips is the riskiest: “What do you mean, barely covered?”

You figure if he starts saying shit like what are you insinuatin’, kiddo? You better sleep at yours tonight instead, it’s an easy out—you’re turning the corner onto your street now, and your stomach is boiling with nerves, sticky and anticipatory. “I jus’ mean… it shows a lotta skin.” 

“It’s sorority merch, Joel,” you reply, half-amused and half-defensive.

“No, I”—he sighs, like he wants to backtrack what he’s just said—“I know, but… always worth somethin’ to be careful. Might catch a cold with all that leg… all that—you—showin’.” He parks in front of his house, this sizey, homey thing, and your heart flips knowing how familiar this place has been to you your entire life.

“I’m not going to wear winter gear to a spring break frat party.” You’re bolder, suddenly, but even if the statement is, your voice is level, meek, even. Joel nods, as if admitting defeat, and gets out of the car first; you follow, sneakers crunching against the asphalt as you follow him into the house.

“I hope,” he starts when you’re stationed beside him at the door, “I didn’t… offend you. I was jus’ concerned, is all.” Then he’s stoic again, slipping inside, straight to the kitchen to pour you a glass of water. He flicks a yellow light on and you squint when you get there, rubbing at your eyes to prevent them from aching.

You’re still rubbing at them when his gaze drops from your fussed-up hair and askew hat down to the shiny surface of your chest. Your goddamn top leaves him nothing to the imagination, your tits spilling out of it scandalously. The low cut even lets your bra peek through, red and bright and hey, you show up from college wearing these large university shirts and sweatpants—not this, never this. And your shorts, the way they’re really just a fucking belt, starting low on your hips and cut off high above your thighs.

Alpha Phi, the pink text on your white top reads on the left chest area. Right where your tits curve into the top, the slogan is printed: Union hand in hand. God, sororities and their fucking… quotable bullshit. And don’t get him started on the sash, this cutesy, frilly thing he wants to loop around your wrists so he can fuck you over the counter. He knows he can’t—it’s so wrong, so wrong. He’s known your dad for ages. 

But you… you're so tempting, a little minx, chirping Mr. Miller all sweet and apologetic, chest out on full display. He blinks when he hears your voice filter through the fog in his head. “—off?”

“What was that, sweetheart?” His eyes meet yours again and he feels a twinge of embarrassment at the way your bashfulness has somewhat melted to give way to the clear amusement on your face. You must’ve spotted the way he ogled you; he wasn’t exactly trying his hardest to be subtle, unfortunately. 

“D’you have something I can use to wipe myself off?” You gesture to your sticky collarbone area. “I got Jäger all over myself. Can’t handle the stuff.” You grimace at the memory, and he goes to grab a wet wipe; while waiting, you hoist yourself up onto the counter, bare legs swinging.

Joel turns to toss you the packet of wipes, but his throat dries before he can even call your name out. Your back is to him, and clearly you’re waiting for his return—you’ve busied yourself by sitting on his counter and letting the hot pink lace of your thong rise above the waistline of your shorts. Lord have mercy, he thinks to himself, adjusting his jeans as he walks back over to you.

“Wipes,” he says roughly, not anything else.

You accept the packet and smile shyly. “Can you…” you pause, the implication hovering over both of you, heavy. “Wait for me?” He nods, inviting. Warm. And he watches, inviting but not very warm anymore, the way you wipe over the expanse of your chest, over the curve of your tits, every other part of you dusted in glitter.

“So,” you say again. “Since we’re on first name basis now, Joel, I, um—I hope it’s okay to ask questions.”

“Sounds reasonable. Go for it,” he accepts. 

“When’s the last time you went to a party?” Your smile is mischievous. 

He chuckles, a huff of air. “...Long, long ago, kid. Back in my day, partyin’ meant beer, maybe a little weed… not that I'm complaining there, you understand.” He nods resolutely. “These days, a quiet home-cooked meal with just the people I really care about… is a party.”

“Wow, what an old guy answer,” you giggle. “Back in youuuur day.” Your raspy, honeyed voice wraps around the your with a teasing lilt.

“Oh, I’m old now, am I?” His stoic demeanor chips away when he laughs. “That makes you what, sweetheart? You’re barely a pup.”

At his words—at the utterance of pup—you roll your eyes and try to shift your seating so your thong doesn’t stick to your folds. “Okay, fine, next.” You’re not even wiping anymore, the material wrung into your fingers, which lay in a fist by your side. “When’s the last time you got shitfaced?”

He gives a grimace of a smile. “Aw… boy, it's been a while.” He comes closer, going from leaning on the opposite drawers to right beside you on the counter. You’re sitting and he’s leaning but still he’s taller, just a bit level. “But there was that one time back in my more adventurous days, when I was younger. A bachelor party wh… well, the details don't really bear talkin’ ‘bout in polite conversation.” He raises his eyebrows. “Why ya askin’ all this? What’s will all the last times?”

“I’m curious, is all.” You smile, leaning back; if his eyes drop just a bit, he’ll see right through your top, maybe even underneath the cup of your bra. “Okay, fine one last… last time.” You giggle, breathy. “When’s the last time you… had sex?”

The air shifts, and Joel clears his throat before chuckling. “S’none of your business, young lady. A gentleman is not raised to kiss and tell.”

“Oh, but he gets shitfaced n’ tells?” You test, pouting and leaning closer toward him so you can quiet your voice. “Come on. I won’t tell anyone I even asked.”

He sighs, contemplating. “Well… it’s been a while.” He gets his fair share of lays, when he goes out to bars with friends or the rare date, but nothing too drastic. It has been a few months. “But you didn’t hear that from me, understood? Now, let’s drop it.”

But you don’t drop it, you brat. “You’re like the born again 40-year-old virgin,” you tease smoothly.

“Try 51, honey,” he grunts out, depositing your dry wipes at the disposal across you. He turns back around, restrained. 

“And what, you don’t wanna change that?” No, he thinks—what he wants is to take you over the counter ’til you’re sobbing and sore.

“Hey now, don’t think I don’t think about it sometimes. But I jus’—I don't wanna get involved with no one, even though... Hell, if I met the right person, I might just change my mind. Ain’t that the way it goes?”

“That’s such an antiquated view of sex,” you quip boldly, pressing your arms to your sides. “What happened to just having one good fuck?”

His eyes flicker down then up. “Well, hey. Slow down with the cursin’, sweetheart. And what in the hell makes you think I don’t do that?” He crosses his arms, offering a raised eyebrow and an insufferably smug smile.

“You didn’t necessarily object when I called you a twice-over virgin.”

He chuckles. “There’s more than one way to let it all out, my girl. You don’t have to just go all in to hit the spot.” The thought of him using his own—or some girl’s, actually, hand, throat… to get off, gets you all hot. You want to be that girl. His girl.

“Like how?” You ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Old man like myself probably can’t offer tricks you’ll find… useful.” He grunts, prepares to go upstairs. He reaches over you for the packet of wipes and your proximity urges him to stop, savor the closeness before the rational part of him reminds him you’re his best mate’s daughter.

“Okay, fine,” you say sweetly, voice much quieter—reserved just for the space between you two. “One last, then.”

Mmm, he huffs affirmatively, greenlighting your request. Impatient.

“Since when did old men do that?” You ask, inquisitive, placing emphasis on his self-proclaimed old man title.

“What? Entertain l’il minxes like yourself?” He responds, intending to break your newly-built façade of smugness.

“No,” you respond coolly. “Pack nine inches.” Then you’re clambering off the counter and walking to the stairs. He inhales sharply at the sudden vulgarity of your words, watches every move, every little bounce of your pert ass under the tiny shorts, the wave of your hair, every flex of the ridden-up lace thong against your back.

You turn briefly. “Coming or what?” And then you slip upstairs.

He hears the pad of your footsteps grow quiet and shuts his eyes, letting his composure waver in your absence.

Had he known Harold’s little girl would turn out to be the world’s biggest fucking tease—Jesus Christ. “Lord,” he rasps under his breath, repeating a mantra, holding back the urge to palm himself through his jeans. “Lord, have mercy.” Then he follows you, already spotting something different—the open door at the end of the hall.

His open door. It’s the one that directly mirrors your parents’, a revelation they all had a good laugh at. Sometimes if a matter was so pressing, a well-aimed pebble to the glass window would get Joel’s attention well enough. The lights are flicked on, cool-warm, in his bedroom. You’re in his bedroom. 

Or you’re not. He walks in to find no trace of you, save for the scuffed white sneakers by the doorframe. He toes off his own boots and spots the walk-in closet light’s also been flicked on. 

“Christ, you’re quick. You’re s’posed to be in the guest room.” He gestures vaguely to the one on the left side of the hall, even if you can’t see him.

“I had to pee. And I needed something to sleep in,” you say politely from inside. He grunts softly to himself at the thought of you undressing in there, the thought of you pulling on something of his. 

“Get out of there,” he orders. “I’ll get you somethin’.” Under his breath he mutters, “S’my goddamn closet.”

You chirp okay but he adds anyway: “Hurry, out.”

So you do follow him, even follow the order to hurry, because you’re hasty in your exit, clutching the cowboy hat to your chest. “Sit.” He points to the bed, watches you set the hat next to yourself gingerly. And one last time he asks the Lord for mercy, quietly and in his head, before shutting off every other rational thought that had stopped him tonight. 

You follow suit, hat still clutched to your torso, and he slowly comes to stand just in front of you, your face level with the buckle of his leather belt. When you shift he catches sight of the side of your bra, the lace of it. Eyes cast to your bare thighs, you pipe up.

“By the way, Mr. Miller—Joel, I didn’t mean to say any of—I mean, I thought we could talk comfortably about it… that… stuff, but I took it too f—” 

“You’re damn fuckin’ right you took it too far.”

He spits it out roughly, harshly. Like he’s scolding you. A zip of shock goes through you—you hadn’t heard him swear so loud before. Maybe he is. “I give you a free ride home at half past one, give you water, give you a place to sleep for the night knowin’ damn well your momma n’ dad would both have killed ya if you stepped foot in that house wearin’ next to nothing. What do I get in return?” He looks down at you, two rough fingers jerking your chin to look up at him.

“I—” you squeak, your voice and confidence betraying you. You’ve soaked through your panties at his sudden switch in behavior. Like you’d broken a dam.

“I get a brat… whorin’ herself out to me like I’m not over twice her age.” He tuts, like he really is disappointed, and your heart almost drops. “I get all these damn questions about sex, like you think I’ll break and fuck you on my kitchen counter.” He was considering it. “All the teasin’, all the skirtin’ around in a thong and a fuckin’…” He shakes your chin. “S’there even anythin’ in that head of yours, honey?”

Your mouth’d been open. You shut it and lick over your lips. “Yeah,” you defend weakly. His hand lowers to stroke at the column of your throat, then to hook under the tight strap of your bra, peeking out under the white of your top. He sidles it back and forth.

“S’this why you asked me all those dumb questions downstairs, huh, sweetheart? ‘Cause you wanted me to pull your top open and fawn over this”—he yanks the hat away, revealing your torso underneath—“little show o’yours?” Your cleavage is sinful, downright—perfect, perky, inviting him to mouth at your tits. Your sash sits prettily above them and he can’t help but pull at it, too, jolting you toward him. 

“N—” you inhale sharply, letting him pull and push you around as he pleases. He observes the blinding glittery writing on the pink material and lets out a humorless, self-satisfied huff of laughter.

“Number… one… girl.” His rough thumb grazes over the divots of the rhinestones. “That’s jus’ about right, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” you reply, voice small. 

“I’m not sure I agree, baby girl,” he drawls. His touch is precise—he knows exactly where to go, what he’s doing—but rough, dirty, almost, and the huge size of his hands don’t help to support otherwise. He tugs down your tank top so it’s tucked underneath your bra, and you yelp, making a move to cover yourself. He laughs again—“Sure, go all shy on me like you haven’t been showin’ yourself off to me all night. Knees.”

You get off quick, so quick you’re dizzy when you steady yourself on two knees. Two lithe hands make their way to his belt but he steps backward, revels in your evident confusion, clumsiness, the flush high on your cheekbones. “Buckle down, sweetheart.”

“But—”

“No goddamn buts. Listen to me.” He ends up being the one to make work of his belt, and while he talks you have to bite your lip to keep from going slack-jawed at the sight of him. You’d been kidding about the nine inches thing, but Christ he’s huge, strained against the tight denim. He’s thick even under the layers of clothing, and all you want to do is choke on him. “You’re gonna let me use that mouth t’get off, first thing,” he grunts, like this is all some chore to him, “because I am not goin’ to put my cock in my best mate’s daughter.”

“How about,” you croak lightly, “your fingers, then?”

“Jesu—we’ll see.” He tugs his cock out then, and he’s fucking huge, he really is, his tip angry and flushed and being rubbed along your lips, sticking them up with his precum. He sighs contentedly, humming low, the vibration sent straight to your half-open mouth. You suck on the tip of him, watch a slow smile form on his face. “That sash oughta say somethin’ else.”

Your silence grants elaboration. “Number one slut, maybe.” You shift on your thighs, trying to hide how aroused you are at his mean behavior. But he can tell, he can watch the way your blinking slows, the way your eyes glazed over, glassy and teary from trying to take more of him. He doesn’t tell you to slow down, or go faster; he just watches, eyebrows knitted, focused. “Budge up.” 

A hand, big and calloused, threads through your hair and gives a tug, goading your mouth open so more of his cock slips past. Your jaw aches from the attempt alone, so you pull off before you start choking too much, tonguing at the parts of him you can’t reach—lower, until you’re laving at his balls. He grunts, pleasured, simmered down. Attagirl. Then you’re back, bobbing up and down, trying despite yourself to take all of him, until your eyes are watery and you’re spluttering, choked.

“Now this is…” He says, and it comes out in a contented little sigh, “a number one throat. Keep those pretty lips open, honey, ‘m gonna fuck them.”

You do, your achy jaw slacked as he begins bucking into your mouth, the sounds of your choking only spurring him on. He’s dominant, taking and taking, and you’re humiliated to find how wet you are, soaked through the lace of your thong and darkening the denim of your shorts.  The tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat only gets him to thrust even faster, watching tears fall from your eyes, streaky with mascara. His best friend’s daughter, taking dick like a fucking champ.

He thrusts harder, each sound emitting a nasty, incoherent noise out of you, choked little gasps that have him harder each time. Gonna fuck this throat raw, he mutters. Since that’s what you wan’ed, ain’t it? You reach up, light fingers massaging his balls, and then his hips stutter, and with barely any warning, you feel his hot seed shoot into your throat, little satisfied groans leaving the man above you.

You swallow what you can, limited by his dick still in your mouth. When he pulls out you lap at the cum left behind, circle your tongue around your lips, make a whole show of it. You speak again, your voice raspy and spent: “Please, my turn?”

He lifts you up and smirks at the way you yelp in surprise, tossing you onto the bed and pulling you back onto your knees, your back to his chest. He wrangles your shorts off, gives your ass a smack as he pulls them down, enough to expose what’s underneath. The stiff material gathers just above your bent knees, restraining you from moving much.

“D’you know what,” he says, still sounding angry—like he’s lecturing you, stern, “I could’ve been in bed, wakin’ up at six to work… instead I gotta teach this little brat a fuckin’ lesson. Your old man not teach y’enough manners?” He tugs your bra down, thumbs roughly at your pebbled nipples, wrenching a moan out of you. He’s hard again, dick poking into your ass, and fuck you want him in you.

“He didn’t,” you sniffle, pitiful. “Y’gotta teach me, Daddy.”

“Oh, she likes that, don’t she?” He grumbles, like the title is annoying, juvenile. The way his cock twitches tells you otherwise. “Shut up, baby honey. I got this.” He reaches up your thighs and the ticklish, pleasurable sensation gets you hot.

Joel, you whimper, seizing in on yourself. He grabs your other arm, pulls it back toward him so you remain open and pliant. Please, wait.

“No time for waitin’, not when you spend hours prancin’ around like a little whore, sweetheart.” Without preamble, he’s running his fingers up your thighs again, not stopping this time until his fingers are pressing into your clit, rubbing over the thin, soaked fabric of your panties. “And you’re so fucking wet for me. My number one girl, ain’t you?”

“Yea,” you babble dumbly. “Your number one girl.”

“Thaaat’s right. My girl needs her needy cunt filled up, don’t she? By Daddy’s fat fingers.” You nod along, drawn in by the vulgarity of his words, the way he spits them out. You’ve spent several nights fantasizing how his big, rough hands would feel on you—and you’ve been outproven. He’s so fast, so skilled with his fingers; they feel delicious in you. And you can’t stop thinking about all of those girls he implied he’s slept with, the way they probably got to this first. Lucky bitches.

He’s gotten you so wet the entire night, even moreso now, that your pussy is making obscene squelching noises with each pump of his fingers, these nastily loud noises that humiliate you, that turn you on even more, that make you drip all onto Joel’s linen sheets. Fuck, you whimper. He swats at your ass. No swearing, he’s saying.

“Look up for me, honey. Up at the window.” Outside, the sun’s beginning to crawl over Austin, just the faint blues and yellows of early morning. You realize you know this because his curtain’s been pulled open—by him, earlier, before any of this even started, you assume. And the only other thing you can see other than the sky and the sliver of the neighborhood is your parents’ window.

“No,” you plead, looking down. He doesn’t let you, tugs you back up to look by your hair. He knows your parents won’t be up ’til seven-thirty latest. But you don’t know that, and for now, you don’t have to.

“What then, huh, sweetheart? When they go to check on the weather n’ they see their best friend poundin’ their young daughter? What’d they think?” You jerk away, overcome with pleasure and embarrassment at the imaginary situation. You feel his fingers pump in and out of you, filling you up. They’re probably thick and hot, glistening each time they come out. You’re tightening up; you’ll cum soon, make a mess on his hand, which already drips with slick. “So you better hurry. Better make a mess on me soon.”

“I am, I’m—I’m gonna,” you moan. You’re wrapped up in the way his fingers play you just the right way. You’re so close to the surface, and you’ve been wanting this for way too long, so you nod, let yourself get carried away by his words, let yourself give in, spreading your legs as wide as they can go as he fingerfucks you, working out the tension that’s been building up for forever. 

“That’s my number one girl,” he grins into your neck, and you’re convulsing release onto his hand, wetting it even further. He wraps a hand around your waist, keeps you close to his figure, his erection at the small of your back. “That’s it, honey. Did so well for me.”

“I want it,” you say meekly. “Even if they see.”

He groans. “Sweetheart, you must think real low of me to believe I’d put my cock anywhere near Harold’s daughter’s pussy.”

You tug your panties fully down, just enough so they fall off on their own the rest of the way, and guide his slick hand behind yourself, pressing his finger first into your folds again, sensitive, and then up toward your tighter hole.

You feel his breath tighten behind you when you say: “How ‘bout there?”

[dandeyrain]

there's something really frustrating that happens in the fandom when discussing anya, particularly when discussing her personality. in-game, she's portrayed as neurotic and sort of helpless, but also ultimately kind and forgiving, and fandom very much takes that as the unfiltered and unedited truth of her — to the point that people get angry or call it OOC when fanart or fic has anya being violent or even just kind of mean to either her rapist or her rapist's best friend who's covering for him (or, at absolute best, willfully ignoring straightforward evidence that his violent bestie has been violent to the only woman on the crew). anya is mean to curly in some art and the fandom crows "she's not like that! she's sweet and nice and powerless! she isn't gonna take agency! she loves everyone and gives everyone grace! you're mischaracterizing her!!"

but like. how are you characterizing her? we only ever see anya through two men's eyes, and one of those men is her rapist, and the other is the rapist's bestie, and neither of these men take anya seriously at least in some major ways, so how they view anya should absolutely be called into question. but even if we take their views of anya as 100% real and correct representations of how she acts on the tulpar, like...she is the only woman on a ship full of men that includes, again, HER RAPIST AND HER RAPIST'S BFF. she outright says that she knows curly won't help her when it matters — "i knew you wouldn't give me the gun to defend myself" — and even of the two men remaining, one is a kid and one is also wildly rude and dismissive to her (though i think in actuality swansea means it less). she is trapped here, aware that at least one member of the crew is capable of horrible violence towards her and that another member of the crew refuses to take that threat seriously. anya has every reason in the world to make sure that the men see her as dependent on them and polite and forgiving and incapable of anger, because if they see her as a threat they will hurt her.

it's wild to see the fandom correctly identify that anya is fawning with jimmy, pretending to like him more than she does, in order to keep herself safe — and then refuse to consider that she might be putting on a front for curly as well. everything we see about anya from curly has to be 100% real, because curly's a Good Man and Anya Trusts Him. it's impossible that she might be hiding anger or hurt from him. but i would argue that it's JUST as possible that anya is putting on a front of a nonthreatening sweet endlessly empathetic trusting nice girl and hiding other feelings. women are ALWAYS pretending to be nonthreatening and sweet and endlessly empathetic and trusting to the men who hurt them to avoid further harm.

let's look at what she actually does — she doesn't just let but outright ASKS jimmy to give curly his painkillers, knowing that jimmy will hurt him very similarly to how jimmy hurt her. is that kind? does that not suggest that she feels, if not outright anger at curly, at least a willingness to abdicate her responsibility as the nurse to care for him and put him in harm's way for her own sake? she kills herself by downing the last of curly's pain meds, freeing herself at the expense of curly's continued agony — if she truly wanted to help him, couldn't she have taken him with her and saved them both from jimmy? i think you can absolutely read these actions as benign, but it's also a valid reading to say "maybe these actions are indicative of anger or capacity for cruelty that she simply doesn't verbally express for whatever reason (like keeping men from hurting her)."

like, if you want to read her as 100% angelic and kind and sweet and incapable of anger or violence towards jimmy/curly/the rest of the crew, that's fine! my personal read is that it's a little of column a, a little of column b. but it's also worth considering that anya has every reason to put up a false front to these men. it's worth considering that we see anya through the eyes of men who don't take her seriously. and it's worth remembering that for a lot of women, it's a hell of a lot safer to let the men around you believe you're sweet and fragile and helpless than it is to let them know you hope they rot.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Brand new 2024 Spanish Mission Style estate in Queen Creek, AZ. Who designed this thing? It has only 3bds, but 11baths, 32,000 sq ft. Sheesh! Priced at $19.5m + $329mo. HOA.

It's still not finished. Walking thru that entrance it looks like there is, or is going to be, a water feature. Plus, there are connections on these columns either for statues or lights.

Huge 2 story living room w/fireplace in Arizona. I have friends there- it's hot as blazes. But, the ad says 25,000 sq ft of air conditioned space- can you imagine the electric bill?

Open concept living room/kitchen. Look at the balcony on the upper left.

The kitchen isn't finished. The appliances aren't in yet.

If I didn't see the toilet and sink, I'd think that this was an elevator.

I'm gonna say that this is a bedroom. It has the scalloped Spanish ceilings.

You're gonna see a lot of baths, b/c there are 11 of them. This one has a big stone double sink and tile shower. I hope they put tile on the wall around those faucets.

I don't know what this is, but it can't be another bathroom. Whatever it is, it has a kitchenette.

Another bath. I guess maybe there's going to be a tub in here.

This is a bedroom.

Huge en-suite.

And, the walk-in closet. There are 2, one for each person.

In the courtyard, multiple swimming pools with fountains and firepots

Plus an outdoor kitchen with a mission bell tower. They didn't put the bell in yet.

This is a hangar, with a flight office, so I guess you can have several planes. And, the ad describes that as a "big ass fan" on the ceiling. It's called the Pegasus Airpark b/c it's perfectly situated on a North/South double lot, for a massive 350' of taxiway for the planes.

Here's the putting green, b/c for some reason, every millionaire plays golf.

Outdoor basketball court, plus a sand volleyball court, and pickleball. The gym has a firepole slide down to a first floor hidden door. The main house has a 5,000 sq ft basement: bowling alley, 75 ft shooting range, Tiger Woods' (Full Swing Pro 2.0) Golf Simulator.

Pool house/guest house.

Sauna and shower.

Courtyard garden.

2.09 acre lot. Where is the runway? That brown strip? I guess all the residents have hangars.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Inspired by the visual language of old Ray Bradbury and Stephen King paperbacks, Justin Metz created this illustration, which may be the first cover without a headline or typography in The Atlantic’s 167-year history. :: The Atlantic

* * * *

Trump suffers emotional break; media pretends it didn’t happen

September 9, 2024

Robert B. Hubbell

Something remarkable happened in American politics over the last two weeks. A major party candidate for president suffered what can only be described as an emotional break or medical emergency that resulted in a sudden acceleration in the deterioration of his already deteriorating cognitive abilities and further loss of control over his delusional impulses. But you wouldn’t know it from reading the stories in the major media outlets—that are obsessing over horse-race polls and debate prognostication.

No, this isn’t just another rant about media coverage. We are at an inflection point: Either the media will meet the moment, or it will abandon the very democracy that creates the conditions that allow it to flourish. Whether the media meets that challenge is no longer our problem. It is a waste of emotional energy and precious time to worry about it. We have real work to do: That of convincing other Americans of the profound unfitness of Donald Trump and his unique threat to democracy.

Against all logic, decency, and common sense, the presidential race remains effectively tied (although Kamala Harris has the momentum, which is a good sign with less than 60 days until election day). Sadly, many Americans will vote for Trump because he is unhinged and out of control. He is an avatar for their anger. It is not a productive use of our time to focus on those voters.

But a substantial portion of the electorate remains undecided. Many say they don’t know enough about our current vice president to vote for her—although they are open to persuasion. Our target is the persuadable undecided voters and those who can’t bring themselves to vote for Trump but aren’t sure they can vote for Kamala Harris.

The media would be sounding the alarm with unremitting urgency in a world with a functioning press. But the media has concluded that it can generate more revenue by keeping the presidential race close. The believe that declaring one candidate to be an unfit megalomaniac at every opportunity would grow tiresome.

So, it is up to us. We must be warriors for the truth. And that means understanding what we have just witnessed over the last two weeks. Yes, it is unpleasant and enervating. We want to look away. That is what Trump wants. He wants us to be weary to the point of numbness and surrender. We cannot let that happen.

As soon as Kamala Harris became the presumptive nominee, Trump began racist and misogynistic attacks unparalleled in the sordid history of American political campaigns. He questioned Kamala Harris’s racial identify and accused her of engaging in sexual acts to succeed as a politician. And then it got worse.

Heather Cox Richardson’s column on Saturday describes the increasing velocity of Trump's descent into madness over the last week, especially his speeches over the weekend. See September 7, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson. HCR’s column moved many readers to post Comments in the Sunday edition of this newsletter. HCR writes, in part,

But today’s speech struck me as different from his past performances, distinguished for what sounded like desperation. Trump has always invented his stories from whole cloth, but there used to be some way to tie them to reality. Today that seemed to be gone. He was in a fantasy world, and his rhetoric was apocalyptic. It was also bloody in ways that raise huge red flags for scholars of fascism. [¶¶] [Trump said,] “I better win or you're gonna have problems like we've never had. We may have no country left. This may be our last election. You want to know the truth? People have said that. This may be our last election…. It’ll all be over, and you gotta remember…. Trump is always right. I hate to be right. I’m always right.” [¶¶] Whatever has caused it, Trump seems utterly off his pins, embracing wild conspiracy theories and, as his hopes of winning the election appear to be crumbling, threatening vengeance with a dogged fury that he used to be able to hide.

I urge you to read HCR’s entire column for an exposition of Trump's weekend speeches.

But it gets worse.

After his Saturday speeches, Trump posted the worst fascistic, ugly, megalomaniacal threat ever made by an American politician. He threatened to prosecute his opponents if he wins the 2024 election:

CEASE & DESIST: I, together with many Attorneys and Legal Scholars, am watching the Sanctity of the 2024 Presidential Election very closely because I know, better than most, the rampant Cheating and Skullduggery that has taken place by the Democrats in the 2020 Presidential Election. It was a Disgrace to our Nation! Therefore, the 2024 Election, where Votes have just started being cast, will be under the closest professional scrutiny and, WHEN I WIN, those people that CHEATED will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the Law, which will include long term prison sentences so that this Depravity of Justice does not happen again. We cannot let our Country further devolve into a Third World Nation, AND WE WON'T! Please beware that this legal exposure extends to Lawyers, Political Operatives, Donors, Illegal Voters, & Corrupt Election Officials. Those involved in unscrupulous behavior will be sought out, caught, and prosecuted at levels, unfortunately, never seen before in our Country.

To be clear, Trump is threatening—in advance—to impose “long-term prison sentences .. . . never before seen in this country” on lawyers, election officials, donors, voters, and politicians whom Trump views as opponents.

We must pause on the madness of Trump's threats. They are delusional. The election hasn’t occurred, and he is planning to jail people over fictional cheating. He is using fascistic threats to dissuade eligible voters and election officials from engaging in the election process by suggesting that they will be “sought out, caught, and prosecuted”—as if the legal system is his personal instrument of revenge.

The combined effect of Trump's speech and post on Saturday should have been a watershed moment for journalists covering politics in America. For most of Sunday, no major media outlet commented on the deranged nature of Trump's speech or his post. Mid-afternoon on Sunday, both the Times and WaPo had posted stories about the threats—in the politics section of their coverage. Apparently, neither outlet believes that overt threats of retribution over non-existent election fraud rise to the level of “general news.”

What did rise to the level of “general news”? New polling by the NYTimes, which claimed the race is effectively tied. Although the Times’s results put Trump slightly ahead in the margin of error, its results were an outlier. How did the Times respond to the fact that its results were inconsistent with the trend of polling? It declared that its poll was “high quality,” while other polls taken since the convention in the race were of inferior quality. “There simply haven’t been many high-quality surveys fielded since the convention, when Ms. Harris was riding high.”

So, on a day when Trump's preemptive threat to jail election officials for non-existent fraud should have been the lead story with 48 POINT FONT, the Times placed itself at the center of the universe by highlighting its poll and declaring that its outlier results were correct, and all other polls were inferior.

The Guardian, as usual, distinguished itself by calling out Trump's deranged behavior as its lead story. See The Guardian, Trump threatens to jail adversaries for ‘unscrupulous behavior’ if he wins.

Perhaps Monday will bring a wave of condemnation and attention that was beyond the capabilities of major media over the weekend. That would be a welcome development. But regardless of whether that happens, it does not excuse us from the task of raising the alarm about Trump's threat to democracy. While we cannot limit our message to the threat to democracy, neither can we normalize or dismiss it or look away.

If we do not convince Americans that Trump is the greatest danger to democracy our nation has ever faced, then every policy proposal designed to improve the lives of all Americans will be meaningless.

It is a tough task to focus on the threat of Trump and the promise of Kamala Harris. But here we are. We must do both. And we aren’t going to get the help we deserve from the media. We must be bold; we must be willing to step outside of our comfort zone; we must speak the truth in words of one syllable (or shorter, if possible).

It seems improbable that the media can continue to ignore Trump's descent into madness and megalomania. But it seems improbable that they have done so to this point. But let’s not invest emotional energy worrying whether they will. It’s up to us. It always has been. But the stakes are higher than they have ever been.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[strqyr]

summer and lying is such an interesting topic bc there's two ways to go about it: either summer never lied before and just happened to be pretty damn good at it, or she has lied before but is so good at it that even her teammates haven't caught up on it.

alternatively it could be a "little bit of column a, little bit of column b" situation where it's very dependent on the person she's interacting with; it pains her to lie to her loved ones (and thus she'd rather not), but if you're on her shitlist then all bets are off and she's going to lie with no guilt on her conscience, meaning she also gets to practice lying... occasionally.

[cephalog0d]

Batfam Spreadsheet 2 - Metadata Boogaloo

Remember when I made a giant spreadsheet of Batfam comic appearances well here's a GIANT update because hyperfixation is real! (Uploaded as a whole new spreadsheet because it's. A lot of updates. This thing has become a monster. I highly recommend hiding columns you don't care about in the master list for ease of use.)

Updates:

Added cover dates for all issues!

Added roles and identities for all character appearances as filterable columns (see below for more details)! Wanna only see times Steph showed up as Robin, or find those issues where Jason was being Nightwing? You can filter for that!

More minor characters added to the sheet: Bao Pham, Bette Kane, Charlie Gage-Radcliffe, Claire Clover, Cullen Row, David Zavimbe, Hank Clover, Minhkhoa Khan, and Wendy Harris

Appearances up to date through cover date November 2023 (actual release date September 2023). (I intend to update at the end of every month, but it's at least current through then.)

LINK

Roles: Characters are listed by Major, Supporting, Minor, Cameo and Unreal roles. Cameos that are only on a cover/in a photo are noted as such. When a character appears in both the main story and flashback both are listed separately (e.g. Supporting; Flashback). When characters are only in flashback, that's listed with a clarifying role (e.g. Flashback (Supporting)). Roles listed as "Flashback" only are either Minor or Cameo roles. Unreal indicates the character is in a dream/hallucination/vision/etc.

Character names in the Identity column indicate someone is out of costume or at a point where they aren't using a secret identity (flashbacks before officially taking it up, gaps where they stopped, etc.)

Related: I'm very much relying on wikis/databases for what identity and role people have in a particular issue because a) I have not read every single one of the 5200+ of these issues and b) I'm not great at remembering things by issue number anyway for what I have read. So, you know, grain of salt, sorry if someone's mis-labeled here and there.

Notes from the previous issue that still apply:

The Spreadsheet currently contains all post-crisis appearances for the following characters: Barbara Gordon, Cassandra Cain, Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson, Duke Thomas, Harper Row, Helena Bertinelli, Jace Fox, Jarro, Jason Todd, Jean-Paul Valley, Kate Kane, Luke Fox, Stephanie Brown and Tim Drake. I feel like that's most of the big ones (and several not-very-big-ones), but if there's a Bat-person missing you'd like to see on there, feel free to ask!

All sheets are conditionally formatted so if you enter "Y" in the Read column it will highlight the whole row in green to mark it off, if you're the kind of person who likes to keep track and mark things off a list.

Dates are the start of the series, since that's how a lot of places besides DC itself with their weird "volume" convention distinguish different runs.

Character lists aren't split into Preboot vs. New 52 vs. Rebirth vs. IF, sorry. You can figure it out by the dates for the most part, though. (New 52 was 2011, Rebirth was 2016, IF was 2022.)

On that note, all of this was pulled from the DC Wiki, and while I did a little bit of spot-checking as I went for things I knew off the top of my head it's entirely possible things are missing or mis-attributed. I'm happy to update accordingly if there are.

((I am low-key considering expanding into various Bat-adjacent teams (Titans, Outsiders, YJ, etc.) but those would probably be separate sheets rather than making this one even more gigantic. We shall see.))

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

What are your thoughts on the whole “is homosexuality a nature or nurture thing” debate? Do you think it’s more one or the other or even both? I personally don’t think it really matters either way, since whether or not gays are born as they are or simply choose to be so shouldn’t be used as evidence for their value as people by either side.

I think homosexuality is no different than any other attraction or repulsion. If you like blondes, is that genetic or cultural? If you're into bondage, is that something you're born with or do your life experiences shape your desires?

Personally I tend to go with a little from column A, a little from column B. I think, genetically, we're all programmed to pass on our genes, which means an attraction to fertile, healthy, opposite sex partners. But we're also sentient, intelligent beings and aren't slaves to our genetics or our instincts. Our culture and our society shape the way we view the world. If nature was the only factor in what humans find attractive, most fetishes wouldn't exist. Everyone would just want to breed with the members of the opposite sex who have the best genetic traits. But we all know that's not the case.

There's no physical, evolutionary reason why someone should like getting whipped by their partner, but tens of millions of people in the US alone are into BDSM. And now that BDSM doesn't have the stigma that aberrant sexual practices used to, you're seeing more and more people getting into that lifestyle. Were those desires always there, and now there's just more people exploring a desire they were born with because it's more acceptable? Or was the growing mainstream acceptance was caused people to develop those desires? I don't think anyone can know for sure. But I think it's silly to assume one way or another.

As for nurture, that can't be 100% of the reason either, and you know this by looking at abuse victims. If our upbringing and environment were the only things that shaped our personalities, every abuse victim would grow up to be an abuser themselves. But that's not the case. Some abuse victims grow up to be caring, compassionate people. They take what happened to them and use it as an example of what not to be. And some abuse victims grow up to be awful, violent people who inflict their own trauma on others. You can't predict whether or not an abuse victim will go on to be an abuser themselves just by looking at their environment. Which means there are other factors at play. Are some people just born more resiliant than others, with more capacity for healing from trauma? Are some just born good? I don't think anyone can know for sure. But it's still silly to assume one way or another.

And I don't see how sexuality is any different. We attach a cultural significance to sexuality that we don't attach to liking blondes, or tall people, or people with freckles, or whatever. But at its core, sexuality is just about what turns you on. That's it.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: August Wrap-Up.

Hey, would you look at that, it's suddenly September! Rude and uncalled for. This month, I did a lot of knitting (two sets of gloves and two hats! gearing up for holiday season), and a LOT of writing (finished the first 16k draft of a scene, who???), and read uh. Some. I didn't finish a ton of books, but I did make it through what felt like a ton of pages.

Two-thirds of this month's reading were post-apocalyptic-community-oriented, on purpose, to feed into my current writing project, and that worked really well--either I'm very good at choosing books that match the vibe I need, or my ADHD brain is good at making connections, OR a little bit of column A, a little bit of column B. Photos and/or reviews linked below:

GHOST STATION (pages-out stand-in book pictured above, because I checked it out from the library after canceling my paperback pre-order, which was a good call) - ★★ This was very bad. Bad science, stupid incompetent characters, JUST enough neat worldbuilding to make it FRUSTRATING that this missed so hard. I'm bummed because I wanted to read DEAD SILENCE by this author, too, but I don't trust her now :(

ALWAYS COMING HOME - ★★★★½ Loved this!! Dense and chewy, and it required a lot of patience, but it was very rewarding and I'm really glad I read it. My absolute favorite passage was about scrub oaks, but I posted a few other highlights and tagged them as "le guin posting," if you're interested! If you like Le Guin and/or utopias and better futures and/or huge books that push what it means to Be A Novel, check this out for sure.

ARCHANGELS OF FUNK - ★★★½ So. I didn't realize that this was attached to a few other novels she's already written. And I read it cold (oops). Goodreads informed me that it was Book #2 of Cinnamon Jones, and review-diving indicated that REDWOOD AND WILDFIRE is also implicated in its worldbuilding, but that didn't stop me because I can't read. I would like to revisit this one after I've read those other two, I think, but!: The community and vibes and Making Art At The End Of The World were all immaculate, and the character names made me feel vindicated in some of my own naming conventions (seriously: there's an Indigo in this, and a Game-Boy, and Hawk, I can't make this shit up).

Under the Cut: A Note About ~*★Stars★*~

Historically, I have been Very Bad™ about assigning things Star Ratings, because it's so Vibes Heavy for me and therefore Contingent Upon my Whims. I am refining this as I figure out my wrap up posts (epiphany of this month: I don't like that stars are Odd, because that makes three the midpoint and things are rarely so truly mid for me)(I have hacked my way around this with a ½). Here is, generally, how I conceptualize stars:

★ - This was Bad. I would actively recommend that you do NOT read this one, no redeeming qualities whatsoever, not worth the slog. Save Yourself, It's Too Late For Me. Book goes in the garbage (donate bin).

★★ - This was Not Good. I would not recommend it, but it wasn't a total waste or wash--something in here held my interest/kept my attention/sparked some joy. I will not be rereading this ever. Save Yourself (Or Join Me In Suffering, That Seems Like A Cool Bonding Activity).

★★★ - This was Good/Fine/Okay/Meh. I don't care about this enough to recommend it one way or another. Perfectly serviceable book, held my interest, I probably enjoyed myself (or at least didn't actively loathe the reading). I don't have especially strong feelings. You probably don't need to save yourself from this one--if it sounds like your jam, give it a shot! Just didn't resonate with me particularly powerfully. I probably won't reread this unless I'm after something in particular.

★★★½ - I liked this! I'll probably recommend it if I know it matches someone's vibes or specific requests, but I didn't commit to a star rating on Goodreads. More likely to reread, but not guaranteed.

★★★★ - I really enjoyed this!! I would recommend it (sometimes with caveats about content warnings or such--I tend to like weird fucked up funny shit, and I don't have many hard readerly NO's). Not a perfect book for me by any means, but Very Good. This is something I would reread! Join me!!

★★★★★ - I LOVED THE SHIT OUT OF THIS, IT REWIRED MY BRAIN, WILL RECOMMEND TO ANYONE AND EVERYONE AT THE SLIGHTEST PROVOCATION (content warning caveats still apply--see 4-star disclaimer). Excellent book, I'll reread it regularly, I'll buy copies for all my friends, I'll try to convince all of Booklr to read it, PLEASE join me!!

[kyanitegemverse]

Why does the cheese not get enough sleep? Is it her and/or society’s fault?

I suppose its a little of column A and a little of Column B and a dose of the secret column C

Column A:

Colby does just generally have a really hard time quieting her mind down enough to allow herself to rest. Thoughts have always just raced through their mind nonstop

it also just in general takes them way longer than your average person to fall asleep because of it

its the ADHD. just straight up both of the previous points are direct results of ADHD

Column B:

the body's circadian rhythm can be disrupted by many things. One of those is travel throwing you out of the rhythm you're used to. yknow, jet lag! Now that would also subject the others of the skeld crew to this as well given the nature of their job.

Prior to the constant travel though, I'd like to imagine that Mnemosyne, the colony on Titan that Colby is from, is one of the older settlements of the sol system, and thus perhaps does not have some things that other places do. such as perhaps a lack of a simulated day/night cycle and instead simply dimming the lights during 'night hours' as the closest thing to that. (yknow like how they do on ISS)

That being said the orbital period of Titan around Saturn is a grand total of 16 days, and then Saturns orbital period is 29 years which is an entertaining coincidence with Colby's age but im getting off topic. something something no day/night simulation and no seasonal simulation either just seems like a recipe for sleep issues with the general populous.

The Secret Column C

Her parasite is fucking hungry 24/7 and is not above disturbing its hosts sleep if it needs to consume nutrients to keep the two of them alive

i'd imagine having another living entity sharing your body puts said body under a considerable amount of stressors and stress is also something that can cause insomnia.

Basically Colby is a walking sleep issue for herself at all times and its a miracle she gets any sleep at all

above all im truly the one to blame for her sleep issues. Im the one who gave them to her after all

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

On the other side of my kara whine, I wish there were more fics that realistically explored the fallout of what Lena did. Where they looked at how she tried to mind control/labotomise the entire population of the planet. Where even though she failed in that, she still experimented on human prisoners and worked with lex. Give me the real look at that rather than kara and Co just shrugging it off and deciding that it was okay

I totally understand where you're coming from, but I think part of the difficulty we all face in trying to dissect THAT part of canon is twofold:

#1 - it's kind of unforgivable? And also totally irrational? And fucking stupid to the point that it undermines Lena's canon genius level intelligence for her to even think for a moment that it would work?? The writers had to fucking twist the very fabric of Lena's character to make it happen, just to pin her in the villain column for a season. And yes, she was a villain, but only by the fact that the writers mutilated her characterization to do it.

#2 - the show has always struggled with the fallout of characters' actions in the narrative arc. Ive before called it a problem with the internal morality of the show. Borne from a mix of not being able to show everything onscreen and remarkably inconsistent messaging about how real-world the Supegirl-verse is, it's sometimes hard to know where the hard line is. We saw it when Lena science-murdered that kid with the harun-el experiments, and we saw it again here. With the harun-el testing, the experiments weren't phrased as being illegal or immoral, so it wasn't intended to cast judgement on Lena beyond what she assigned herself for the death of her subject (which seemed to be more about her failure than subverting any safety regulations). I don't think we heard even a single person protest the use of prisoners as test subjects either, so how illegal was it in 'verse? We don't know, because they never mention it again!

Once more, the writers wreak their havoc and then shrug and move on to the next season.

Between these two aspects it's sometimes very difficult for fans to go all meta and pick apart something that was a) pulled from the ether, and then immediately b) shrug-faced away in the next breath. ESPECIALLY when you're specifically fans of the character who gets twisted beyond recognition.

I agree that it deserves further examination and discussion, but I also understand why people don't really want to get into it. Like. I went to Supergirl to literally *ignore* the war crimes happening in the real world-- I don't often want to spend my limited free time or mental bandwidth examining why and how my blorbo went off the rails without a good reason or build up.

And if the show didn't care, why should I?

[y2kbugs]

@malocclusive replied to your post “It weirds me out to see "low cal" on a dish that's...”:

Column a, column b? Like if that's an entire meal and you're ideally eating 3 daily, that'd be 1500-1800. I think it's more marketing than anything

​Probably...I shouldn't worry too much either way! My brain is just evil

[yurisorcerer]

Normally when I write these, even the less serious ones for the weekly column, I try to keep in mind that my audience is not me and I am not my audience. Obviously, what you're ultimately always getting is my opinion, but I normally attempt to give some consideration to how others might feel, too.

All this to say, I can't do that here. This is an episode with a lot of Rika in it.

She's beautiful, fantastic, gorgeous, amazing, dazzling, attractive, and her voice makes my head spin. She speaks to a nervous Liko with empathy and humor, she lightly talks herself up during the (amazing) fight, but honestly she could be a lot more boastful and it still wouldn't feel unjustified. I spent enough of the episode having a gay meltdown that I probably missed some of the finer details, but can you really blame me? She's just electric to watch.

Right, the battle itself. Liko's battle partner is Katy, the usual first gym leader in the Scarlet / Violet games. She puts in a good showing for the first half of the episode, with her Lokix really standing out in giving a Pokemon that isn't particularly prominent in its home game some shine. The little guy comes off as every bit as cool as his Kamen Rider inspiration, here.

When the battle comes down to just Liko and Floragato against Rika and her Clodsire, things really fly off the rails, and we get the delightful experience of watching Liko undergo some character growth in real time when she (perhaps inevitably) loses. The Liko we see here, properly invested in the outcome of her battles because Floragato is, is a far cry from the shy little bean from episode 1.

Over in the B-Part of the episode, Penny makes her on-screen debut, and she's pretty great, too, terse and a little mysterious. What little drips we get of her backstory seem to vaguely imply that this anime takes place after some version of the game's events, which feels like it can't possibly actually be what they're going for, but it's an interesting thought, regardless. (It would definitely explain the rather strange name of 'The Explorers' for our villain group.) Either way, we're definitely getting into it, Penny and Dot come across a mysterious "Scarlet Book" with what's clearly Koraidon on its front cover. Mysteries upon mysteries! And really a good reminder that for all that's happened over the past year or so, we're still really just getting started with Pokemon Horizons. Not that I'm complaining! It's quietly become one of my favorite ongoing anime.

[honeyandhyacinths]

custom sorority jacket pt. 1: carpenter’s star to be featured on back

note: it’s theoretically possible to use this as a tutorial, hence writing style, but no guarantees of my math or clarity. tutorial disclaimer: read everything before beginning. yardage requirements assume continuous 42" wide.

fabrics: Bliss from Moda, designed by 3 Sisters

project: traditional carpenter’s star in two colors + background

other logistics+supplies: block measures 16” finished, border will eventually added to fit to back of denim jacket. background color: quarter yard exact, third yard safe w/no border, more depending on border. two star colors: quarter yard each. 2.5 inch square ruler with marked 45º, or other small ruler if you're a masochist (masochism directly correlates to ruler disproportion). fabric marking method. sewing machine, thread, yada upon yada.

step 1: cut two 3" strips from each star fabric; subcut sixteen 3" squares of each fabric. cut two 3" strips and one 2.5" strip from background fabric; subcut sixteen 2.5" squares and sixteen 3" squares. save the remaining background fabric for a border.

step 2 (tldr, half square triangles [hst]): hst's are made two-at-a-time; you could theoretically do eight-at-a-time but i haven't done that math. use chalk, air/heat erase pens, or plain old graphite pencil to mark a line diagonally down the wrong side of all sixteen 3" background squares and eight of the lighter star color. match the following, right sides together: eight background + color A, eight background + color B, eight color A+color B. sew a quarter-inch away from the line you marked on both sides. repeat for all matched squares. cut down the line you marked. press toward the more opaque side.

step 3: trim the hst's to 2.5" square. with the aforementioned ruler, this is easy. line up the marked diagonal on the ruler with the diagonal of the hst, trim two sides, flip and repeat. otherwise, use the diagonal on a cutting mat, or just use any other ruler and try to keep the diagonal as centered as possible. non-crisp corners tend to only be noticeable upon close inspection by other quilters.

step 4: lay out the star. all of it, using the 2.5" background squares where appropriate. check it once, check it twice. sew either rows or columns together and press to one side, alternating directions between rows. now we nest seams. instead of matching the ends, match each seam. if pressed correctly, it should be easy to place one seam right on top of the other, and pin along the seam. start in the center and work outwards. nested seams fit much more accurately with each other, while matching the ends of the row may misalign an entire row. this is more visible at a glance. press whichever way is least bulky.

quilt or use block as desired!

[waitingforwinterwinds]

A Clash of Kings - 27 DAENERYS II (pages 383-392)

Dany arrives in Qarth, and finally gets caught up on the gossip from Westeros re: Bobby B vs The Boar.

If the reader had a penny for every time someone claiming to be a Dany fan decided to deliberately bad faith read one of their Dany-chapter-posts and leave hate, the reader would have two pennies, which isn't a lot but is still making the reader wonder if they should just skip Dany chapters in the future. The reader remains "not here for that shit," and would like to remind folks that shit gets auto-blocks.

-

On the walls of Qarth, men beat gongs to herald her coming, while others blew curious horns that encircled their bodies like great bronze snakes. A column of camelry emerged from the city as her honor guards.

This opening paragraph really drives home just how much complexity D&D stripped away to make make Dany a "cool underdog fighting for her every scrap." Like yes, she had to fight for everything, (although she also has a lot of luck and inherent power and status from just having dragons,) but they removed the entire Vaes Tolorro thing, which, yeah okay, only lasted a single chapter, but it also was an important breathing moment that showed Dany's willingness to build, to grow things, to regain her footing in the wake of what was a huge shift in her mentality from leader('s wife) of the khalasar to having almost nothing. (Also, on the subject: D&D making Doreah a self-interested betrayer because they think women have very few settings (bitch, plot device, meek, one of the guys) was absolute garbage. just like them.)

"Qarth is the greatest city that ever was or will be, (...) ancient beyond memory of man and so magnificent that Saathos the wise put out his eyes after gazing upon Qarth for the first time, because he knew that all he saw thereafter should look squalid and ugly by comparison."

Qarth is the Taj Mahal!? I'm sorry, I shouldn't joke about real human suffering. (It's also not a one-to-one but my brain knee-jerk connected.)

The women wore gowns of that left one breast bare,

Why though? Is there a specific reason? Or did GRRM just decide to half-ass the tits out look? I have questions about support, and whether its up-from-under or a wedge-cut from over, like Jane Foster's one-tit armour in Thor. The second one. Also: Qarth sounds so cool. (I hope those sandals the kids were wearing were only golden coloured though, or if not, at least it means they'll never be able to skip leg day.

"A honor as rare as summer snows."

I don't know why but this made me snort. I think it's partly because summer snows aren't rare at all in the north of Westeros, so this changes his sentence for context, but I know he means locally. I think it's also in part because my brain is going "wrong grammar is wrong" because 'honor' is one of those silent(ish) 'h' words that sound like it starts with a vowel, so my brain's like, "it's either "an 'onor" or you're pronouncing the 'h'. "a HHhhhhhhonor."" I might just be very tired.

"We have seen only the parts of Qarth that Pyat Pree wished us to see," she went on. "Rakharo, go forth and look on the rest, and tell me what you find. Take good men with you - and women, to go places where men are forbidden."

Yes, good. Trust but verify, except don't trust these people. Good thinking to send the ladies, way too often authors just ignore female spaces (... unless they're brothels.)

Dany had no wish to reduce King's Landing to a blackened ruin full of unquiet ghosts. She had supped on enough tears. I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. I want my people to smile when they see me ride by, the way Viserys said they smiled for my father. But before she could do that she must conquer.

Well now I'm sad. ... *pushes season 8 off the table like a cat with a vase*

Beneath Dany's gentle fingers, green Rhaegal stared at the stranger with eyes of molten gold. When his mouth opened, his teeth gleamed like black needles.

Ahhhh, so their teeth are black like their bones! I had wondered about that. Like I got the vibe with the skelies, but living dragons also: check!

"Dragons die." She stood on her toes to kiss him lightly on an unshaven cheek. "But so do dragonslayers."

oh now there's a raw-ass line. It has like an... almost inverse energy of that quote about dragons and stories... what was it...

Fairy tales do not tell children dragons exist. Children already know the dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed. - G.K. Chesterton

What's interesting about Dany's line is her acknowledgment that dragons die, when previously she's mentioned them as being powerful and nigh on indestructible creatures. Usually though she's using the references in metaphor for herself and those around her as a kind of mental housekeeping and protective adjustment, like Arya and her 'fear cuts deeper than swords' mantra.

Coming close on the heels of her talk with Jorah and captain Quhuru Mo of the Cinnamon Wind, it's kind of a blend of her previous imagery and "I understand that I am not in the best position of power, that I can still fail if I'm not careful, but so could my enemy, because they've lost their balance too."

[risingrah]

Final Fantasy XVI Review (No Spoilers Edition)

Welcome to my FFXVI Review No Spoilers Version! I will probably make a spoileriffic version later, but I hope people can use this to determine whether or not this game is a good investment for them.

In this case, "no spoilers" does include information from the demo. Because the demo is free.

What is it?

Final Fantasy XVI, or Final Fantasy XIV as Google insists it is when I look up anything about Final Fantasy XVI, is the sixteenth main number installment of the Final Fantasy series, released as a Playstation 5 exclusive. However, it does not require any previous knowledge or experience of the previous game series--actually more so than the other Final Fantasys. For better or worse.

It's an action combat game, one the gameplay director actually received assistance from other studios specializing in those sort of games, including PlatinumGames (from Nier: Automata) and the Kingdom Hearts development team (from...Kingdom Hearts).

The dramatic, emotional story has been inspired by Western dramas, including Game of Thrones. Taking place in a fantasy setting with magic and dragons and magic dragons, it seeks to blend the gritty nature of the power struggles of warring territories with the imaginative nature of magic, deities, and the type of scenery that can only exist in a fantasy.

What is it about?

Our victim protagonist is Clive Rosfield, the first son of the Duke of Rosaria. As the first son born to the union of Duke Elwin and his (hopefully distant) cousin/wife Anabella, Clive was expected to be a Dominant--the person who wields the power of the Eikon/local god Phoenix. When he is passed over of this as well as inheriting the duchy in favor of his sickly younger brother, Joshua, Clive dedicates himself to protecting Joshua.

But, because Square Enix produced this game, Clive can't have anything nice.

What follows is a story of tragedy, determination, betrayal, and ultimately love. As genre-savvy as I was, I still cried out of joy and sadness for Clive's journey. The characters are well written and the world building suits the narrative.

As suiting the M rating, this is...a mature narrative.

There's a lot going on in this story, and thankfully they incorporate an "Active Time Lore" button that can allow you to keep track of the most relevant info at all times.

High tier story. No complaints.

That said, there is one point in the story where we get a "Point of No Return". However, the game warns you before hand and only a few things are permanently missable.

Okay, how's the gameplay?

The game introduces you to two versions of the game when you start: Action-Mode which is the more traditional game-focused experience, and Story-Mode which is the more story-focused experience--meaning more accessible gameplay for combat.

That being said, in Action Mode, you still get access the the same accessories that simply gameplay, so you can switch/mix-and-match anytime you want.

With Story-mode gameplay, the combat is pretty simple: Just press Square. Clive will make combos, dodge...pretty much everything automatically. This is a great feature for those who do want to enjoy this as an interactive story--and there are people who do and that's alright.

With Action Mode gameplay, you need to think a little more since you'll be more direct in dodging, combo creation, and more--but not too much. You realize a lot of it is based on the powers you gain/develop and the combinations you create. No two gamers will probably have the same set, and you get to build a Clive that works best for you.

Either way, developing Clive's abilities thankfully isn't permanent! If you realize you put too much of your Ability Points in Column A when now you think it should be Column B, you're able to detract and add at your leisure. And you can switch between Action and Story modes too.

Also, and most importantly, Clive's hound "Torgal" joins you in your journey.

Torgal assists you in combat through the combination of AI as well as direct commands (or automatically inputted ones through helpful accessories). And he can get pets. Lots of pets. Because he is the goodest boy.

A la previous Final Fantasys, Clive will have the option to engage in sidequests that will start off as menial tasks and then have a 50/50 chance to make you feel all the things. At least you can pet Torgal through your problems.

Sounds good. What did you wish you knew before you played?

You may have heard a lot of hype about this Final Fantasy being open world. While this is technically correct, the world itself does want for something.

Now, to be fair, the narrative justifies the areas of the world that are lacking. There is a continental war going on, not to mention severe environmental hazards. Forgive the locals if building a mini-golf course isn't a priority.

What abilities do I need to level up to get an Odin one? haha sorry

Most of the landmarks exist to move the narrative along, introduce you to key characters, and explain the realities of the war and the economy. Let's just say that I understand the can of worms that would have happened if there were black people in this game.

Also, death is cheap. Really cheap. There are no penalties for dying--there aren't even trophies associated with not dying. So die and retry as much as you like.

I only have so much money. Should I be racing to buy this, or can I wait for a possible sale?

This is not a Day 1 sale that you'd regret. However, it's also not one that you would regret waiting for either. Unfortunately, I think being spoiled may take away the impact of some moments or scenes, and people are probably going to want to spoil things soon. If you're someone who likes a good story and hates being spoiled, I'd get this sooner rather than later.

Bonus Question: Is this a Final Fantasy? I hear people say it's not a true Final Fantasy.

There is a more spoiler-laded discussion to be had with this, but Final Fantasy has transcended the need for every game to be alike years ago. More than 2 decades ago in fact. Try playing Final Fantasy II after Final Fantasy I. Or Final Fantasy X then Final Fantasy XIV. It is very evident that there are threads that link them together, but so many things that set them apart.

In short, I do believe that this is a Final Fantasy. I believe that fans of Final Fantasy will enjoy this game. I believe that newcomers will enjoy this game. If you're interested and enjoy top tier stories and fun action combat, you'll enjoy this.

[underforeversgrace]

Also, if you have insurance, review your EOB (explanation of benefits) before paying anything out of pocket. Unless it's an out-of-network provider, you shouldn't be charged more than what your insurance says your OOP (out of pocket) is.

This may vary with COB (coordination of benefits) where someone else may be the primary financial party (for instance, in the case of a car wreck, the auto insurance may be the primary financial party.)

Here's a brief overview of some Fun Medical Insurance Stuff, courtesy of me, a medical claims processor.

In-network providers are contracted with your insurance carrier. They are typically contracted to pay significantly less than amount billed. Sometimes, they forget to write-off the contractual obligation and mis-place it in the patient responsibility column. Make sure what they are telling you that you owe matches what that EOB says you owe.

Out-of-network providers are not contracted with your insurance. They may be contracted with other insurances or not take insurance at all. These, you're typically stuck footing the bill, but you can request reimbursement from your insurance if the OON provider billed you directly (which they may sometimes do, because some providers bill extra if they have to bill insurance themselves.)

Some OON care is covered by NSA (No Surprises Act). This tends to include emergency care (such as emergency room visits and ambulance rides) or ancillary care services (such as the anesthesiologist for an approved, in-network surgeon being OON or being rounded on by an OON doctor during an in-network hospital admission) or where there is a deficit in available in-network care (for example, there is no IOP program for the treatment I needed within several hours of me, so my insurance had to work with the OON provider to provide me in-network care). These cases would be handled the same as your in-network care benefits. Some insurance may retroactively attain a single case agreement/single patient agreement with the provider (typically only really seen in high-cost scenarios, such as inpatient stays at OON facilities or programs like I mentioned above where the care was either a) rendered until transfer could be made to in-network hospital or b) no in-network options were available).

A deductible is the amount you need to pay out of pocket before insurance begins covering anything. There's two types of deductibles, though I can't remember their names.

One of them does not pay ANYTHING until the deductible is met.

The other will cover SOME services (such as PCP or certain medications) before the deductible is met.

Your insurance should have an "overview of benefits" or something of the sort that will tell you which you have. The first one is not as common anymore.

After a deductible is hit, you'll typically either owe copays or coinsurances.

A copay is a fixed amount, for example when a PCP visit is a $25 copay.

A coinsurance is a fixed PERCENTAGE, for example a specialist visit has a 15% coinsurance. There is no way to know your final out of pocket until the insurance receives and processes the claim, as this is a percentage based on the provider's contract with that specific health insurance plan.

Eventually, if you have enough expenses, you'll hit an out of pocket (OOP) max. Once you hit that, insurance SHOULD pay everything (so long as it's an approved service). Keep an eye on your OOP. Once you hit it, it's easier to notice when you're getting bills for dates you shouldn't be. Note that OOP is calculated based on the date the insurance processed the claim, not on the date of service rendered.

*Disclaimer: OOP max described above is for in-network care. If your insurance has out-of-network OOP max, that means insurance will pay 100% of their allowable out-of-network rate, and you'll still be responsible for any amount between that rate and the amount the provider billed.

I feel like I should make a post about this because it’s not something that’s very well-known, and that Americans in particular may need to know about given the uncertain state of our healthcare system at the moment. I’ve wanted to write this out for a while, It’s kind of a long post, so sorry about that!

If you have an emergency and have to go to the hospital, you’ll owe the hospital a lot of money. (I got into a car wreck and broke my ankle and my arm. My hospital bill was around $20,000)

You’ll also owe the ambulance provider, if you need one. (My ambulance bill was about $800)

You may get separate bills from the anesthesiologist or surgeon. (My anesthesiologist bill was $1,700)

You may need follow-up appointments. (My orthopedic surgeon billed me for the appointments and his surgery together and it was about $1,000)

You’ve also got to pay for medical equipment you need afterward, like crutches or a walking boot. (Mine cost about $75)

Altogether, I ended up with almost $24,000 in medical debt from one car accident. That’s a really scary number for someone like me who makes $10/hr at a 12 hour a week job.

I got my debt down to $1075 by making some phone calls and submitting some paperwork.

The first thing I did was contact the hospital. They don’t make it easy to find, but many hospitals (perhaps most hospitals?) have financial assistance programs for people who can’t afford medical bills. I don’t make a lot of money, and I have bills to pay, so they were able to help me. I called the billing department and asked if they had any assistance programs for low income people who can’t pay their bills. I had to call multiple times, and I got transferred in circles by people who didn’t know what I was talking about. Finally, I got an appointment with someone in “Eligibility Services” (I don’t know what other hospitals call it, if it’s something different). I had to bring my pay stubs and copies of all of my bills. When I got to the hospital for the appointment, nobody knew what I was talking about so I had to wander a little to find where I needed to go. I spoke with the guy in Eligibility Services, and I waited for a decision on how much of the bill they would forgive. A month later, I got a call telling me it was totally forgiven.

I did the same thing for my ambulance bill and my anesthesiologist, but the process was a LOT easier. I just had to mail some paperwork and it was totally forgiven.

I didn’t bother with the medical equipment suppliers, since the bills came from separate companies and I didn’t feel like going through the process twice for $75. I was assured at the hospital that they had similar programs for debt forgiveness, so I could have probably avoided paying that too.

The only thing I couldn’t get taken care of was the surgeon/follow-up appointment cost, but they were able to put me on a no-interest payment plan.

Medical debt is scary because it’s something that can come from stuff that’s already really scary. I didn’t need the burden of $24,000 in debt on top of trying to get around on a crutch with a broken arm (it’s not easy, believe me!).. but I can’t imagine what it would be like with a bigger debt or a more severe medical emergency. I see lots of people in even worse trouble than I was in, both financially and medically. Please know that there are options for you when that GoFundMe doesn’t do enough. Even if your income is higher than mine, it’s worth a shot even for partial debt forgiveness.