#and keep in mind that both of these guys are such unreliable narrators

[kiwisbell]

Red Light [landlord!joel miller]

The men you keep bringing home are no good for you. It's up to your landlord Joel to protect you from heartbreak. 

my masterlist!

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: AU - no outbreak/modern day, obsessive!joel, dark!joel, but also soft!joel, landlord!joel, violence, death, murder, stalking, jealousy, truly creepy behaviour, unprotected sex (lead by example; just not mine), creampie, dubious consent, reader’s serious lack of self-preservation, sexual tension, abuse of power, spanking, spitting, squirting, praise kink, degradation kink, joel is a munch, somnophilia, possessive behaviour, dirty talk, a smidgen of gaslighting, the general filth you should expect from me by now, a spoonful of genuine intimate connection™️, implied age gap, submissive reader, dominant joel, daddy kink, knives, mild torture, light anal play, voyeurism, unreliable narration, inappropriate use of a necklace, panty sniffing, ambiguous(?) ending

word count: ~ 15.8k (uh, oops!)

read on ao3!

hello, all! this fic has been tossing and turning inside the proverbial sheets of my head for a while now. when i tell you it's darker than anything i've written, i mean it, so please, please mind the tags. this story does not depict a healthy relationship; joel is a total creep and both he and reader are heavily delusional. with that said, please enjoy this (super long) one-shot!! xoxo

PREFACE

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires. — Macbeth, I.IV

~

THE TENANT

You're beginning to think it’s a built-in bad luck charm. A microchip implanted in your skin or a flaw you have yet to pick out. Every single one of your prospective boyfriends has disappeared off the face of the Earth since you moved into town. 

It isn't you. It's not. There is nothing wrong with you. It isn't your fault that either they decide after one date that you aren't worth seeing again, or they stand you up before the date can even begin. Your profile pictures are decent. You followed the rules meticulously: a shot of your face, a group picture to show you have friends, a selfie, a candid. You've examined them time and time again for flaws and find none that a man would care about. You're pretty. Sexy. Confident. They're just intimidated. Fuck, you're turning into your mother.

And yet—

Since moving into this apartment—this beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime deal of an apartment—your luck with dating has abruptly ended. 

It's a lovely building. A stout brownstone with wrought-iron stairs and an old, but functional, elevator, it's traditional and charming. Perfect for a single woman. 

Six months. This is your first second date in six months. David is just fine. He's handsome in a frat-initiate kind of way, with a nice smile and a good sense of dress. He doesn't ask many questions about you, and he's a little pretentious about films you don't give a shit about, but he likes you. You didn't have a horrible time on the first date: he wasn't afraid to spend his money on you at the nice restaurant. And he has a car. 

Raised as an optimist, you learned to see the good parts of a situation. David can work out. 

On the way out of the elevator, you spot your landlord Joel speaking to the concierge. You instinctively smooth down your hair and wave at him as you walk by, shrugging your purse onto your shoulder. “Hi, Joel. Hi, Sam.”

Sam the concierge waves back, but Joel puts his back to the conversation and gives you his full attention, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk. Your heart leaps and your head goes fuzzy with nerves. You barely manage to force a giddy giggle back down your throat. Relief coats your bones when Sam excuses himself to take a call.

Joel Miller’s an older guy, his tousled dark hair threaded with silver on his head and in his beard. One look at him and a person could know that he works with his hands for a living; he’s broad-shouldered, strong, with big arms and a capable air about him. He’s proven his mettle a hundred times over already with the miniscule repairs he’s made to the building. He turned it into a good place to live; he even trims the hedges outside and polishes the doorknobs when they get rusty. 

He’s wearing a green T-shirt today, which is another member of the typical summertime circulation of blue and grey T-shirts, and a pair of jeans. “Evening,” he says, his rich brown eyes sparkling. Sometimes, you can see him smile when his mouth isn’t showing it. It’s charming. Enthralling. “How’s that new lock workin’ out for you?”

You grin. He remembered. Joel installed a new deadbolt on your door last week, since the chain on the last one broke. “It’s perfect,” you tell him. “Are you in a chocolate or lemon mood this time?”

His gaze flickers down your body, taking in your yellow dress, before meeting yours again. “Lemon,” he says.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Talking to a handsome man feels like tossing your heart in the air and trying to juggle. Flirting with a handsome man is like toeing a tightrope between two mountains and forcing yourself not to look down. Your stomach swoops with the path of his eyes over your body, and you cannot convince yourself that you imagined it. “Lemon squares it is. Thank you again, Joel.”

“Just my job to keep my tenants safe,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. You can see a pair of keys in his pocket along with his cell phone. The mere sight of his belt makes your cheeks hot. Why are you looking at his belt? You’re going on a date with another man, for God’s sake. Relax.

“Helps when I like my tenants so much,” adds Joel, and you forget why you were scolding yourself in the first place. 

“Yeah?” You tilt your head to the side. “Maybe you should be baking for them, instead.”

Joel steps away from the desk, working his jaw as he seems to fight down a smile. “It’s for the best this way, believe me. Can’t cook for shit.”

“Big, strong man like you can’t work a stove?” you tease. Don’t look down. 

“I only fix ‘em.” There’s a crooked smile on his face now, and your heart beats your ribs to shrapnel. “You look real nice. Goin’ somewhere?”

That simple validation calms your nerves more effectively than a half-hour of repeating affirmations into the mirror before leaving your apartment. You give the skirt of your sundress a little swish. “A date, actually,” you say, feeling sheepish. Your landlord certainly doesn’t need to hear about your track record as of late. “He’s taking me to Sunfest, in the park.”

A minute twitch of his brow is the only reaction he gives to the news. “That so?” he says. “Lucky man.”

“More like lucky me,” you say with a small laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear. Stop talking, you plead to yourself. Too much information. Shut up, kindly excuse yourself, and leave. 

Joel shakes his head, and now is the first time you notice that his eyes haven’t once left you. It warms your body. “He’s the lucky one. Trust me.”

“Okay. I concede.” You chew on your lip for a moment and, sure enough, his gaze hones in on your mouth. The air in the lobby crackles white-hot. You clear your throat, turning your head to find David’s car parked on the street outside. “I should go. But I promise I’ll get started on those lemon squares soon.”

It’s a possibility that you only imagine Joel’s eyes flitting from the car outside back to you when you turn your head back to face him. “Do me a favour?” he says, a scrape to his deep drawl. 

“Anything, Joel.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Be safe,” he says. “You have my number if anything goes wrong.”

You give him a grateful smile. “I’ll be safe, Joel. And if I’m not, you’re the first person I’ll call.”

“Good. That’s…” He trails off, still watching you, his eyes trained in their path across your face. “You’re good. Smart, beautiful, good. You deserve to have somethin’ real.”

The simple, small praises melt your bone marrow and recast it in the shape of him. The old chandelier hanging from the ceiling casts him in a soft light, stark against the hard muscles and profound depths in his eyes. He's breathtaking. You've always known it, but…

He sees something in you, too. 

David honks his horn and makes you jump out of your stupor. You walk backwards out of the lobby just to keep looking at Joel for as long as you can. “For the record,” you say, “you’re a good man, Joel.”

“Don’t be so sure, honey,” he replies, his tone playful. 

You laugh, hurrying out to David’s car as the door closes behind you. 

“This place is beautiful,” you said to Sam, the concierge working the front desk of your prospective apartment. The appropriate paperwork was in your arms, your eyes scanning every inch of the old building. Of all the places you'd seen in and around the neighbourhood, this was the most promising. You hoped to get a glimpse at a unit before you signed, though. Assuming the landlord even wanted you to live here. 

Sam smiled at you. “Lots of people just see the cracks.”

“There's so much character,” you replied, admiring the crystal chandelier. The walls were a calming, aged white, the floors genuine hardwood. The lobby was decorated with plush chairs upholstered with burnt orange fabric, the corners filled with real potted plants. 

The door opened behind you, and you turned to see a handsome stranger, dressed in a pair of dirty jeans and mud-caked shirt, wiping his forehead with his forearm. Behind you, Sam said, “This is Joel Miller. The landlord.”

“Oh!” You were flustered, floundering to stretch out your hand to shake as you introduced yourself. “I’m sorry to catch you at a bad time. This building is gorgeous. You've done a great job with it, Mr. Miller.”

The landlord did not once look at Sam, his eyes fixed solely on you as he wiped a hand on the cloth slung over his shoulder and shook your hand. His hand engulfed yours, warm and rough. The touch jolted you like an electric shock. Your hands must have been clammy and shaking with nerves, but the contact steeled you. 

The intensity of his gaze, however, made you shift on your feet. He didn't waver, didn't stray, like a man set on a mission. Nothing about him was shy. He drank in the sight of you, indulging without shame, his eyes travelling to the next destination once they'd had their fill. It made you feel stripped to the bone.

“It's nice to meet you,” he said. “Sorry for the dirt. Just finished weeding.”

You shook your head in dismissal. “You really take care of this place.”

“It's good work,” he said plainly. “Serves me well. I like gettin’ my hands dirty, fixin’ things.”

“Where were you when my sink broke every week at my old place?”

“Fixing the sinks in this one.”

You laughed. “Well, for what it's worth, the outside is beautiful, too. Not a weed in sight.”

“Pleased to hear it,” said Joel, his dark eyes glittering under the chandelier. 

“You're from Texas!” you said suddenly. Oh, God, kill me now. I sound like a stalker. 

But Joel smiled, a raspy laugh leaving his mouth. You wondered if he laughed often. He looked like a serious man. “You familiar?” 

“I was born there,” you supplied. “Left when I was young, but my dad lived there all his life.”

“Lookin’ good on you already,” he said. “It’ll be nice havin’ another one of us around.”

“Does that mean you're considering me?” you couldn't help but ask. Fuck, you wanted this apartment. 

“I've already considered,” said Joel, his eyes sweeping your body. “You're the only applicant.”

Your hands were trembling and your heart thrummed with excitement. “Oh, God, thank you!” you gasped. “Joel, thank you.”

You could swear his chest swelled a bit at your graciousness. “I can show you the unit, if you’d like. It needs some TLC, but I’m happy to help with the process as best I can. Unless you have someone to…”

You realised what he was hinting at and shook your head. “Oh, no, it’s just me. I’d love to take a look.”

You noted the slight drop of his shoulders and followed him into the elevator. A part of you was surprised to see there was no gate that closed you in; they were plain, somewhat modern elevator doors. “Fixed it last month,” Joel said, looking sideways at you. “Just in time, apparently.”

You grinned at him, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Nice to see there's no creepy operator in here.”

“Just me.” He punched the button for the third floor and rode with you to the top. 

This was the start of your new life. 

You shut the passenger’s side door and situate yourself inside David’s Lincoln. He’s dressed in a pair of black shorts and a clean Henley. “Hey, beautiful,” he says, leaning in to kiss you across the console. 

You hum, smiling against his mouth. “You clean up nice, too.”

He places a hand on your thigh and pulls away from the curb. He's a touchy person, which is perfectly fine considering how long your latest dry spell has lasted, but at least he isn't inching his way up your dress to cop a feel while he drives. 

The festival is bustling with people, tented stands, and the smell of fried dough and beer. It’s almost dinnertime, and your stomach growls. When was the last time you ate? You spent hours agonising over what to wear until you were sweating and had to shower all over again. You wish you’d snuck an apple into your purse. 

David pulls you into him as you both walk through the winding paths between vendors. “It’s a beautiful night,” you say breezily. 

David squeezes your waist. “Mmm. You’re beautiful.”

A bit too corny for your taste, but you let it slide. “Don't tell me you're allergic to powdered sugar, because I’ve been eyeing the elephant ears.”

“God, if I eat that shit, I think it’ll set me back a month at the gym,” he laughs. “Let’s get one for you, though.”

Great. Now you're the expensive date who eats while her date watches her stuff her mouth with an elephant ear. “Uh. Maybe later.” 

You stop at a jewellery vendor and spend a good while eyeing up a beautiful gold necklace and the heart-shaped pendant dangling from it. David doesn’t notice your staring and breezes by with your hand firmly in his. “Let's check out the grand stand. My buddy’s band is playing before the fireworks display.”

“Sure,” you say, turning your head to watch the necklace disappear slowly from view. 

The gigantic domed stage houses a group of musicians currently tuning up their instruments. David sidles right up to the front and releases your hand to execute an elaborate handshake with his friend, who’s fine-tuning his bass. 

“Hey, man,” greets the bass player. “Good to see you. Who’s this?”

You open your mouth to introduce yourself, stretching your hand out, but David says, “My date for tonight. Baby, this is Ray, of Uncontrolled Bleeding fame.”

The bass player shakes your hand politely. “Very nice to meet you.” 

Because it doesn’t seem to matter much to David, you decide it’s worth the time to tell Ray your name. “It’s nice to meet you, Ray. I’m excited to hear you play.”

Not that you've ever heard of a band called Uncontrolled Bleeding. Still, Ray seems nice enough, and you're on a date. You should give them a chance. 

David squeezes your waist and kisses you lightly on the temple. “You mind if I go backstage for a bit to say hi to the other guys? Won’t be long.”

What?

“Oh!” you manage to eke out over the great swooping nosedive your heart has just performed. He’s here to see his friends. He’s not on a date. “Of course. Take your time. I’ll just… walk around.”

David departs with Ray for a personal backstage tour while you bite down on your tongue and turn back in the direction of the main strip. A few vendors catch your attention, and you take your time because God knows David is taking his. A little bit of you revels in your own petty victory when, a half-hour later, Uncontrolled Bleeding begins to blare their metallic, screaming anthems across the park and you haven’t returned to the grand stand. 

You find your way back to the jewellery vendor to ponder over your favourite necklace some more, but your night gets worse when you find that it’s disappeared from the headless display mannequin. You solemnly slide your wallet back into your bag and pause when you hear your phone ringing.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” It’s David’s voice, presumably, though it’s so loud on the other end of the line that you can barely make out his words. “I can’t… where… left?”

You plug one ear and look vaguely in the direction of the grand stand across the park. “I can’t hear you very well, David.”

“… afterparty… downtown… going… Uber home?”

You press your lips together and look down at the ground: at your pretty sandals, your new dress. Your entirely wasted potential on a guy who wanted you to find your own way home. “Yeah, David,” you say tightly. You don’t particularly care if he can hear you. “You have fun with your friends.”

“Can’t hear… talk later… okay?”

You hang up and wander back toward the vendor selling elephant ears. 

~

“Miller.”

“Hi, Joel.”

“Honey, it’s loud. Can barely hear you. Are you safe?”

“I’m safe, Joel, I promise. It’s just—Uncontrolled Bleeding.”

“What?”

“No, I mean, the band. They’re really loud. I hate to ask, and I know it’s late, but—”

“What do you need?”

“I, uh… I need a ride home. I can’t get a cab, and all the Ubers around are taken, and the busses are rerouted all the way—”

“I’m comin’ to get you. You just wait for me at the entrance, okay, baby girl?”

“Thank you, Joel.”

“You know I said you could call me for anything. I meant it.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Oh! Wait—”

“What? What is it?”

“Do you want an elephant ear?”

~

Joel is white-knuckling the steering wheel when he arrives to pick you up. Despite the congestion around the festival grounds and the fact that your apartment is at least fifteen minutes away, Joel makes it to you in a mere five.

“Did you blow every red light to get here, Mr. Miller?” you ask with a playful smile as you secure your seatbelt and settle on the truck bench.

“I was in the area,” he says with a crooked smile, looking your way. “May have pushed forty a couple times, though.”

You sheepishly extend a cardboard takeout box filled with fried, powdered dough. “Will you take this as my sincere thanks, or will you expect a separate batch of lemon squares?”

Joel answers by dipping his head and taking a bite of the flattened, doughy bread. You watch every minute movement, his strong jaw working as he chews, indulging you even though he’s already done far too much to get you out of this rut. He doesn’t once break eye contact while he eats; you begin to chew subconsciously on your bottom lip.

“Ain’t bad,” he declares at last, and your shoulders deflate with a kind of relief, “but if you let me take you for some real dinner, I’ll forget about that extra batch.”

You tentatively reach for his mouth and swipe some powdered sugar from his moustache with the pad of your thumb. You feel his eyes scanning your face all the while. “Look at me, the lucky girl,” you say softly. “One date goes wrong, and there’s a strong, handsome man waiting to take me on another.”

From the very first day, Joel Miller has always taken his time when it comes to looking at you. It’s a penetrative stare that makes your skin heat up from the tips of your ears down to your chest. His eyes are so dark, pools of warm melted sugar, and you feel yourself leaning, trancelike, slow, into that cavernous gaze. Your body is not your own. It seeks the subtle warmth, the familiar scent—sawdust, coffee beans, rich, dark cologne—and the violent torrent of sensation that erupts from the contact point when he cups your cheek in one hand. 

You’re in the throes of attention, warm as a candle weeping fat waxen tears.

“Told you before,” says Joel, his thumb sweeping fondly across your chin, “you deserve somethin’ real.”

“Yeah,” you sigh happily, feeling all-too complacent under the touch of his rough palm, “maybe I do.”

Behind you, a car honks its horn, and Joel curses, pulling away from the curb. He takes you to Turner’s, a bar by campus that would be crawling with students if it weren’t for the festival. Joel comes around to the passenger’s door and opens it for you, helping you hop out with your hand enclosed in his. His palm is a steady weight on your back as you both walk inside the dim, stuffy bar. 

The back is bustling with activity—drunk folks playing pool or watching the Huskies’ football game or splitting their attention between both—but the bar itself has enough spaces open to fit the two of you. Here, the light is burnt orange, and it makes the strands of grey in his hair shimmer gold. His eyes observe his surroundings with a military precision before they flit back to you, magnetic.

“Shame to waste this dress on that asshole,” says Joel, sweeping his gaze down, back up, barely perceptible. “You’re too goddamn pretty for any of ‘em.”

You’re deliciously abuzz with the incisive way he compliments you. It feels like being punctured down to your very soul; you will never forget the shape of the stain his words leave. “Do you spy on all my dates, Joel?”

He smirks. “Don’t need to spy on ‘em, baby. They’re a bunch of obnoxious kids.”

You huff, resting your cheek against your palm. “I just don’t get it. I thought David was just fine. Then, he takes me on a date just to abandon me for his friends and tell me to find my own way home.”

Joel shakes his head, scoffing as he runs his fingers through his beard. He does that when he’s frustrated sometimes, and you wonder if his hair is soft or coarse. “Piece of shit doesn't know how good he got it.”

“You must know something I don’t,” you say mirthlessly, watching the bartender approach from the other end of the long honey-oak block. “I haven't been able to get a second date since I moved in.”

Joel is silent, eyes still firmly fixed to you, until the bartender arrives, a charming middle-aged woman with a particular Texan twang you could recognise from a mile away. “What’ll it be, Joel?” she asks, giving him a sweet dimpled smile. “Hi, honey. This old man botherin’ you?”

“Only in a nice way,” you reply, squeezing his shoulder. 

Joel hides his grin with a swipe of his fingers over his bottom lip. “Coffee for me, Rina. Drivin’ home.”

Rina’s eyes slide to you, and you ask for the same. You don't want to drink alone. She reappears moments later with two small, chipped mugs of dark roast in her hands. Setting them in front of you, she takes your food orders: a BLT for Joel and a veggie burger for yourself. It’s almost ten o’clock now, too late to eat, but your eyes droop sleepily and your stomach growls for a taste of real food. The powdered dough, shockingly, did not suffice. 

“You ever miss Texas?” Joel asks once you're halfway into your respective meals. You notice that he only digs into his sandwich when you aren't eating, and abstains briefly to watch while you take your bites. It's an exchange of energy, a steady vigil by your side, the hypnotic pull of his warm body. You cannot scoot any closer to him, but your leg brushes his where you rest your foot on his barstool. 

“I wish I remembered more of it,” you tell him. “I grew up a big city girl. Even lost my accent a year into being away. My dad would tease me about it all the time. Said I’d been gentrified.” You fondly shake your head. “Miss him like hell.”

“I can still hear it sometimes,” says Joel, tilting his head to the side, “when you get all passionate about somethin’. Like the time I installed your deadbolt and you tried to explain away your Backstreet Boys CD.”

You put your head in your hands. “Oh, God. I thought you'd forgotten.”

“Nuh-uh, baby, you ain't easy to forget. And I like when you get excited. You get this look in your eye.”

“Yeah?” You slide your foot up his ankle and bring the leg of his jeans with it. Up, down, you keep going, letting the relative darkness embolden you, his sweet little pet names and his silent adequacy enabling what is most definitely inappropriate behaviour. “Tell me about this look, Joel.”

He rests his elbow up on the bar and squares his broad shoulders to you. They eclipse all the other patrons behind him. “You've got pretty eyes,” he tells you. “First thing I noticed when I met you all those months ago. Saw how they lit up when you smiled. Heard your happiness when you told me about Texas. It was nice to be the reason you smiled, ‘n’ I just wanted to make it happen again. I couldn't say no to you. Don't know how any man ever could.”

The revelation stuns you in your seat. His expression telegraphs little save for his attentiveness, his posture locked parallel with yours, singularly focused on the way you react to him. 

You try for a joke. “And I was the only applicant.”

It crumbles, sand in your mouth. Something has shifted. Joel isn't the type to shy away from a conversation, but his gaze hasn't once shifted from your face. It feels like flames licking your cheeks, the heat of that look pushing in on both sides, inescapable. You find that you enjoy the way his attention makes you preen; you want him to look at you. 

He thinks you have pretty eyes. 

“You know that ain't the reason why,” he says, whisper-quiet and gruff amid the vague chatter in the bar. 

“Why, Joel?” you ask, spine straightening, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. As you suspected, his eyes flick down your face, lashes obscuring the precise shade of his irises. 

His Adam’s apple dips. “‘Cause I like you,” he says, the feeling of it like the slide of suede down your spine, “and I wanna keep you safe.”

You shrug slightly, giving him a smile. “I feel pretty safe.”

Joel’s hand drops to the bar top and his fingertips brush yours. The touch jolts your sleepy mind awake. “You're too good for every single one of those assholes you bring around. You know that, right?”

“I’m beginning to understand.” 

“You deserve someone who's gonna be good to you. Give you all the attention you need. Make you… happy.”

You swallow thickly, the candle flame pressing in, sucking the oxygen from your lungs. “Thank you, Joel.”

His fingers begin to creep up every ridge of your knuckles, slowly turning over your palm so it faces the ceiling. The rough pad of his thumb traces the long lifeline inside. 

“Repeat it.”

His eyes lift to yours, and for a moment, there’s something in them that ignites an instinct inside you to flee. There's danger in those eyes: the careful, measured restraint of a man who knows more anger than he lets show. A flicker, brief but incandescent, passes through your head, an electrical current. 

He’s the reason you never had a second date. 

It disappears the instant it comes, the Paterian glimpse of an idea in its entirety fleeing for the horizon, and the instinct recedes in favour of the warm, melting sensation his fingers disseminate through your bones. 

“I deserve someone who will be good to me,” you repeat, like a mantra. “I deserve someone who’s going to make me happy, and keep me safe.”

“That's right,” says Joel, brushing his thumb along the veins in your wrist. You feel the shiver, but you're locked to him, your eyes unable to take in any information apart from the way he feels, looks, smells. “You're a good girl, baby.”

Your lashes flutter and a sweeping rush of pressure descends on your core at the way those words sound on his tongue. You picture him directing you to your knees and calling you a good girl while you take his big cock between your lips, imagine the way he would hiss through his teeth, good fuckin’ girl, that’s it, baby girl, while he fucks you from behind, merciless. Hands and tongues and limbs would mould into one another, amalgamate, becoming indistinguishable. 

He would be good to you. You know it. He’s always been good to you. 

“Joel?” 

“Hmm.” Fingers still make idle patterns on your forearm. 

“I think you should take a look at my sink when you get a chance. It might be broken.”

No amount of coy suggestion could make him ignorant to your desire for closeness. You can feel your body screaming for it, grasping at him with buffed claws. Joel smirks, looking down at your foot making a path up and down his ankle. 

“I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

~

It’s two o’clock in the morning when a shuffling outside your bedroom door guides you out of a decent sleep. In total silence, the most minute noises can be deafening. But it sounds, to your sleep-addled brain, like the hasty retreat of footsteps. 

You blink awake, shifting onto your other side to peer above the darkness of your doorway. Through the bleary haze in your eyes, you notice a tiny red light in the upper corner of the room.  

You squint, rubbing your eyes furiously to pry them open wide, but your vision is the static grain of an old television, and your eyes refuse to adjust. Instead, you grumble, pulling your comforter over your head, and go back to sleep. 

You’ll tell Joel tomorrow.

THE LANDLORD

He cannot wait until the morning.

The nighttime, he discovered long ago, is a friend. It’s the gentle descent of darkness, the horizontal fall of the golden-hour sunlight scanning the entirety of the apartment before it at last succumbs to silent, tar-black night. Occasionally, a car will pass below, or the honk of a horn will tear jaggedly through the quiet, but most times, Joel can sink comfortably into the dark and assume his post.

Six months ago, he showed some restraint. 

Of course, the connection was instantaneous—the pretty girl standing in his foyer with a radiant smile on her face, drinking in the chipped paint and ancient railings and furniture imprinted with years of use, arrested all movement of his heart. You wore a white dress and a pair of strappy sandals, not suited whatsoever for walking the city but perfectly tailored to make an impression. You arrived punctually, all smiles and handshakes and Southern politeness despite your insistence that you'd left it all behind. You shone. And when Joel slid his rough, work-worn hand into yours, dipping his gaze to watch the way he dwarfed your fingers, he felt a tremor roll gently from your body to his, thunder over a mountain. He wanted to chase the next lightning strike. 

It began leisurely, like a hobby, something he could go to when life got a little much. He watched you come home, examining the way your shoulders rounded slightly when you were upset and the way you wiggled your fingers in a wave to those passing by when you were happy. He watched, typically from the garden out front, as you pranced about your balcony on cool mornings to the electronic croonings of Britney Spears, curled up in a chair with a blanket over your legs and a coffee mug warming your hands, or watered your thriving plants from where they hung in the direct morning sunlight. Your day-to-day became his day-to-day. 

And then, he was doing more than merely watching. He was following. 

Your favourite coffee place by the apartment building, just a block away. He lingered far behind that first morning, his fingers twitching in your direction before the rest of his body steered him. The neighbourhood wasn't so great back then, prone to muggings and the like. He wanted to keep you safe. That was all.

You ordered something cold, too sweet for his tastes, and sat for a while as you worked. The barista spent the rest of your time there eyeing you up whenever he could. Joel scoffed. He wouldn't know what the fuck to do with you. Just a goddamn kid. 

He followed you to work and back, on those rare days he wasn't occupied maintaining the grounds. You sat in a corner cubicle with a decent amount of sunlight and typed away on your laptop all day. Joel monitored the company’s publications just so he could have a glimpse of the way you wrote; he wasn't interested in makeup, but he bought a subscription to Viva because he wanted to trace his fingers over your name in those small italic letters. MANAGING EDITOR. 

Your writing is clean, efficient, and smooth. It reads like velvet. He keeps a pile of magazines and newsletters tucked in the back of his bookshelf. For the August edition, they printed your interview with a local prizewinning novelist; you beamed in the picture, photographed in your favourite coffee shop, so happy and so generous, sharing your talent with others. 

He was so fucking proud. 

Five months ago, he watched you bring a date home for the first time. 

It blindsided him. He could not prepare, plan, or sabotage. He could not do a thing as you guided the man—a fucking kid with a too-big ego, grinning smugly for his imminent conquest—inside the elevator. Joel could only watch helplessly, wiping his brow from his precarious place on the ladder, as you walked past him with no more than a soft, sweet smile. He never forgot the painful imprint of that smile on his eyelids. It still burns his eyes late at night, when he stays awake inside his office, monitoring his dual screens. He will pinch the bridge of his nose and close his eyes just to replay the memory of that look. 

The kid left the next morning, before you woke. He never contacted you again. You trudged into the lobby that day, a weariness in your eyes that did not match the vibrant colour of your dress. You spoke idly to another woman in the elevator about your broken thermostat, hugging yourself to keep warm. 

It was working perfectly a few hours later, and there was a bouquet of roses waiting for you at the concierge’s desk. Fiddling with the red ribbon, tears welling in your eyes, you asked who the admirer was. Sam shrugged his shoulders, but when you turned to look out the front windows, you saw Joel tending to the red roses in the garden bed. 

It earned him the first taste of your baking. Biting into one of those moist, warm brownies felt like melting a little piece of you down and moulding it into the shape of his mouth. It felt like taking a piece of the girl he’d coveted for weeks and rolling it over his tongue, keeping it. Swallowing it down. There it rested inside his stomach until the next time he did you right. 

He wanted to tell you no. To insist that he would do anything to make you feel good even if you wanted nothing to do with him. To make it clear that he did everything for you, not for some feeble professional relationship between a landlord and his tenant. He breathed you. He needed you. 

So, four months ago, he began to watch you through the cameras.

They’re small, discreet, tucked into holes in the wall that have been spackled over, repainted, re-sanded. He ran the wiring while you were at work, listening to your CDs on loop to get a better sense of the earworms you hummed on your way out the door every morning. One in the living room, one by the entrance, and one in the bedroom. 

He could keep you safe this way. This way, he would know if those men you brought you home were treating you right—fucking you like you deserved. 

You were so goddamn pretty when you came. For months Joel had sat in his office, slicked-up cock in his hand, jerking himself hard and fast to the pictures of you in Viva. For months he’d spilled over his fingers, on his belly, on the glossy pages of the magazines. The heady, cloying scent of his own sweat and cum stuck to his nostrils. It wasn’t enough. He could imagine wrenching open your tight little pussy all he wanted—the slow, heavy drag of his cock between your hot, wet walls and the sweet noises he’d steal from your tongue—but it wasn’t the satisfaction he needed. 

Joel needed you. Your body, your smile, your voice. He needed to wrap you tight around every vein, a tourniquet, squeezing until all feeling was lost.

You would be his, in time. He just needed to make it so.

The first time he watched you pleasure yourself, rain pattered gently against the window panes and thunder echoed in the distance. A couple grids had already lost power, and Joel had a backup generator if the apartment was next, but you did not seem to mind one bit that the storm drew closer. You clicked off the television, retired to the confines of your bed and its soft white linens, and slipped your hand beneath your flimsy shorts. Joel sat upright, his back creaking in protest, his knuckles white around the edge of his desk as he watched, unblinking, the way your fingers gently circled your clit. 

He didn't touch his cock once that night, no matter how deeply his own need tugged at him. He couldn't look away from the camera feed for fear that he may miss the moment you reached your orgasm. 

When it arrived, it was delicious to watch. Your back arched, your lips parted, and your eyes fluttered shut, fingers rapidly rubbing your slick pussy as you seized under your own ministrations and slowly settled, melting into the mattress. He needed to see more. He needed to be there. 

You were a chiaroscuro of savoury, sultry magnetism and the ichor of the morning sunlight. You were kind and thoughtful. You were gentle, patient, attentive. You were one hell of a baker. You were so fucking sexy it made his tongue prickle with the prospective taste, the anticipation of touching your soft skin engulfing any sense. Reason had no place in Joel Miller’s mind when it came to the sweet girl upstairs. 

Three months ago, you had recovered from the evident betrayal inherent in expecting more from your date than a one-night stand. The next man was older, a partner at a law firm, and took you to dinner at a nice restaurant. He asked questions about you and reciprocated your enthusiasm for good cuisine. He was kind and treated you well. But an incendiary rage ignited in Joel at the sight of the bastard’s hand on your lower back. Another man was touching you. Another man was getting close to you, making you smile, whispering in your ear. Another man was attempting to claim what was rightfully his. 

Joel followed your date home that night instead. He lived in a high-rise downtown, the sort of building that had a doorman and a valet. 

Joel followed him down to the underground lot with a lead pipe in hand. 

“‘scuse me.”

He shut his car door and turned around, giving Joel a polite smile. “What can I do for you?”

A calculated sheepish scratch on the back of his head. “Just… ah, shit, I don’t mean to bother, but my engine isn't turnin' over and my phone died. Mind if I used yours?”

He patted his pockets for his cell and gave it enthusiastically. Joel did not take the phone. He used the proximity to pull the man close and bring the pipe down across his head. 

Blood bloomed, pretty and potent and rich as the roses he planted for you. The body made little noise, the skull shattered upon impact, the legs crumpling. It could never have been much of a man, going down so fucking quick. Should've put up a fight. 

The man must not have liked you very much to let himself die. Joel, whose eyelids were tattooed with your radiant smile, would have crawled his way back out of a certain grave. Joel loved you. You belonged to him. This was a necessary consequence. 

The pipe was dented by the time he was finished. Joel sank to his knees once the body fell, bringing it down again and again, the meticulous arc of the rusted metal uniquely stirring. It felt so fucking good, battering the skull to pieces, blood and brain and bone fragments accumulating on the ground and the pipe and his face. It felt good knowing he had kept another man from betraying you, hurting you, fucking you only to leave in a blur. He was being altruistic. He was becoming a good man for you. 

Joel, kneeling in the pool of warm blood until his jeans were soaked crimson, rubbed his hand down his face and smeared the blood across it. Chest heaving, he let the grin stretch his face. 

He had found his calling. 

Two months ago, he slipped inside your apartment while you were asleep.

You had a rough day. Your boss insisted the company could not afford to give you a raise despite skyrocketing share prices and all the fucking work you’d done for them. The rain started just before you left the building, holding back tears, and a car splashed icy, muddy water on you during your walk home. Salt in the wound. You were sniffling as you let yourself into the apartment, your hands trembling with the effort of shouldering your bag and your misery. Joel approached you from behind and lifted the bag onto his shoulder. 

“Hi, Joel.” Sad and soft and still so polite despite it all. 

“Hey.” He opened every door for you on the way to the elevator and rode it up with you for good measure. “Wanna talk about it?”

You just shook your head and sidled up next to him, your cheek resting on his shoulder. He held his breath, overcome with the sensation that if he moved an inch, the spell would break, and the comfort you sought from him would slip between your fingers. Your arm brushed his, your dewy lashes fluttering as you finally let yourself relax. Joel inhaled, and the scent of you cleaved him down the middle: rain and perfume. 

“Would you give me a raise?”

He looked down at you and smiled. “For a batch of those cupcakes, I’d give you whatever you like.”

It was a half-truth. He’d give you whatever you wanted, cupcakes or no. The sound of your laughter dripped into his bloodstream, saline. It cleansed him of the wrongs he'd committed. He was doing what needed to be done. The world had to realise it turned for you, and then all would be right. 

Hours later, when the sun finally dipped below the horizon, shrouded by distant skyscrapers, he sneaked his way inside. His master key made easy work of the lock, but he had to pull the chain lock off with a pair of pliers because his hands could not reach between the gap. He made clinical work of it and stepped inside. 

There was a chair in the corner of your bedroom for days you felt like reading by the window. Joel lowered himself into it and began his vigil. 

It was a science to study the way you slept. He began to learn the patterns of your breathing, the minute movements of your limbs and how they translated to the moods of your dreaming. The amount of times you turned around, groaned, or hummed correlated directly to the sort of day you'd had. He began to map your tells in his head, drawing them out, formulating blueprints of the simple things that made you. 

To Joel, it was like connecting a red string between thumb tacks, like pouring the varnish over a finished painting, sealing a promise, closing an envelope. He enjoyed the satisfactory slotting of each puzzle piece into place, creating your image, finally knowing you.

By then, he’d caught the virus. He’d let himself get close, and now he was infected with it—that insatiable need to be near, to watch, to admire from mere feet away. 

He continued to acquaint himself over the weeks with your sleeping self to supplement the time he could not spend with you while you were awake. On more than one occasion, he got careless, letting himself succumb to sleep in that corner chair, joining you in the dream world. In those dreams, you were wrapped up in his body, warm and soft and tight, and he was taking. He was behind you, on top of you, beneath you, forcing you to look in the mirror as he spread you open on his cock and wrapped his fingers around your throat. In those dreams, your eyes rolled back and your lips moulded to the shape of Joel, yes, oh my God, and he'd whisper back to you—my sweet girl, my good fuckin’ girl, all mine. 

And you were. You were his. 

Tonight, he followed you to the festival. 

He watched you make a beeline for the necklace you wanted only to pout when you saw it had disappeared. He watched your face fall as David’s rejection sank bone-deep. He reeled in his own gnawing rage, pushing deep down that urge to storm right in and rip out the asshole’s throat with his goddamn teeth, and waited until you called him. 

He knew you would. You trusted him. You needed him. You needed a strong, capable man to take care of you the way you deserved. So he waited inside his truck by the phone, happy to at last hear your sweet voice on the other end of the line. 

Thank you, Joel. 

He tucked those words under his ribs, letting them flower and spread. Those words gave him purpose, made him buzz with erratic energy, validated all his actions. He was doing everything right. 

Your dress was so fucking pretty. Jesus, he wanted to slip his hands under the hem, finger the waistband of those pink panties he knew you were wearing, and bunch the fabric up around your hips as he stuffed you full of his dick. Fuck, he would fill you up with his cum and tuck your panties back over your abused pussy, keeping all of him safe inside. You’d be so happy. You’d get drunk off his cock, begging for it, crying for it. He’d give you everything. 

You do feel safe with him. You said it yourself. 

Now, leaning against the doorway in your bedroom, Joel turns the heart-shaped pendant over and over in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the smooth gold surface. It’s cool and quaint and will kiss your skin beautifully. But he needs to wait for the right time. He needs to make sure you’re ready. 

The sense memory of your fingers on his skin, gracious and gentle, the way you always are, is pushing at the edges of his control. 

There's no one like you. He’s never been more certain of anything. 

You're so goddamn sweet in those tiny silk pyjamas, your body curled up on the bed and your leg slung over a large pillow. You may feel cold and lonely at night, but that's only for now. He won't let you feel alone much longer; his body calls to you, singing your name. He has only so much restraint, and he's been waiting for six months. 

Your lips are slightly parted, your face smooth and serene under the spell of sleep. You're the reason he fixes what's broken. The world needs to be better for you. It needs to be safe and bright and perfect. 

He planted tulips today. You’ll appreciate them, he thinks. He wants you to wake up to vibrant colours every morning and go to sleep knowing that he thinks about you. 

You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft moan leaving your mouth as you hug the pillow closer. Joel straightens in the doorway, wondering if your mind can sense him nearby. He doesn't know what he would do with himself if you were dreaming about him. His eyes move from your pretty face down your chest, barely concealed by the tiny top you're wearing, to find the apex of your thighs, temptingly spread on the mattress. 

He won't. He can't. You’ll never trust him if he loses himself to desire. Joel grits his teeth, his cock achingly hard in his jeans, and unbuckles his belt as silently as he can. He pulls out his dick and squeezes himself at the base, staving off what he knows will be a too-fast orgasm. You move again, your body stretching out on the bed. Joel spits into his palm and begins to stroke his cock. 

He can see a sliver of your waist where your shirt rides up, half of your ass where your leg is slung over the pillow, and your tits smushed together just over the hem of that scrap of a top. You're all of his fucking fantasies rolled into one. Joel breathes hard through his nostrils, his fist tight around the tip of his cock. 

He wants to shuck down those little shorts and put his face in your pretty pussy. He wants to grab your hips and guide his cock inside you. He wants to slide into your addictive cunt until you forget your name. Until you forget every name but his. Your soul will be stained with him. His has never forgotten your shape.

God, your tight pussy would feel so fucking good around his cock. He jerks himself roughly, bracing his hand against the doorframe when a little whimper leaves your mouth. Fuck, he mouths, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw begins to ache. He fucks his own fist, sloppy and unrefined, eyes fixed to your waiting pussy between creamy-soft thighs. His cock dwarfs your slit, eager to spread you open—he’ll fix so nicely once he gets you ready. 

Joel feels his stomach tighten, his balls pulling up, his jaw taut as he brings himself to a high over your body the way he has so many times. He switches so he can jerk off into the hand around which his gift to you is coiled, spilling his cum all over his fingers and the necklace as he bites into the heel of his palm. His spine decompresses and his cock slowly softens in his hand, the tension briefly relieved. His fist gradually loosens around the cum-slick necklace; the heart has imprinted its shape into his palm. 

You stir, turning over in your bed, and Joel hastily departs, tucking his cock back into his jeans. He has enjoyed this brief interlude, but he has work to do. 

Besides, he’ll see you in a few hours. He knows damn well the sink works just fine, but he’ll take any excuse to see you again. And it seems you’ll do the same. 

~

Joel keeps him in a spare apartment in the building, one whose walls have been padded for soundproofing. 

Joel’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows and he's occupying the chair across from David, who's taking his sweet fuckin’ time waking up. Joel’s been pacing for a half-hour, rubbing his fingers over his bottom lip, contemplative, but the bastard won't move. 

So Joel takes a seat, grabs a fistful of the kid’s hair, and yanks it forcefully so he’s staring him right in the face. 

One eye is already blackened—Joel got a little carried away. The sedative worked perfectly, but David has a punchable face. It took all he had not to keep going. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” says Joel as the kid slowly blinks awake, bleary and unfocused. “Eyes on me, now. Don't want you slippin’ away again.”

David only stares for a moment, gears grinding gently to life in his brain Once that animal instinct kicks in, the kid starts writhing against his restraints, bucking hard in Joel’s unrelenting grip. It's useless, of course. He’s tied by the wrists and ankles. Helpless. 

Good. 

“What—why the fuck… let me fucking go, man, please,” groans the kid. 

“You made a mistake, David,” says Joel. “Think I’m gonna forget about that?”

David whimpers, flexing his hands subconsciously as pain undoubtedly prickles his scalp. Joel hasn't let go of his hair. “Please just let me go, man. I swear I didn't do anything. If you want money, I’ve got money.”

Joel smirks, a scoff slipping out. This is rich. The delectable flame licks up his throat again, indistinguishable from the pleasure of a good meal, a good fuck. It's craving. It’s darkness. He sinks deeper. 

“You think it's manly to leave your date for your friends and leave her to find a way home herself? You think it's funny to treat her like a little toy and then leave her when you're done?” Joel sneers. “You didn't even call her back, David.”

He whines out another please, his ankles ineffectually kicking out. “I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Just let me go. Fuck, it hurts.”

“You don't know,” says Joel, repeating it, slow and savoury, rolling it around in his mouth. “You wanna know the most insulting part, David? You don't even care. You made her upset, and you didn't get on your goddamn knees to beg her forgiveness. You didn't do everything in your fuckin’ power to get her back.” Joel brings the knife from his pocket and idly pushes the tip into David’s cheek. “You think she ain't worth that, David? Tell me the truth, now.”

David shrieks, hysterical, the terror and pain so fucking delicious that Joel gulps it down and yet still wants. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? No bitch is fucking worth it. She was cute, but that's it, I swear. I didn't know she had a boyfriend. I wouldn't have—”

The knife digs, gouges, splitting skin and prodding muscle. Joel can feel the edge of the blade slot between the kid’s teeth. He howls, screaming for help to nobody that can help, not quite gone enough yet to realise his utter hopelessness. Joel will have to rectify that.

“Oh, I ain't her boyfriend yet,” Joel says calmly. “But I am hers, way she's mine. And you hurt what's mine. I can’t forget that.”

The knife retreats to admire its handiwork. The cheek is split, the edges jagged, spitting blood. The kid’s tears slip down his face and dip into the wound, salty enough to hurt. He screams and he cries and it’s beginning to get on Joel’s nerves.

“Please stop,” he cries, watching his assailant rear back and grip the knife tight, like an ice pick. “Please… fuck, please—!”

He’s getting real sick of that word. Please. A mere please can’t excuse the look he put on your face last night. A please will not absolve him of the cardinal sin. 

No one—no one—makes you frown. 

Joel sinks the knife into David’s knee, using both hands to drive it to the hilt. The kid’s face is ashen, white and grey as clouds rolling in, and his frail screams begin to peter out; he’s losing consciousness. Joel won’t have that—not until he’s finished.

“Stop whinin’, David. A real man falls in front of his woman and makes things right. A real man fixes what's broken. And a real man”—he twists the knife, gorging, glutting on the feeling of making amends on your behalf—“does everything in his power to show her he loves her.” 

“Please…” The final, feeble attempt of a doomed man to return from the cliff’s edge. 

Joel stands, adjusting his grip on the kid’s hair, and brings his knife just beneath his chin. When he drives it upward, he can see the shimmer of the blade through David’s slack, open mouth. 

“I told you to stop whinin’.” 

~

He’s in your bedroom again. 

He felt the need calling to him, vibrating with a particular intensity he could not ignore. He rarely comes to see you twice in one night, but now that he's here, he knows it was the only way to settle his nerves. 

You're asleep, lips parted against your pillow and a piece of hair fluttering in front of your face with every exhale. Joel approaches your bedside and tucks it safely behind your ear. You don't wake, but you hum sleepily, hugging your pillow closer. Joel smiles, satisfaction sinking deep and assured into his core. He's done right by you. You’ll go happily to him. Moth to a gemlike flame. 

He wanders around the edge of the bed, gaze lazily indulging in your body as he goes. His cock twitches again with a need he cannot yet meet, the desire to move your panties aside and fill you with him. He does not. He kneels at your bedside, closest to where your legs have scissored apart beneath your sheets. The temptingly sweet call of that warm place between your thighs has Joel shifting your comforter aside and ghosting his fingers across the soft skin of your calf. 

Your breathing deepens slightly, like you're sucking in a long mouthful of air, and then you settle. It's the only indication you give that you can feel his presence. And then it’s gone, and he’s hooking his fingers in the waistband of your pretty panties and bestowing upon himself what he's only seen through screens for months. 

You're spread open and glistening, an indication of some preceding dream or fantasy playing out in that keen, busy mind. Your body is wholly pliant, so soft and glowing in the faint silvery light streaming in from the window, and it would be so easy to—

No. He will not taste you. If he does, he won’t stop. You need to trust him. There is blood on his hands that hasn’t yet washed clean, and he will not imprint those rust-red fingerprints on your body. You’re his world—what kind of man willingly imparts such pain onto a world he loves?

Some infinitesimal fractal lodged in Joel’s head obliged him to return to you tonight, to cleanse himself of the events that transpired under the illicit cover of night. The very sight of you reminds him what he’s doing this for. He crushes his nose into the wet spot that darkens your panties and inhales deeply, acquiring some sense of what you will taste like. The smell makes his head go fuzzy, intoxicated, tang and sweetness and impending gratification. In your sleep, you sigh, melting against the mattress.

Joel brings your panties back up over your pussy and thinks, Tomorrow. 

THE TENANT

You're miserable when Joel knocks on your door the next day. 

“He hasn't called me,” you tell him, letting yourself stew, sulking from the feeling of yet another man deciding you weren’t worth a follow-up phone call. “Am I repulsive? Am I a total freak? Is it something in my perfume?”

Joel looks down at you, lips parted as if on the precipice of a response, sweeping his gaze up and down your body. You’re wearing a simple sweater and skirt, but fuck, he can make you feel naked. His gaze penetrates deeper than flesh. It’s only then you realise he’s holding coffee. 

Two cups of coffee. 

“Oh, Joel,” you sigh, licking your bottom lip. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” he says with a crooked smile, his voice a bit raspy, as if caught off-guard. He hands you your favourite drink—caramel macchiato, double espresso—from your favourite place down the block, and you could kiss him with how good it feels to hold the cool, condensation-slick cup in your hands. Your entire body deflates with the first sip. 

“You’re my hero,” you tell him. “I mean it.”

Joel shakes his head fondly. “You got a funny sense of heroics.”

“They taste exactly like this,” you say playfully, tracing the rim of the plastic cup. “Thank you, Joel.”

He swipes his thumb across your chin. “It’s only coffee, baby.”

Since last night, something is inexplicably different. A new, once-forbidden boundary has been crossed. It may be technically inappropriate for your landlord to bring you coffee, touch you so intimately, call you baby. But it makes you feel like warm melting honey, and who is to say a feeling like that is wrong?

He’s wearing a blue T-shirt today. His hair is tousled like he slept on it, and your fingers tingle with the anticipatory sensation of how it would feel to take fistfuls of his locks in your hands. He’s stunning. And you catch yourself staring too late, tearing your gaze away the way one retracts their hand after burning it on the stovetop. Your heart skittering, you direct Joel to the sink and plan some excuse in your head for why it has miraculously fixed itself overnight. 

But he doesn’t even spare a glance toward any of your appliances. He’s only looking at you. 

“I got somethin’ else,” he says, almost shy, reaching into his pocket for a tiny box. 

He grimaces when your eyes, wide and obviously panicked, meet his. “Jesus, I didn’t really think about how this looks. I’m not… proposin’, I swear.”

You both release a nervous laugh, but you cannot deny that your nerves are still fluttering at the sight of that simple suede box in his big hands.

He opens the lid and you gasp. It’s your necklace—the very same heart-shaped pendant you had been eyeing up at the festival. It’s shiny and polished and precisely, undeniably, the same one. “Oh my God,” you whisper, gently sliding your finger over the cool golden pendant. “It’s beautiful. Joel, how did you…”

“Turn around,” he says softly, the gentle direction guiding you better than any hand could. You obey, and Joel steps forward until his hard chest is flush to your back. He’s warm and sure and smells so good—cologne and coffee and mint and something potent, like iron—and all your questions fizzle to sparks in the air. You can no longer grasp for them. You reach out and you only find him.

His touch is careful. The heart-shaped pendant settles against your breastbone and shimmers in the afternoon light. Your chest briefly shimmers with the thought that you were made to wear this necklace. His large, rough hands ghost across the back of your neck as he secures the clasp, and you shiver. A single knuckle trails slowly down your spine, bumping every vertebrae on the way. 

“It ain't your perfume.” His deep, grumbling voice is equivalent to the scratch of his beard against your temple as his jaw moves with each word. “And you're nothin’ close to repulsive. Look in that mirror and tell me what you see.”

There is a mirror, a full-length one by the entrance to your apartment, and it's surreal to watch your own body turn to face it, to watch yourself defer entirely to the man behind you. It feels nice to just let him steer you every which way. 

“I see you,” you tell him, your hand lifting to the pendant on your throat. “And this.”

Joel clicks his tongue, his nose sliding up your temple. “What else do you see?”

You watch your lashes flutter, your head listing slightly to the side. “I see myself.”

“Hmm.” It’s a sound of approval, his palm now sliding around your waist and his arm banding across your body. He presses his hand to your hip bone and pulls you back against him. “Such a beautiful girl in that mirror. Ain't that right?”

“Joel, I…” You can feel his swelling erection prodding your ass and your head feels hazy with a heady, lustful desire you can no longer ignore or dismiss. “I don't think we should be…”

“No?” His mouth curves against your temple and you shiver at the coarse scratch of his moustache on your skin. It feels deliberate, premeditated. “I won’t tell a soul,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking your hip right where the hem of your sweater begins to inch upward. You can see a strip of your own bare stomach in the mirror. He’s making your eyes droop, your lashes flutter, your body light up from one nerve ending to the next, a closed circuit.

Oh, God. His touch is measured, gentle yet barely restrained. It is dipping a finger into the water just as it nears its boiling point. Months of staring and dreaming and retreating to your bed to touch yourself to thoughts of someone you cannot touch have led you here: his necklace, his gift to you, sitting prettily on your throat, his capable hands moulding you slowly to the shape of him. He’s touching you. 

“You like me?” His voice rubs hard on your ears, sanding you down, smoothing the rough edges. He lets you linger on the precipice, a firm grip on your hand, letting you make the choice: to let go, or to reel yourself in. 

“I like you,” you whisper, snapping the tether and plummeting to the warm, wet earth below.

You watch Joel’s eyes close in the mirror, something like a prayer falling from his lips. It does not take the shape of words—it is gruff and yet soft, hardly loud enough to discern over the ringing in your ears—but it’s so reverent that you can picture yourself falling to your knees at the sound of it. 

His hand skims up your waist until he finds your throat, gently pinching your jaw so he can direct the turn of your head. You go easily, tilting your gaze back to rest your temple on his shoulder, as his other hand slides up from your hip to your ribs, grazing the underside of your breast. “You like me enough to touch you like this?” 

You gasp, finding an anchor in the deep brown—nearly black, now—of his eyes. They’re warm  but they’re dangerous; once you look, the cage door slides shut, and you’re trapped. 

This must be one of your many dreams.

“Yes, Joel.”

“Mmm.” He smirks, teasing his tongue across his plush bottom lip. You watch the movement and feel yourself tightening, want want want a chorus in your ears. “You wanna kiss me, baby girl?”

Silently, you nod, your fingers gently sliding through his silky locks while your other hand seeks the strong balancing force of his shoulder. His smile sobers to a deep, stunning severity, and you cannot think to let it frighten you when you’re already slanting your mouth over his. 

It starts slowly. His mouth is soft, his hands deftly returning the fervour with which you hold him, cupping the back of your neck with his other hand warming your ribs. A small gasp escapes you, and a rumble of satisfaction passes from his chest through yours, and it flips an ineffable switch inside him. 

Joel turns you in his arms, his chest pressed to yours, his hand shooting out to brace against the wall as he walks you back toward it. Sufficiently cornered, you let your body melt into him, his palm now warming your lower back, his tongue feverishly seeking the seam of your lips. You let him pry you open, tasting the coffee and mint on his breath and inhaling the rich scent of him, sticking it with greedy hands to the walls of your brain. You’ll never tire of him, of this. 

He kisses you like a glutton seeking more fulfilment, like an aesthete seeking that exhilarating, fleeting moment in time, desperate and unwavering and famished. Tongues slide together, hands grope and wander, fabrics shift. You can feel your sweater lifting at the same time your fingers finally find the hem of his T-shirt, but he beats you to the chase. You’re dizzy by the time he breaks away to remove your shirt, but you dutifully lift your arms to help him. 

You seek his mouth again to resume the kiss, but Joel is decidedly feeling pious. He kisses his way down your throat, the necklace dangling from it, your sternum, your belly, sinking to his knees as he goes along. His hands are firm on your hips, squeezing, keeping you in place, while his mouth draws a map of you, eliciting the honeyed sensation of warm water dripping down your body.

“Oh, God,” you whisper, your head knocking back against the wall. It's so much. You've never been the object of attention quite like this, the marble statue at which the devout kneel, obsessive in their worship. You've never had a man fall to his knees to put his mouth all over you. 

Has he wanted you as long as you’ve pined for him? 

Joel grunts, his lips dragging open-mouthed kisses from one hip to another, his fingers hooking in the waistband of your skirt and yanking it down. You yelp, grasping his shoulders. 

Joel only growls into your skin, his hands dropping to your ass and kneading you while he continues down past your hips. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he grumbles. “So goddamn pretty. Don’t know how I waited this fuckin’ long. Jesus, baby girl, you're perfect. Goddamn perfect.”

His ramblings are poison. Every word infects, squeezing out your healthy cells, replacing them with the delicious scrape of fire against the ceiling of a room. The scratch of his beard. The sweet nurturing sound of his voice. The cared-for sensation of being kissed and touched and spoken to like you're someone worth a second date. Like you're worth the price of all the world and a couple stars, too. 

And so the words slip out, shy and whisper-quiet and your cheeks burning hot enough to blister. 

“Please, Daddy…”

Joel’s hands tighten on your body, a fractional movement that kicks up the frantic beating of your heart. He tilts his head back to gaze up into your eyes and you feel more naked with that single stare than ever before. 

“That what you need, sweet thing?” he says, pressing his lips to your inner thigh. “You need Daddy to make you feel good?”

“Mhm,” you whine, the pitch of your voice pathetic and needy. You watch him crush his nose into your inner thigh, nipping at your sensitive flesh, and his name leaves your mouth in a sob. 

“‘m gonna need words,” he commands, biting you again in reproach. “Talk to me, baby girl. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to make me come,” you plead, grasping his soft greying hair in your fingers. “Please.”

“You gonna call me what you wanna call me?” he prompts, smacking your thigh. “C’mon, baby, lemme hear it.”

“Daddy!” you cry out, your hand tightening in his locks. “Fuck, Daddy, please make me come.”

Joel growls, bringing your soaked panties down your legs. Your knees nearly knock together, but he’s shouldering his way between them, bringing one up onto his wide shoulder. You're spread open like this, bared plainly for your landlord to feast upon at his will. The sight of his lips parted, waiting and ready to take your pussy into his mouth, has you trembling. 

He gives a slow, experimental lick, sliding the flat of his tongue through your wet slit. You shudder, your head lolling against the wall. One teasing drag of his tongue and you’re butter, humming and whimpering for more, Daddy, please as he takes his fucking time tasting what you have to offer. 

“Goddamn sweet,” he grumbles, his blunt nails digging crescent moons into the flesh of your ass, pulling your body flush to him. “Waited so fuckin’ long for this.” You watch the fire ignite from red- to blue-hot in Joel’s eyes, his gaze shuttering as he loses himself, devoted entirely to the process of unravelling you. 

The next time he dips his tongue between your folds, he does it deliberately, calculated, as if he has already memorised your shape and now seeks to pry you open. He parts your lips to make way for his mouth, hot and soft against your clit. Softly, you cry out, watching as he presses a featherlight kiss to your pearl. You try to grind against his face, needing more, but a resounding slap to your ass stops you dead. 

“No takin’ what I don’t give,” he says. “You understand me?”

You pout, but you nod your head anyway. 

He decides it isn’t good enough and abruptly takes your clit between his teeth in a scolding bite. 

“Repeat. It.”

“I’ll only take what you give,” you tell him. “I’ll be good.”

Apparently satisfied, he hums, diving back in and finally—finally—sucks on your needy clit. “Oh!” He’s eager, sure, but he’s practised. He’s meticulous in the way he applies pressure to your clit, lapping at you greedily and pulling back to draw your pleasure into measured tidal waves. You crest only to recede from shore, and then his lips suction to you again, his hand snaking around to your front and pressing down on your lower belly. 

“Fuck!” you squeak, your stomach tightening as the dizzying pleasure overcomes you. “Joel, I’m gonna—!”

The orgasm pulls you under, drowning you with a forceful hand, your lungs sucking in mouthfuls of air. You seize, your heel digging into Joel’s muscled back, your fingers fisting his hair, your cunt clenching desperately around nothing, begging to be filled. Joel keeps his mouth on you all the while, licking you through your high, and you think it’s a benevolent act until your orgasm gently fades and he continues to make out with your pussy as if it never happened.

“Ah! Joel, please—” It’s so much. Too much; your pussy contracts relentlessly at the endless attention from his tongue, happily licking your clit and relishing the faint throbbing underneath it. It’s like he’s starved. His eyes are closed, his beard glistening with your wetness, his fingers dimpling your flesh as he pulls you right along to another high. 

Two thick fingers gather up the juices you’ve leaked onto your thighs and push them back into your hole, insistent in their desire to enter. You gasp, your heart in your fucking throat: “That’s only two?”

He chuckles, but the vibration only makes you jump, letting his fingers sink inside your cunt to the knuckle. “Oh, fuck, fuck, Daddy, that feels so good, please make me come again, I need it, please—!”

Joel groans into your pussy, curling his fingers toward him so they press against a spongy spot inside you that sends your head spinning, your mind folding in on itself. All you know is the next orgasm, the best way to get him to give it to you, the fastest way to reach that indelible place once more, just once more—

Joel’s hand applies more pressure to your belly, and you scream, clawing desperately at his shoulder as you give yourself over to something much, much stronger than an orgasm. It’s foreign, the creeping sensation of an invader taking up residence in your body. You cannot see, cannot hear. It assumes control, tearing a cry from your mouth and locking all your limbs tight and splashing your wetness all over Joel’s chin, beard, shirt. 

You think he only stops because you begin to list; he catches you around the hips and presses a soft kiss to your used little clit. “Mmmmm,” is vaguely how you manage to thank him, your eyes peeling slowly open. 

“I know, baby girl,” he says, stroking your hip bone with his thumb. He litters kisses all over your thighs, coaxing you through the minute twitching of your muscles as they relax. “You did so good for me, pretty girl. So fuckin’ beautiful. My sweet girl.”

You shiver in his grasp, watching as he makes his way back up your body. He swipes his forearm across his wet beard and you moan a little at the sight. “Nobody’s ever…”

Joel crowds you, his hand cupping the back of your neck so he can guide your gaze up to him. “That's what you don't understand, sweetheart,” he says. “You can try to find another man to make you happy, but he won't be me. I’m the only one who’s gonna treat you right.”

“Joel…” Sense begins to push at the edges of your brain, but you only slump further into his touch, letting him secure your hair behind your ear. “This isn't right,” you whisper. “I pay you every month to live here. People will know. People will talk about me.”

“People have suffered worse for a hell of a lot less.” 

You have no time to decode his words because he grabs your hand and presses your palm over his chest. Beneath the shirt and the warm, tanned skin, you feel a strong, rapid heartbeat, hammering away at his ribs. He maintains eye contact, the gaze incisive, peering right into the cluster of wiring inside your head that calls his name. “You feel my heart and you tell me this ain't real. You think this ain't love? You think it's obsession? Infatuation? Think I can’t see you lookin’ at me the way you do?”

His words pin you to the ground. They’re possessive, covetous—jealous. He wants you, and he knows you want him. All these months, he’s wanted you the way you’ve craved him; all the comforts and the roses and the baked goods in lieu of payment for substantial repair jobs; the times he’s let slide some late payments because I know it’s tough sometimes, the inexplicable kindnesses in your everyday. 

Joel Miller dedicated himself to you the second you arrived to see the prospective apartment. 

“You’re mine,” he says, his thumb stroking your jaw. “And I wanna hear you say it.”

People will call you a whore. They’ll think you’re pimping yourself out for cheaper rent. They’ll send you filthy looks. But the man in front of you makes you feel wanted. Desired. You’re better than all the dates that failed. You’re better than a shitty boss who won’t give you the raise you deserve. Joel is good to you. He’s always been.

“I’m yours, Joel Miller,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “Now please take me to bed.”

He grins, taking your hand and leading you to your bedroom. You get grabby straight away, fingering the hem of his shirt with a pleading look in your eye. You can still see the evidence of your orgasm staining the collar. “You can take it off, baby,” he says with that cocky smile, letting you lift the shirt over his head. In the sunlight, the grey in his hair shimmers, and his chest is bared to you. You lick your lips, placing your hands on his broad shoulders just to feel the way your palms contour to his dips and curves. 

You lean in and put your lips to his neck, tracing the shape of him down to the hollow of his throat, He tastes faintly of fresh air and sweat, and he smells like you. Your hands admire the warmth and strength underneath them, his body so tangible when only yesterday it was a distant dream. He lets you indulge, though his hands flex at his sides, and your fingers fumble with his belt buckle. 

“Help,” you mumble against his chest, bumping your nose into him. Joel chuckles, relieving you of your burden and shucking off his belt. It clinks along the floor somewhere nearby, and you can unbutton his jeans to bring them down, freeing his hard, throbbing cock. 

Your mouth waters at the sight. He’s thick and slightly curved, the tip leaking precum onto his belly, his balls heavy with the need to come. During those long nights after long days of work, you would imagine, for hours on end, what lingered just below his belt; the little trail of hair leading down his soft belly to your destination; the way his wide shoulders would bracket your body, shelter you from all the tough shit you could possibly suffer. You would picture all the ways you could thank him. You bite your bottom lip and ready yourself to sink to your knees, but Joel is having none of it. He attacks your mouth, kissing you deeply, his hands sliding up your back as if he's trying to count every vertebrae. He doesn't relent even when your knees hit the edge of the bed and you collapse backward onto the mattress. He only crawls over you and pins you beneath his hard body. 

“So pretty like this,” he says, lowering his head and nudging your chin upward with his nose to give himself better access to your throat. He sucks and nips at you all the way down, pausing at your heaving breasts. His fingers gently toy with one stiff nipple while his mouth occupies itself with the other, teasing it with his tongue and his teeth. You moan softly, content to watch him explore your body, squeezing your tits before he migrates downward. 

“Daddy,” you whisper, stroking his hair away from his face, your head falling back onto the pillows as his fingers part your folds once more. “Fuck, please, touch me. I need you inside me.”

Joel settles in between your open legs and takes his cock in his hand. You mewl for him, determined in the face of his big cock to fit it nicely inside you. “Mmm, you ready for me, baby girl? You need Daddy to fill you up, use you like a pretty little toy?” 

You’re nodding frantically, the words igniting you. “Please take me.”

Joel slaps the head of his cock against your clit, once, twice, watching your thighs twitch. Spreading the slick wetness from your pussy onto the tip, he finally guides himself to your hole and notches just inside. 

“Jesus,” he utters. “Jesus, you're a fuckin’ dream.”

“It’s real,” you pant, “I’m real.”

He begins to disappear inside you, wrenching you open, your poor pussy disused from going so long without decent sex. You feel the pinching pain give way to a delicious pressure in your core as he eases into you, taking it slow despite his taut jaw, his gritted teeth. Your cunt forms a tight seal around his length, your arousal lubricating his entry, and you feel lightheaded. He’s so fucking big—and he’s still going.

“Oh, my… Joel—”

“I know, baby.” He brings his thumb to your clit and helps you relax with every circular swipe. “I know what y’like.”

You keen up against him, your thighs squeezing his hips. He's only halfway inside you and it feels like being filled up to your throat, choking on the air you breathe. Your head falls back, your hands flying up to your tits and squeezing. 

“Daddy…”

One of Joel’s hands overlaps yours where it grasps your breast. “That’s my girl. You can take me. Always knew you could.” Still, he's panting with the exertion of holding back. 

“You thought about me?” you say coyly, trying to pull him deeper inside you. He obliges, if only because you're being so petulant, and his hips finally knock into yours. You release a bone-deep sigh of relief.

“All I do”—his hips thrust shallowly, baring his teeth as he paws at your thighs—“is think about you.”

You cry out at the angle, the depth he reaches, how thick and heavy he sits inside you. Your pussy sucks him in, begging for more, and Joel obliges by hooking his hand in the back of your knee and pushing your thigh toward your chest. 

Your vision whites, a ragged cry leaving your mouth. “Oh, fuck! Yes, yes, yes, that feels so good—”

“‘s right, baby girl. I’m the only one’s gonna fuck you this good,” Joel grits out, dragging his thick cock along your walls, spreading you open, forcing himself to fit. The head of his cock kisses your cervix with every thrust, measured in their intensity, just enough to drive you up the goddamn wall but never enough to sting. “I’m the only one you want.”

Your mouth is open and his pounding urges a steady rush of ah, ah, ahs up your throat. Joel leans over you and tilts your head back with a hand in your hair to slant his mouth over yours. He lets you pour your cries into his mouth and he swallows them down, fucking you so hard that your hips begin to ache. 

He smatters your jaw with sloppy kisses. You lift your hand to his face and trace the patches in his beard, your brows drawn together in your perpetual haze. 

“I dreamed about you,” you whisper, taking his earlobe between your teeth to make him growl against your skin. “Touched myself thinking about you.”

“I know,” he says, his hips grinding hard against yours, rubbing up against your used clit. He answers your gasp by nibbling your throat, and you keep him fixed to you with your hand at the back of his neck. His soft hair is matted with sweat and you want to bury yourself here, etch the shape of him into your stone. He's strong, capable, so present in this moment that your heart begins to throb to the beat of his. 

Joel surges upward and takes you with him, forcing you to sit on his lap. At this angle, his cock reaches deeper, somehow, your mouth falling open and your forehead dropping to his shoulder. His palm is a soothing presence on your sweaty back as he tells you things that make you flush from your chest to your ears. 

“Thought about takin’ you on the goddamn bar last night,” he grunts, guiding your ass in a rolling rhythm along his lap, his cock gliding slowly along your walls. You moan, your thighs shaking around his hips. “Thought about spreadin’ you over my desk and fuckin’ you dumb with my cock.” 

You sob into the crook of his neck, grinding down on his cock, the pressure of his navel against your clit sparking hot in your lower belly. “What else?” you ask, nipping at the strong muscle where his shoulder meets his neck. Your tits are pressed up against his chest, his warmth engulfing you, your body slowly lowering over him as he guides you the way he likes. 

His palm coasts down your spine until he finds your puckered asshole. His name is jagged and rubbed raw on your tongue. 

“Shhh, baby girl.” The pad of his finger teases your hole with just enough pressure to ooze electric ecstasy down your spine. “Feels good, doesn't it?”

Fuck, his voice is so gentle, so knowing. You curl your fingers in his hair, your nose tickled by the locks that curl over his ears. 

“Mmmhmm,” you mewl, lifting your hips as best you can despite the growing aches, telegraphing your desire to be touched by him—played with. 

“Thaaat’s it,” he coos, his nose nudging your cheek as he turns his head. His finger continues to prod your asshole while his hips buck up into you. “Openin’ up for me like a good girl. You’d let me take you wherever I want, hmm? Whenever I want?”

“Yes, Daddy, yes,” you moan, your mouth perpetually open against the skin of his neck. You can’t think. You can't breathe. You can only drink down mouthfuls of him and let your body succumb to the delicious weight of his cock inside you. “Yes, I’ll be your little slut. I’ll be whatever you want. You make me feel so good.”

He seems pleased with your babbling, grinning into your cheek as he keeps you spread wide and pounds up into you. His finger continues to tease your tight hole until he feels your body contract around him and apparently decides that he isn't quite through with you. 

“Turn around. Hands and knees.”

Who are you to refuse?

You lament the brief loss of his cock as you shift into your knees, resting your forearms on the bed and teasing him with a wiggle of your ass. Joel hums appreciatively, sidling up behind you and grinding his hard cock between your asscheeks. You jolt forward, but he catches you around the waist and warms his palm at your ribs. 

Something warm and wet lands in a glob on your asshole, and you realise he fucking spit on you. Your head spins, dizzied by your own arousal, and soon, the warm, wet head of his cock slips back inside your hole, and you relish the refuge of being taken by him all over again. 

“You wanna know what else?” He begins to fuck you hard and fast and almost angry in its intensity. His thrusts knock against your ribcage and rattle the bars, your heart floundering for a way back to the surface. “I thought about knockin’ on your door every goddamn day and putting my dick in this pretty fuckin’ pussy. Thought about your tight fuckin’ body every single time I saw you walk by and a long time after. I thought about the noises you'd make and Jesus, I was right. So goddamn sweet.”

You’re drooling onto the pillow, your eyes rolling back in your head, your fingers uselessly clasping handfuls of your white sheets. Joel is an animal, mounting you from behind and taking you hard, deep, the slick squelching noises of your coupling so crude and indecent that they burn through your ears like a lit fuse. It's wrong. You never should have kissed him. But wrong shouldn't feel like this. 

Wrong shouldn’t taste like mint and coffee, shouldn't smell like roses and sawdust. Wrong shouldn’t feel like his cock sitting snug inside your pussy, some obscene jigsaw, seeping saplike pleasure down your spine. 

This must be right. 

His hands are rapacious, one wrapping around your hair and the other guiding the bend of your back, arching you perfectly to fit him while he takes you the way he likes. “Such a tease in those pretty dresses. Such a prim and proper girl ‘til she gets the right dick. You’ll get on your knees for this dick, baby girl, won't you? You’ll beg for it like a goddamn whore.”

“I will!” you moan, your cheek pressed into the mattress. The force of his thrusts have you travelling up the bed in minuscule movements, his thighs slapping hard against yours. “Fuck, I will, Daddy! Please, Daddy, I wanna make you feel good, I’ll do anything.”

“You're doin’ such a good job already, sweet thing,” he says, using his leverage on your hair and your waist to yank you upright, his chest pressed to your back, your ass now firmly sat in his lap. You moan long and low at the new angle, your back arching and your toes curling. 

Joel groans against your jaw, his mouth travelling along the line of it in sloppy kisses that indicate he's about as close as you are. “Yeah, baby. Fuckin’ drunk on my cock. Fucked you good and dumb, hmm? Fucked you so good you can't even think.”

You can only manage a low whine, the sound of it a fleeting puff of air from your lips, the oxygen in your lungs depleting and replaced with the smell of him. You try to bounce on his dick—you really do try—but you cannot remember how to work the muscles in your thighs. You cannot remember what you had for breakfast nor the colour of the skirt you wore today. You can only vaguely understand the shape of the man behind you, the name that belongs to him, the way you curve and fit into him. You’re falling, the technicolour world outside your window fading to the sound of soft, beating wings—that may be your heart, fluttering in your ears—as you seize, yielding to the pleasure. 

You will not recall the sounds you make when you come, grasping blindly at his thighs to keep yourself from falling over, your ears ringing. You feel his moustache scratching your jaw and his cock working you through your high, slowing his thrusts to help you land softly on solid ground. You may cry out his name, and you may call him something else entirely. But it's vibrant. It's radiant as the sunlight now dipping behind the distant buildings. It tastes just as sweet as the golden hour. 

Joel does not stop fucking you when your body goes limp in his arms. No, he resumes his brutal pace, using you like a fucking toy to get himself off. You happily take it, your head lolling back against his shoulder and your eyes drooping. 

“Nnh, fuck… I’m gonna… Jesus—oh, fuck—”

His hips press flush to your ass and he nuzzles his face into your throat, depositing kisses and love bites all over your skin as he pumps shallowly into you, his hot cum filling you up and leaking generously around the seal of your cunt. You gasp, your fingers threading through his already-tousled hair, keeping him glued to you as he flexes against your body and comes hard enough to double himself over. 

He collapses on top of you, forcing you to bend at the hip, little puffs of air escaping his mouth and seeping into you. You whine, your sore hips battered and bruised, your pussy deliciously abused as you pulse continuously around his dick. “Joel, please…”

He comes slowly back into his body, his lips trailing down your spine as he lifts himself upright. “Shit. ‘m sorry, baby girl. You feel okay?”

You hum happily, letting yourself pant into the mattress. “Feels so good.”

Joel pulls out, savouring the tight drag of his cock out of your pussy, hissing through his teeth and watching his thick cum dribble slowly out of your hole. “Such a fuckin’ pretty sight. My sweet girl, all used up.”

You drop your face into your forearm and giggle. Joel smooths his hand over your lower back. “What's so funny?”

“Just…” You sound a bit hysterical as you continue to laugh. “I’m going to be late on rent this month. I put a down payment on a car.”

Joel lowers himself next to you and gently pulls you into him, his moustache tickling your cheek. “Planning on gettin’ the hell outta dodge?” he says playfully, nipping your earlobe. 

Your eyes droop and you sink into him. “Think I’ll stay here for a while.”

“I know you will, baby,” he murmurs.

“Joel?”

“Hmm.”

“Thank you for the necklace.”

~

It’s night when you next wake, and Joel is next to you. 

For someone so stern and strong, he looks utterly serene in his sleep. His lips are slightly parted, half his face pressed into the pillow, his hair curling around his ears and his arm lazily draped over you. You gently sweep a lock of hair away from his face. 

Through the dark, the red light beams, and the arm around your waist tugs you closer.

THE END.

#kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #dark!joel x reader #dark!joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #tlou hbo

[byoldervine]

Foreshadowing Ideas

• Character themes/motifs. I’ve heard of one writer who tries to give each character their own theme for similes, metaphors, descriptions, etc so there’s like a theme to the way they’re portrayed. You could use that to foreshadow notable secrets about the character that will later be revealed, or if at any point they’re disguised then you can use that to tip off the reader that they have the same motifs and so might be related/the same person

• Tiny details hidden in lists. Say the MC was trying to work out the identity of a bad guy, who we know was wearing a red shirt on the day of a big bad event. A few chapters later, MC is checking around their best friend’s room to find them, with the place its usual mess with discarded takeaway boxes, the bed unmade, a red shirt left on the floor that could use a good sweep. The red shirt might not click with all the readers, but those who register it upon their first read will eat it up

• Inconsistent behavioural patterns. Once we have a good idea of what a character is like, having them act out of character can set off alarm bells and make us question what’s occurred to make them act this way. Let the other characters register it too, if it’s reasonable that they would, but let them ultimately brush it off quite quickly to keep it subtle. Or just call it right out, whichever you prefer

• Unreliable narrators. Let one character say one thing and a second character say another, even if they both ultimately agree on the same thing but get one or two small details wrong. Ideally do this two or three times in order for the reader to know it’s not just a mistake in the plot but an intentional inconsistency, but even if it’s only done once and it’s taken as a mistake it’ll still slot together like puzzle pieces in the end and they’ll be kicking themself for dismissing it

• In-universe red herrings. If you’re going to add red herrings as foreshadowing, it’s helpful if the red herring aligns with the intentions of someone person aware of the upcoming plot twist who’s trying to control the narrative. Say the plot twist was the reveal of a mysterious character’s identity to be the best friend of the MC, the best friend might have deliberately thrown the MC off their scent by planting suspicions in the MC’s mind that a different character was the mysterious character’s identity all along. This is less about foreshadowing the actual reveal, of course, but rereads will be a punch to the gut when everyone realises that all this misinformation and red herring business came from someone trying to cover their own ass rather than coming from misunderstandings or multiple other random sources

#writing #writers #bookblr #writeblr #book #writing inspiration #writing advice #on writing #writing tips and tricks #writing tips #writing help #foreshadowing #how to write #writersociety #writersnetwork #writers of tumblr #writer #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writerblr

[dulcewrites]

Fool Me Once (part 10)

Summary: As tensions arise in King’s Landing, you make moves to assure the safety of your children. Final breaths are taken, pacts are made and broken, steel is drawn and the dragons dance.

Warning: mentions of stillbirths/pregnancy issues, allusions to self harm, some unreliable narrator if you squint. In our f&b bag fr!

A/N: you guys 🥺 we are finally on the last part. First, I want to say I am sooooo sorry about how long it took to get this one out. By the time I’m posting this I’m sort of like, do people even still care lmao 💀. Life has been hectic and tbh I’ve been putting some focus onto other things. Shameless plug to my other, more happy Aemond x oc series, on ao3. As well as I’ve gotten so much amazing feedback and interactions about this fic that I was slightly worried about how people would take the end. Speaking of feedback, and moving on to the more sappy stuff. My writing side blog has grown exuberantly since posting part 1 of fmo last year. It genuinely makes me emotional thinking about the little community that’s come from it. I hope to continue to make more stuff that I’m not only happy with, but further pushes said community ❤️❤️ if y’all have any hotd request let me know. Please reblog, like, and comment. As well as come chat in my inbox if you see something you like.

Slight housekeeping, though if you made it this far you probably already know. This fic does change the dance for self indulgent reasons (lol) and for the narrative of it all. This started as a cheating story and has sort of spun into something entirely else.

Fmo masterlist

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Ninth moon of 129 AC

Rhaenyra’s voice could be heard from down the hall.

You wanted to reassure yourself that you had heard those screams before from Helaena, or even from yourself giving birth. But there was something so terribly guttural about the ones Rhaenyra was making.

As if outcome of the birth hung in the air. Lingering with the ghost of the past death that happened in the Red Keep. You try not to focus on the sheer look of panic on Jace’s face once you leave him at the door.

By the time you got to her chambers, Rhaenyra is already surrounded by midwives as she is hunched over, palms spread out against the wall. Midwives, and Alicent, whose face was terribly pale. Almost as drained of color as Rhaenyra. Her normally straight blonde hair wavy and stuck to her forehead with the sheen of her own sweat.

Alicent spots you, and gets away from her position from around her. She pulls you over to the side, but before she can even speak you interrupt her. The midwives begin to move Rhaenyra from her standing position to on the bed.

“Has this happened before,” you watch as Rhaenyra pleas lessen and lessen, her state becoming more sedated than what is probably normal.

Alicent shakes her head. Her auburn curls had been released for the night from the tight updo they were in earlier.

“No, at least not the first three,” she swallows hard before coming closer to you. “I fear - I fear this labor may go awry. I think we need to make preparations for if…”

The words catch in the back of Alicent’s throat. She is here with Rhaenyra; she has always been with Rhaenyra. Even when they were at odds; two ghosts haunting each other’s memories. Two sides of the same coin, causalities of the cruel fate. You want to feel sorry her; knowing that she is watching a close… companion go through this, but your mind has been elsewhere since earlier that day.

“Your son has made preparations,” you cross your arms. “All of them actually.”

Alicent brows furrow in confusion, and it dawns on you that Aemond and Aegon never clued their mother in on their little plan.

“You do not know, do you?”

“No, I do not know what your husband has been getting into. I rarely do these days.”

You and her both.

Rhaenyra lets out another groan.

“Where is Daemon,” you ask as Rhaenyra begins to mumble things incoherently to the midwives.

“He took one look at her, and left the room,” Alicent frowns. “She called for him but he went to get Jacaerys instead.”

And Jace came for you on the behest of Alicent. Tis the way of men you suppose. Often, they are absolute nuisance in situations like this, but you could not help but think that mayhaps if Daemon had stayed to seen her in this state, he would not put her through such things again. But that is giving him far more credit than you know he deserves.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra manages to mumble out the name louder. Her eyes fluttering open and shut.

Alicent instantly rushes over, dropping the conservation she has started with you.

As you watch Alicent coax Rhaenyra through this, her words ring out. Though she did not elaborate on what those plans should be, she was right. Aemond had taken the reigns from your hands plenty times before. Safety will not be completely ensured until any threat is taken out. You have never been to battle nor war, and even you know that. A slightly morbid thought creeps into your head.

If Rhaenyra dies, Aegon could descend the throne.

It was laughable for Rhaenyra, or anyone who supports her claim, to believe known bastards would follow her in the line of succession. Or that Daemon would not bypass Rhaenyra’s first three boy in order to ensure power for her last two. It would mean an all-out war between Aegon and Daemon… but maybe it did not have to go that far. Not if plans were made to undercut whatever moves you know Daemon could put into place.

They are all back in King’s Landing, no longer under the false tranquility they tried to spin at Dragonstone. Amongst their patrons who already have much to say about Rhaenyra’s still short reign.

Aegon on the throne would ensure the safety of all of the kids. And not only the kids, but the kingdom as a whole. A war of succession, especially including dragons, would only bring destruction. Rhaenyra’s boys would have a chance to swear obeisance after Daemon is out of the way, and if not, their presence will not be needed. Bastard blood being spilt is nothing compared to the life your children.

They could go back to Dragonstone and live their lives out there with young Egg and Viserys. With the possibility of Daemon for a father, they would be better off for it.

Your thoughts are broken by the midwives telling Rhaenyra to try and push.

There was already a significant amounts of blood trailing where Rhaenyra had been. Her pushes do little to soothe the position she is in. In frustration and pain, eventually Rhaenyra, much to the chagrin of the midwives and Alicent, shoos them all away. Reaching down to pull the babe out herself.

Letting out an already grief-stricken scream as she does it.

The air is sucked from the room as a gush of blood rushes out of Rhaenyra, followed by a tiny body.

A tiny… silent body. Wrapped in scales and slightly deformed.

No one speaks as they watch Rhaenyra pick up the baby from between her legs and rocks it as if trying to lure it into crying, into breathing. But nothing comes. Just silence, and the aches of a daughter stuck in the self-fulfilling prophecy of a mother that is no longer around.

It is not proper nor lady-like, and you can hear your own mother’s voice in the back of your telling you how rude it is in a time like this, but you just turn and leave. Without a word or peep. Suddenly feeling sick you go back down the hall, back to your chambers. Ignoring Jace who calls your name out in confusion by the sudden silence coming from his mother’s room.

By the time you make it back to the room, Aemond had gotten himself ready for bed. Completely casual as if the events earlier meant nothing to him.

“What’s happened,” he notices your ashen face.

You take one look at your husband, you think of your children away in a place foreign to them, and the stillborn baby Rhaenyra clutched in her arms.

The bile comes up quick. So quick you barely make I to the basin on the other side of the room. The dry heaving reminds you that you barely ate anything today, too worried about the task at hand.

You flinch when you feel a cold hand on your back. Shrugging Aemond’s hand off, you turn head with a glare.

“You made your move,” you mutter. “I’ll give you that. But now we are going to this my way. And Aemond, so help me, a single hair on those kid’s heads is harmed and I am not with them, I burn it all to the ground, you with it.”

You don’t know how and when, but you would do it for them if it came to that. You’d do anything for their safety. It may be time for others to realize that.

— — —

Princess Visenya Targaryen is set on the pyre a day and a half later. A small swaddled body lit on fire once Rhaenyra croaked out the words. Syrax blowing a mighty flame to burn Rhaenyra’s only little girl.

She was advised to stay in bed. Though her outward physical ailments had started to heal, it was clear Queen Rhaenyra was sick. Pale skin still prickling with sweat despite the cool air outside, dark bags starting to form under her eyes as she leans gently against the cane she was given.

You stand next to Aemond, Helaena, and Aegon. The only warm you feel from the fire in front on you.

It was slightly shocking when Helaena came up to you before the funeral with guilt written over her soft features.

“I just had… a funny feeling about the kids being here. I’m sorry.”

She knew.

You were not happy about once again feeling like you’re on the outside looking in with people you are supposed to call family. At least Helaena had the decency to feel ashamed by the omission. The decency to apologize. Guilt and Aemond is laughable being in the same sentence, and Aegon had been avoiding you. A thing that has not happened in months. Helaena was always right about these things; the scary part is that you all never really knew till the outcome already happened.

You run your hand over your black mourning dress. Peering out from under your veil, you make eye contact with Daemon across the fire.

Normally mirth filled eyes, and folly written all over his face had been replaced by an emptiness that scared you. Often, you had felt the unearned confidence and ambition around you was just noblemen living up to an expectation put on by others around them. But a Daemon, already known for his rogue behavior, feeling emboldened by the death of his brother, daughter, and the newly weakened state of his wife, made you nervous.

Only compounded when you think about the conversation shared at Dragonstone. Your loyalty was not expected, but even demanded. You can’t help but wonder if the kids not being around has only put a fiercer target on your back, or even on theirs.

You look over at Aegon - messy hair, bored expression, purple circles under his eyes. But he is no worse for wear compared to Rhaenyra.

If it one thing you have learned since being around this family, it is appearances often make up for everything. Slap a smile and nice outfit on, and people tend to believe what they see versus what is underneath the surface.

The funeral ends, and you make a sharp beeline towards Otto.

“I need to run something past you.”

You rake your knuckles against Aegon’s door, and get reply in return. You do it again, this time with more vigor, slightly embarrassed at Ser Arryk just watching you pound away.

“He is in there,” you question, turning to him.

“The last time I checked, he was my lady.”

The last time he checked?

You supposed not ever sworn protector can be as diligent as Quinton, and not every subject can be well behaved.

“Aegon,” you knock once more.

Blowing out frustrated air through your mouth, you turn to go but the door eventually swings open.

His hair is crumpled on one side, shirt unbuttoned, and reeking of wine. It had not hit you that he may be with someone.

“If you are… predisposed, I apologize. I can come back”

A dopey grin breaks out of face, before he hitched the door open wider. “No one is with me. Oh, dovelet were you worried about that?”

You look over to see Arryk raise a brow at you. You push at Aegon, further annoyed. “Go.” Forcing him back into his chambers.

“Everyone is so touchy today.”

You were there, before the funeral, when Alicent fussed at him about going to it. About trying to look engaged, which he clearly did not. You think about the conversation you had with Otto in his office.

“He is not going to like it. He has long come to terms with not wanting to be king.”

“But his wants are of no concern to you now, are they?”

When put that way, you can’t help but feel a bit bad. But it is true. What Aegon wants right now means little to you. He will eventually learn to like it, and if not like it, he will learn to tolerate it. The way others have to tolerate their fate in life. We are all stuck in the same miserable cycle; the only difference is some of us will not be able to call ourselves King of the Seven Kingdoms.

“We need to talk about some things.”

“Black is one your colors,” he changes the subject. “You should wear it more often.”

“Aegon, I’m serious,” you pinch your nose.

“Is this about the kids? I thought you would be happy they are out of harm’s way.”

“They are not out of harm’s way,” your voice raises, and this is not going the way it was supposed to.

You must push him with a gently hand. A woman’s touch.

There was a something slimy about how Otto ended the conversation. Sending you to Aegon to enact a woman’s touch… whatever that meant.

“But they could be,” you lower your voice. “If - If there was someone else at the helm. None of us would have to worry about their safety. About our safety.”

Aegon give you a funny look before flopping down on his bed.

He is drunk so he may not remember any of this by next morning. You sit next to him on the bed.

“There is no running from this. Despite what you may say, you know you would not be able to live with yourself if you left your family, your kids. Aegon, you are too smart not to know what this is all coming to.”

Though not something you voiced yourself, running was an option that crossed your mind. Finding a way out to Oldtown, grabbing your kids, and running. The logistics seemed all to wash away when the word dragon comes along. Traveling with two young kids would be difficult enough, managing to travel discretely with a giant dragon would not work. You don’t know how you would tell Daella to leave Vermithor.

And then a chill would run up your spine. Where could you go where he would not find you on dragon back?

The two of you sit in silence before Aegon sighs softly.

“Share a drink with me,” Aegon whispers. “Before we all die.”

It makes you laugh. Because that is all you can do at the folly that is your life. You nod softly.

The wine is a Dornish Red. Sweet, warm, and sultry tasting drink. It reminds you of the look Aegon is giving you.

Alicent peaks her head into the door.

“Rhaenyra,” she sees baby Aegon and Viserys sitting on their mother’s bed. Both babbling away over each other. Rhaenyra weakly waves her in. Both Egg and Viserys give Alicent tiny little bows. They do it to everyone, even those who technically do not have the same amount of power toddlers do. Bowing at guards, nursemaids, and court members alike.

The boys are eventually escorted out by one of the maids, but not until they both tell Alicent about the flock of lizards they found in the garden. It’s sweet, Alicent thinks. Reminds her of when her kids were that age. Not yet tainted or disrupted by the life around them. Alicent supposes she also has herself to blame for that when it comes to own children.

Both boys not understanding the position their mother is in. She knows that Rhaenyra is grateful at least two of her kids are not aware of her vulnerable state.

“How are you feeling,” Alicent sits at the edge of the bed next to her, taking in scattering of notes around Rhaenyra. Members of Rhaenyra’s small council have written notes for Rhaenyra to read while she is abed. From things as simple as the mouse problem in the Red Keep to things more serious. Like the Shepherd’s continued teachings; this week sermon’s going as far to say the death of the Visenya was an act of the Gods. That this is Rhaenyra’s punishment. Punishment for the dragon, the incest, the Targaryen of it all.

Alicent makes sure to only visit Rhaenyra when she knows she will not run into Daemon. He flaunted around the castle as if he has never left. Still the same air of arrogance and fire, only now swathed under a layer of coolness. The passing of Viserys, clearly leading him in a quieter path.

So many awful things lead back to that man. Alicent is sure of it.

All Rhaenyra can do is give a small smile and the shake of the head.

“A bit better now that you’re here.”

Alicent just ducks her head shyly.

Rhaenyra was always good at that, making Alicent feel like she was a girl again. Ten and four and completely out of her depth when it came to her feelings. An issue she worries she still has not gained control over.

“I am thinking of naming Daemon protector of the realm,” she then croaks out. “I do not know how much I can get done while in this bed. Watching it all crumble beneath me.”

Naivety. It is the only word that comes Alicent’s mind when it comes to how Rhaenyra handles Daemon. Ironically, it is the same way Otto describes her relationship with Rhaenyra. Her father never forgets a chance the remind her the nostalgia of girlhood, and security she wraps in Rhaenyra. The same way Alicent does not know if Rhaenyra has convinced herself that Daemon’s will head her council above anyone’s else is her true feelings, is the same way Alicent does not know if she holds onto the good parts of Rhaenyra because they still exist. Or because without holding onto them, she would be again flailing and alone. Once again left with the cold, empty feelings that comes with duty above else.

The only person Alicent saw ever cut Daemon down to size is now dead, rotting and finally silent. If Rhaenyra thinks the bond, she had with Daemon is anything more than him trying to hold onto the last semblances of Viserys he could find, she has been sorely mistaken.

“Mayhaps, you should speak that over with the rest of your council,” she pushes the duvet further over Rhaenyra. It is not her job to advise. She doesn’t know if she has it in her advising another clueless monarch. Another seemingly well meaning, but headstrongly clueless monarch. Rhaenyra gets her same propriety from her father.

Rhaenyra is not a bad person. The same way many people would say Viserys was not a bad person. But when all things are said and done, Viserys will be remembered as peaceful. Alicent worries history will not give the same charitable read to Rhaenyra. Who fumbles and doubles down on her bad actions in the way she learned from her father. Terribly misguided in each path they take, paying no mind to the carnage left behind.

Too much trust in Daemon. A fault both will have to live with or die by.

“Everything will be fine, once I recover,” she takes note of Alicent’s distant eyes. “It will be alright.”

You look so much like your father when you lie to me. So much like him with false hope and no tact. They riot in the streets over your reign already, and you are sure it will be alright.

Alicent just squeezes Rhaenyra’s hand. The way she used to when she used to get the urge to pick at her hands. She looks around the room. Rhaenyra, now laying in the same bed her father did before her. Alicent just hopes the morbid memories of Viserys do not haunt her in the way Aemma’s ghost still haunts Alicent to this day.

Aemma was right, and they did not even know it at the time. The birthing bed was their battlefield. And it feels like it is all catching up to them.

It has been a few minutes since your parents welcomed you into their parents, and in those few minutes your mother has done nothing but pick at your hair and fret over your outfit.

The sun was at its height in the sky, brightness peaking through their windows. This morning you woke up, and did what have for the past couple of days. Remember your children are not there for you to kiss and hug, and look over at your sleeping husband. Multiple ways of smothering him popping into your head.

“Wearing your hair back makes you look so severe, my darling,” she fiddles with bun. Your hand goes up the move it way. “And grey is not slimming on everyone.”

“Yes mother,” you try to grin and bear like you have always done. Your resolve faltered when she gushed about how lovely of a father Aemond was for wanting the kids to spend more time with their uncle, the excuse the both of you had parroted whenever someone asked here Daella and Alaric were.

“I think it may be best, if both of you go back home,” you sit both of them down. “I just worry that things may get a bit hectic, and I would feel better if you both were far from it.”

They both give you a curious look. There is only so much you can say without giving all away. Your father gets up and pulls you to the side.

“There has been… rumblings,” he mutters. “About the Queen and her state.”

He chooses his words wisely. As if he was worried others are listening.

“I want you to know that whatever path may arrive. The full backing of the house is behind it. Your uncle and I will make sure of that. If there was a change in power.”

Tears pinch and sting your eyes. It should be reassuring but it only makes you realizing that backing comes at the whim of others. This will always come back to who is ruling, and who people think should rule.

That is why you married Aemond right? To be put in the best position for your house.

“Thank you, father.”

He kisses you on the cheek, before leaving. You turn towards your mother who sits on the bench in front of the bed.

“I do hope your little excursion has renewed your spirit,” she gets up. “Your husband seemed just beside himself after you left. No wife, no children around. I can only imagine how hard that was for him.” You just stand there as she comes towards you. She stares at you for a moment, taking in your new dark dress, and hair. You cannot tell if the look is unimpressed, or filled with sadness. Your mother’s faces tend to blur together into nothingness.

“Of course, that is what you took from it,” you mutter.

“What was that, lamb?” Another hand runs over your hair.

“Nothing, mother.”

Your mother laughs a bit, in that cold, jilted way she does. The joy never reaching her eyes.

“It’s always been that way. Sweet with him, distant with me.”

You stare at her in slight shock, slight mortification when she leans back. Is that how she’s read the situation? You choosing your father over her. Not the paralyzing fear that came with having to please her. The heart arching want to make her proud of you, even at the expense of your own wants.

“You made it that way. I - you sent me away to - to this place and -“

“Oh, here we go. You got married to a Prince, you had your babies, and I am still the evil mother.”

She bows her head as is she about to cry. Initiatively, you put a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not evil,” you don’t understand how the conversation how switcher so fast. How now you have to the one to comfort her. “We just don’t see certain things the same way.”

An understatement.

“Mayhaps, I was never meant to be a mother,” she looks up, eyes dry. She says it so casually.

“What?”

“I should have taken the hint after the first miscarriage. But your father just begged and begged about wanting a child.”

You just watch in horror.

She runs another hand over your hair, nagging on the bun and frowns.

“Some women just aren’t meant to be mothers. Too headstrong for it, too weak for it,” there is an air of pity when she says it.

She leans in, and her breath hits your ears. “Be careful, my lamb. The softer the heart, the harder the fall.”

You swallow hard. She’s fed a poison that is hard to be weaned off.

— — —

Leaving the room, in a slight daze. Softly shuffling the opposite way of your chambers, and up the large stairs. You had promised Rhaenyra you would come see her soon.

The only thing that breaks you out the trance is the heavy footsteps of Daemon. You stop and lower your head in acknowledgment.

“My prince, I have not been able to catch you to give my condolence.”

Daemon hums. You’ve noticed how he walks around with Dark Sister attached firmly on his hip. Sometimes sheathed, other times unsheathed as he leans against as some sort of crutch.

“I suppose I should be sending you sorrows too,” a small smile on his face. You tilt your head in confusion.

“Your children.”

Your blood runs a bit cold.

“They are just with their uncle. Taking it the beauty of Oldtown. We want them to see many parts of the realm.”

“With Vermithor?”

You just nod. “You must know how important the bond is between dragon and dragon rider. More importantly during these early stages.”

Daemon’s mirth grows as he comes closer. “I do remember our conversation. About how your loyalty would be not only expected but rewarded. I would absolutely hate to see anyone get hurt, especially as our queen is recovering.”

You smile, brightly and sound.

“Of course, it would be quite a shame if anyone was putting their own needs ahead of Queen Rhaenyra’s. Those close to her must be diligent, and kind.”

The two of you exchange more fake smiles before he steps around you, sword glistening under the flicker of flames in the hallway.

Trying to compose yourself as you make your way to the master chambers. You are slightly relieved by the changes that were made by the time Rhaenyra arrived and settled in. The model Viserys spent even his last days speaking about that collected dust had been removed. Different drapes that let the sun in, the furniture moved around a bit, and the smell. Thank Gods, the smell was different.

The smell of rotting, and noxious air replaced by something a little sweeter. You know that Alicent would come in daily and light different incense for Rhaenyra.

The guards let you in, and she is still in the same place she, day after day, the large canopy bed. The bed you see Viserys lay in as you visit him with Daella and or Alaric.

“Rhaenyra,” you pull back the certain a bit, to let light in. “Have you eaten today?”

You walk over and lay a hand on her forehead. She is burning up. Her fever spiking again. All you get is a groan and the shake of the head.

“Rhaenyra, you need to eat something.”

She just gestures toward the table. Different tonics, drinks, and glasses on top of it. You walk over to see tea as well as a familiar milky substance on it.

You remembered seeing how Viserys was when he was on milk of the poppy. Hells, you understood the strength of it, and you only took it while having Daella and Alaric.

It was the beauty and ugliness of the drug once it was taken too much. The pain was gone, but then came a new problem - the grogginess of the mind and withdrawals.

“The Queen only needs five dops of it,” said the maester, a sour look on his face once asked to leave when you visited her a few days ago.

In all her paranoia, Rhaenyra had asked only those closest to her to help administer it. Not trusting the maesters the very same way she did when it came to Viserys. Out of part guilt of what she just went through, and frankly fear, you agreed when she asked you. But now, as you feel the tides changing once again for the battle for power, your hands shake a bit applying the remedy to her tea.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five….. Six. Seven. Eight.

Before you can change your mind, you a twist cap back on the milk of the poppy.

You walk back to the bed, giving a pale Rhaenyra a strained smile. “Let’s sit you up.”

Rhaenyra winces, eyes in a faraway stare as you help her lean up in the bed. The same bed she had been beholden to for the past week. You bring goblet to her lips and watch her all but chug most of it.

A part of you wants to say a prayer to the Father. Perhaps he will forgive you for all that will happen beyond this point. Understanding how stray animals often act when they are backed into a corner. Teeth bared and fighting for their lives.

She will name him Protector of the Realm if she stays abed any longer. Despite the mistreatment, Daemon has always had a way about him when it came to Rhaenyra. I have no way to stop it. Did not back then, and do not now.

Guilt only mounts when you think about the sadness in Alicent’s eyes when she said that. But then you think about your daughter’s laugh or the wide-eyed innocence of your son, and the guilt fades. All that is left is resentment. A deep hole where you think your heart used to be.

You have to shudder thinking about anyone from this family sitting the throne but at least you know some options are more… malleable than others.

“I can come back to give you more when you need it,” you brush a stray hair behind Rhaenyra’s ear. “Maybe I can read to you too.”

She gives you a tired smile, and nod before her eyes begin to flutter. You watch as her breathing labors as she drifts into a hazy state. In and out of sleep. Here she lays, a victim of the birthing bed like her mother. Ill equipped, and far too foolish to see the damage she will leave behind like her father.

“What is all of this?”

You walk into your chambers to find a table of food in the room. Aemond hops up from the bed. You take a look at the array of breads, and sweets on the table.

“All this for me,” you question, popping one of the lemon candies on a lemon cake in your mouth. “How romantic. The last time I had the pleasure of such a spread, you were telling me you got your mistress pregnant and it sent me into excruciating labor.”

Aemond face falls, and for a moment you understand what it has been like for him the past few years of marriage. To hold power over him, even if it is small and fleeting in the moment. Dangling kindness in front of his face to rip it away for no reason other than you can.

You continue to pick at the food, as Aemond just stares.

“Are you gonna say what this all about or just stare with that silly look on your face?”

His face flashes from sad stoicism something a bit angrier. Ah, that’s your husband.

“I am trying to mend things with you, and all I ge-“

“Oh, that is your first mistake,” you hold up a finger. “Well, not the first. You know your first. But trying to mend something that was never there to begin with? And with food that I could get myself. You’re smarter than that Aemond,” you tut at him.

“So, what now? We spend the rest of our days hating each other?”

If we even get that far.

“It has worked for others,” you shrug.

“It won’t for you,” he rebuts. “The hate will eat you alive. You’ll be miserable.”

Promise?

He speaks as if he is so sure of it. As like Helaena does at times, he has seen into a murky future, and pulled this out. You utterly miserable as you let that dark voice in your head play out all your morbid desires.

“But you would like that, wouldn’t you,” you think about the look he gave you when you wanted to reach for his knife. “Why else would you put through all of this but to make me as miserable as you are?”

It hang on the tip of your tongue. You could push you luck again, and tell him that she is gone, and never to be seen again. Twist the knife that you already have point at his back. But then you would have to be sure of things yourself. Dreams have dissolved into nightmares. Blood mixing the salty water of Dragonstone.

Then you wake and Otto’s words ring in your head. He took care of it. Now you are left trying to sort out the mess of memories that makes up your head. Guilt, anger, and sadness all managing fuck with your head in ways you could not imagine.

You eye the wine on the table. As much you admonish Aegon for it, you do get why he turned to it from such a young age.

The few hours of solace it gives is wonderful. Fleeting but necessary when everything else becomes too loud. Too much.

“It was not an absence in you. It was one in us… in me,” he looks so young when he says it. It almost reminds you of him when he ten and five. Fresh off a growth spurt. Terribly shy, terribly distant. But that was before. Before the expectation of marriage, of children and semblances of loyalty and care.

That boy is gone, and you are surely not the girl you were once you came to King’s Landing. You mourn that girl, the way you mourn the boy Aemond was before he lost his eye. You did not know him then but you always wonder what strings in him broke when that happened. An unjust act with no reconciliation to follow. If any of that led up to the man standing before you today.

“Well, at least that is something we can agree on,” you look down, trying to get rid of the hot tears in your eyes.

You have spent time trying to build up an armor in front of him. You’d hate to have it crack now.

“My grandsire told me about your little plan.”

It makes you look up. Aemond’s arms are crossed in skepticism.

“Your sister’s health is declining rapidly. Aegon needs to ready himself for this.”

“And he has agreed?”

“Your brother will fall in line as he realizes this is the only way to keep those dear to him safe,” you fiddle with the chocolate tart. “He already has actually.”

Helaena and him took a trip to one of the orphanages down in the Red Keep. It is about time people outside of this castle get a look at those in power. Aemond still does not look convinced.

“Does that upset you? The thought of him being king?”

“No more than it does having my useless sister or foolish nuncle on the throne.”

“What, no mention of the bastards technically in front you for the throne right now,” you think the joke falls flat till Aemond narrows his eye, and tilts his head to side in merriment. You have to do a bit of double take at the slight smirk on his face.

“You danced with one of those bastards.”

So, he remembers that.

“A tactical move,” you roll your eyes. “And when I advise Rhaenyra and Jacaerys that he should go back to Dragonstone as the new heir to the Irone Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, it would have payed off.”

“Leaving Rhaenyra as she’s abed, and stuck with Daemon? How would you manage that?”

“I can be quite convincing,” you shrug. “Not that you would understand.”

He takes another dig on chin, uncharacteristically good natured this day, but he gives you that look. The look where you don’t know whether he wants to skin you or kiss you. No one really has ever looked in the way Aemond has. As if he sees nothing of what you’re really made of while managing to look right through you at the same time.

“Better yet, I may even tell Baela and Rhaena that they should take this time to be with grandmother and grandfather, especially as Corlys may stand a similar fate as Rhaenyra.”

“What about the other one,” Aemond frowns.

Your brows furrow in confusion before it dawns on you. Both him and Lucerys had done a good job of avoiding each other since you all came back from Dragonstone. But you can tell the tiptoeing has created strain and awkwardness for everyone.

“If Baela and Jace are gone with Moondancer and Vermax in toe, that just leaves a clearly petrified Luke and Arrax. I think Vhagar, Sunfyre or Dreamfyre can handle that, no?”

Aemond raises a brow. “You want them to die?”

“I don’t want anyone to die,” well that’s not entirely true, and the look Aemond gives you lets you in that he does not believe that as well. “As few casualties as possible is the goal. They can swear to Aegon when the time comes or be put the King’s Justice. As of now, we should take advantage of the uncertainty that rest amongst everyone.”

Aemond laughs, like really laughs. It takes you for surprise, and only upsets you. He laughs as if he finds your thoughts funny in the way seeing a squirrel run up a tree is funny. “What?”

“Nothing…. Lady Hightower.”

You scoff and throw the pieces of the fruit on the table at him. “Fuck off.”

“You make those faces and turn up your nose at Aegon being king, but you and I both know you will be the first to defend his throne,” you throw a strawberry at him but this time he catches it and eats it. “This is all for the kids, right? It is why they are not here, away from their mother?”

“They are away from their father as well. For their safety.”

You just hum.

“I want to write to them. They did not even get to say goodbye.”

“That could be dangerous.”

“I do not care, Aemond,” you raise your voice.

There is a knock at the door and Quinton comes in with a note in his hand. He eyes the food on the table as you read the note. It is from your father, assuring you about your parents soon departure back to the Riverlands.

“Are you alright,” he whispers. You nod softly. Quinton had been hovering somewhere in the background whenever Aemond was around, especially with the children gone. Clearly not trusting him around you.

Quinton should probably be more worried you around him. His cape swishes behind him when he goes to leave the room.

“You can write to them when the timing is better,” Aemond continues once you two are alone again.

The timing is never right. Not with him, not the with situation you are in.

The end of ninth moon of 129 AC

As you walk down the hall, a soft hand brushes against your arm.

“Are sure you are alright,” Quinton’s voice rings in your head, and tickles your ears softly.

“Of course,” you give fake smile, tilt of the head. He stops in the middle of the empty hall. Though he is your sworn protestor, you feel it is best to keep Quinton on the fringes unless needed otherwise. The less he knows, the safer he is you assume.

“I know you are not well without your children around,” he sighs. “But I would not want you to… sully yourself with things before you can get back to them.”

Sully. You take a long look at Quinton. There is something sweet about the way he views you. Entirely too earnest at time but sweet. You wish you could tell him he had nothing to worry about, and meant it. The pedastal he puts you on, my would it be a hard and long fall.

“I appreciate the concern, but I am ok,”’you reach up to touch his cheek. “You will be the first to know.”

He gives a half-hearted nod before then both of you continue your way to Rhaenyra’s chambers. When you get there the maidservants are beginning to place lights out in the hall for the night.

When you walk in, Rhaenyra is perched where she has been for some time now. Fiddling with the books on the shelf in the corner of the room.

“Maybe something a bit more upbeat. A love story,” you whisper. You go sit next to her on bed, flipping through the large brown book in your hand.

Rhaenyra begins to mumble as you shush her softly.

“It’s ok,” you reach over for the cup next to her bed. Sniffing the cup, you take note of how differently it smells compared to the tea and milk of the poppy mixture you used to.

The tonic seems different, stronger than usual. You put it to her lips and watch Rhaenyra drink it. You wipe her mouth. Even if this weakened state, you find her tragically beautiful. Like a fallen Angel. She resembles her siblings in that regard.

“I need - I need,” her eyes flutter open and shut. “The Prince that was Promised.”

You frown.

“Aeg- Aegon…”

“Your brother?”

“Tell Jacaerys.”

She trails off. Your back straightens as you watch as Rhaenyra’s eyes close, and her breathing slow.

The Prince that was Promised… Aegon.

You lean down and kiss her forehead. Mayhaps, in another life things could’ve been different for her. For her siblings, for her children, for you… for your kids. Climbing off the side of the bed, you gently tuck Rhaenyra in.

When you walk out, you see Quinton standing at attention. You motion for him to come with.

“I need you to do go get Otto,” you mummer. “We have business to get to.”

You cannot see the look Quinton gives you as move to walk ahead of him, and to that you are grateful.

Sullying is your only other option.

In the tenth moon 129 AC, the bell connected to the Royal Sept tolled for thee.

The death of Queen Rhaenyra, First of her Name, sent ripples through the Realm. But that was just beginning of the great strife that would follow her passing. A years peaceful period of reign for the Targaryen family ended by infighting.

Histories will say the first problem came the moment the then Princess and heir decided to sire bastard heirs. Others would say it began the moment, Rhaenyra left her succession vulnerable to her young brother. Not ending his line the moment she had the chance to.

Throughout her short reign as queen, there were festering rumors of usurping. That Lord Otto Hightower would hold secret meetings planning for the best moment to strike to get his grandson son on the throne. Others dispirited this claim, saying that the Dowager Queen Alicent’s afflictions for Queen Rhaenyra would never let that happen.

Ironically, it was not the death of the Rhaenyra is not the official start of what would later be called the Dance of Dragons. Instead the death of Prince’s Aemond One-Eye Targaryen’s lady wife’s parents triggered the domino affect. An escalation of plans.

Most would say the overflipped carriage was a tragic accident, but others whispered about something more serious. An inside attack from a member of the Targaryen family themselves. It was this tragedy that led to a public outcry from the members of the house in the Riverlands, coupling with the public crowning of a new king.

It was Ser Criston Cole, member of the Kingsguard, who crowed King Aegon, Second of his Name, in a private ceremony. Only flanked by his new crowned Queen Helaena, Prince Aemond and his wife, and Lord Hightower. King Aegon was crowned in front of the septon of faith, dawning his namesakes crown.

Back on Dragonstone, Jacaerys Velaryon recieved the news of not only his mother’s death, but also the usurping. Except it was not allies with the news, but foes. Jacaerys was slain at the footsteps of the castle.

It is still debated which side has more to gain to having Jace out of the way. King Aegon or Prince Daemon. But in the end, it was the later who eventually set up him home base at Dragonstone. Fleeing under the watchful eye of his spies in the Red Keep. With only two of his sons with him.

Both sides strategizing their moves. Daemon labeling Aegon and his supporters traitors to the realm, while Aegon set out to kill his uncle himself in given the chance. Under the insistence that it was him who accerlated Rhaenyra’s already bad condition.

Support the amongst the realm split as some supporter the efforts of the new king, far more open to his tactics than one of the Rogue Prince or Rhaenyra’s Bastards. While others scoffed at the boldness of Aegon the Usurper.

Those called on the opinions of the sons that remained at King’s Landing. Rumors of the Lucerys and Joffrey Velaryon being chained arriving. But it was not Daemon who negotiated the release of the boys. It was members of House Velaryon.

But there was one condition. It would be Baela and Rhaena, of both House Targaryen and Velaryon, that recieved equal titles after the passing of Corlys. Lucerys would be stripped of title of heir to the Driftmark Throne. It was rumored that this was not a cruel twist of fate from team green, but instead a plea from Lucerys himself.

It was Rhaena Targaryen, in all her wisdom, that worked through the terms. With a heavy heart, and no more bloodshed in her pleas. The more bold sister of the twins, Baela, had other plans. Sensing the release of Lucerys and Joffrey was a trap. She climbed on top of Moondancer, despite the calls not, and made her way closer to King’s Landing herself. But she was not alone. Her grandmother was with her.

Never one to sit from a battle himself, it was King Aegon who climbed his dragon to take them both on. All three dragon and riders fought diligently. Moondancer sustaining life ending injuries, while both Sunfyre and Aegon were injured at battle. But the most costly lost came at the hand of the One-Eyed Prince himself. Taking out Rhaenys and Meleys before further injury could come to his brother.

Enraged at the news of the death of Moondancer, and the almost costly lost of Baela, Daemon began his March. But he also had other plans at play. In efforts to lure the new Prince Regent out of the castle, he sent spies to Oldtown. Where not only Prince Daeron worked with all of Reach to support King Aegon. But also where the young Prince watched over his younger nieces and nephews.

There was an attempt to take the Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Aegon and Alaric Targaryen, son of Aemond. But the plan was thwarted by a terrible beast. Vermithor lurched and lured over Oldtown like a tower himself. His flames as green as the Hightower Beacon. Highly protective over his new rider and those close to her. At just six and seventh month, Daella Targaryen was feared as her father.

Still not wanting to be outdone, Daemon sets his sights towards not only Harrenhal, but another certain house in the Riverlands. His march pillaging those close to Aemond’s wife. Still grieving the lost of parents and seperated from her children, it was rumored the lady became more quiet, drowning herself in her cups.

It was she, with Queen Mother Alicent and Queen Helaena, who pleaded for Aemond to not take the bait. But it was too no vail. After he heard of the attempted kidnapping, he set out with men of his own.

His march mirroring his uncle’s not only through the Stormlands but as well as the Riverlands. There were whispers of inhabitants at Harrenhal. It is still speculated by both Daemon and Aemond did not burn the structure to the ground, when they had to chance. Tales would be written of a certain magic soiling the ground. Keeping safe from harm.

Though those tales are all rumors, what was undeniably true, is that two Targaryen princes breathed their last breaths over God’s Eye on the sixth moon of 130 AC. No one saw the battle, but the sound of snapping dragons and the sight of green and red flames that called attention.

Vhagar and Aemond both fought a valiant effort but it the wounds to both proved to be to substantial. Aemond Targaryen died on top of his crowned dragon. The burns from Vhagar burning Daemon beyond repair.

When their deaths made it back to the Red Keep, the halls recount the Queen Mother tearing her hair in anguish, calling for the deaths of not only everyone who supported Daemon, but Aegon the younger and Viserys alike.

A story of crowns and iron thrones whittled down to death and fire. The grief felt by team green only compounded by the body of Aemond’s lady wife found charred in their chambers. It was Ser Quinton, her sworn protector, who lived to tell the story of having to fight off several guards before it was too late. In a matter of days, Daella and Alaric Targaryen missing from their places in Oldtown.

Both jobs speculated to be last minute plans carried about for Daemon Targaryen, done by his loyal Gold Cloaks. It is said that King Aegon never fully recovers from the death of not only his brother, but his good sister. Punishing those he deems responsible once he comes to.

But there are merchants in Essos that believe they have spotted a beautiful lady hand in hand with her children. One with sparkling white hair, the other with blonde streaks through her dark curls.

taglist:  @florent1s @floraroselaughter @afro-hispwriter @snh96@holy-minseok @voniikg @evienorville @tremendouswolfsaladranch @crispmarshmallow @strawbrryquinn @widemiffyhappy @msmarvel-19 @dc-marvel-girl96 @xkennobi @fanfics4ever@hydrationqueensworld @lyra689 @blazzlynch @httyd-marauders@bregarc @b00kdiary @grey-water-colors @mercedesdecorazon@flowerpotmage @bstorn @poisonedsultana @papery-maniac @its-sam-allgood @yu3kkii @hvx @leoramage @neenieweenie@stargaryenx @rey26 @lazypinkpig @blackravena @s0urmarvel@elleclairez @rebelfleur22 @inpraizeof @luvremlu @clora95@blacpiink @let-love-bleeds-red @iwanttohitmyself @alastorhazbin@kitkat-writes-stuff @carrielle @aloneatpeace @ensolleildelune@landlockedmermaid77 @deadunicorn59

#im truly screaming crying throwing up about this being done #I hope y’all enjoy this and thank you again #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #prince aemond targaryen #aemond fic #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x you #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond imagine #prince aemond #aemond x y/n #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc

[merlot-and-chardonnay]

Yet Another HotD Take: or, Aemond in the Line of Succession

Does anyone ever actually think about this scene from Episode 9 of HotD?

When Aemond and Criston were looking for Aegon?

Right after Aemond no-so-subtly implies he's the one who should be king given all the hard work he's invested in ruling. He then says this next line to the knight:

I'm next in line for the throne. Should they come looking for me...I intend to be found.

I've heard some people say Aemond forgot that Aegon had children of his own, and if the guy did end up going missing indefinitely, then his oldest son, little Jaehaerys would technically be next in line.

Thing is...I don't think Aemond actually forgot.

I am actually certain the guy damn well knew what he was saying when he said what he said (try saying that three times fast).

As we know of this episode, with the passing of King Viserys, Alicent and the Greens made their move to quickly surpass Rhaenyra's claim as heir to the Iron Throne in favor of crowning Aegon as king. Aegon, however, was nowhere to be found in the Red Keep, so the search began in the city to find the guy.

Among those looking was Aemond, ever the good solider, who was probably playing in his mind multiple times how the scenario would play out should Aegon not be found.

Look, we saw the mask fall off for just a moment, and we got see Aemond for who he was in that moment...an ambitious individual who sees himself as someone who is most fit to rule above his older sister and especially his older brother.

Aemond mentioned how he was the dutiful brother who trained with the sword and studied history AND philosophy.

And being someone who is presumably well versed in history as he is, it is safe to assume Aemond knows his family's history quite well...and THAT includes being well versed in the reign of Maegor the Cruel.

For those who are NOT familiar, Maegor was the second born son of Aegon the Conqueror by his sister-wife Visenya. Like Aemond, Maegor also learned to fight with the sword; upon the passing of Aegon, when his body was burned, Maegor took Blackfyre from the ashes, AND he waited till he was well in his 20s before he claimed his own dragon.

That dragon being his father's, Balerion the Black Dread.

(in the Fire and Blood novel, Maegor implied Balerion was the dragon whom was worthy of him to claim).

Maegor was all the things his older brother wasn't, yet Aenys was the one to sit the throne after Aegon because he was firstborn. After Aenys passed, the throne should have been passed to his firstborn son who was also called Aegon (surprise, surprise), but before that could happen, Maegor (with the full backing of his mother) swooped in on dragonback and took the throne, making his nephew Aegon the Uncrowned.

Maegor went to great lengths to secure his claim to the throne, and this included killing his nephew on dragonback.

Sound familiar anyone?

I know in Aemond's case, it was an accident, but whose to say Maegor didn't mean to kill his nephew either? The novel after all is written from the perspective of multiple unreliable narrators.

Now that I actually put that into words, Maegor and Aemond actually share some similarities with one another.

They were both second born sons who out-shined their older brothers in more ways than one, such as mastering the skill of sword fighting AND claiming the largest dragons the Targaryens possessed.

And of course they killed their nephews, that's...another similarity.

That being said, from the Greens perspective, if Aegon wasn't found in time, than it wouldn't have been so farfetched for them to believe the throne should pass to Aegon's firstborn son.

However, in this point in time, Prince Jaehaerys is still a child, like maybe five or six years of age, I really don't think Otto Hightower would find the idea of a child sitting the throne anymore appealing then seeing Rhaenyra on the throne.

With that also said, I could see this panning out two ways, IF Aegon someone ran off from King's Landing:

The Greens small council agree that Jaehaerys would sit the throne next BUT only under the condition that regents would reside over matters of the crown until the boy came of age. To which Aemond would happily volunteer and be appointed Prince Regent, filling in for his nephew until Jaehaerys was officially crowned whenever he was deemed mature enough to rule on his own.

Aemond fails to find Aegon and reports to his mother that this is so. He then reports to the Greens council and somehow persuades the council to have him sit the throne next on the grounds that Jaehaerys is way too young to rule. With the backing of both his mother and grandsire, Aemond is crowned king and then proceeds to sends terms of surrender to his older sister.

To be fair, Aemond did get the chance to rule in the main story line. Spoilers ahead:

Into the events of the Dance of Dragons, Aegon was seriously injured in battle and unable to stand in to rule due to the immense pain he was in.

It was at this time Aemond was appointed Prince Regent, wearing the crown and sitting the throne in Aegon's place with the assumption that Aegon would eventually recover and be able to rule again.

In the novel, Aemond supposedly was to have said that the crown looked better on himself than it ever did on his brother.

And, to predict the events of HotD season 2, I think once Aemond gets the taste of this power, he is probably not going to want to give it up anytime soon, especially when he sees what he could accomplish for the realm as Prince Regent in comparison to what his brother couldn't accomplish as king.

Aemond is a man of duty...but he is also a man of ambition. That is a dangerous combo down the line as that can potentially have the makings of a benevolent tyrant, which is one who sees themself as the only one fit to rule and direct.

Why? Well because everyone else is an idiot:

I find this kinda ironic in a way.

Otto Hightower was always fearful of Daemon sitting the throne because he saw the man as a potential second Maegor...

But has, or will, Otto feel the same way when he sees how Aemond takes to sitting the throne as Prince Regent?

I don't know how the show runners will play this out, but it would be interesting to see more of Aemond, especially in his Prince Regent Era, how he takes to it, and just how willing he would be when he comes to realize that eventually he will have to give up this power once Aegon heals over.

FYI I already know how the story will ultimately pan out, but it would be interesting to see Aemond contemplating those particular hypotheticals.

That's my take.

Have a nice day

#aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #hotd #maegor the cruel

[la-bruja]

Hello, hi

You got me into the danny phantom batman crossover fandom despite not knowing EITHER of the source materials

help, I’ve read over 100,000 words about it in the last day

wonderful!! i also know zero (0) about either and am slowly absorbing knowledge through repeated tropes in fics I've read.

yes yes keep reading. here are some recommendations

Blister Pack by @faeriekit

Graphic Depictions of Violence, and Major Character Death. Everlasting Trio (Danny/Sam/Tucker). Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Found Family. 38k words. completed. DPxDC xover

There are… features… about Conner that don’t hold up to scrutiny. Things that don’t match either of his fathers, as disparate and unfeeling as they are to his general…existence.

Satisfactory Bonding Activities by raven_of_hydecastle

No Archive Warnings Apply. Tim Drake & Damien Wayne. Brotherly Bonding. 11k. one-shot.

“Like what?”

“Hell if I know. Play twister, do an escape room, take over the world, learn to knit, I don’t care. Just pick something you can both agree will keep you busy for an hour or two and it’ll be fine. Now hand me that Molotov, these guys are going down.”

Ghosts? As my therapy animals? More likely than you think. by bamboozledeagle

No Archive Warnings Apply. Batfamily. Comedy. 21k. completed. DPxDC xover

Jason is minding his own business, picking up strange green glowing goops with eyes, and living his not-very-best life.

Meanwhile the Batfamily is tracking down flying dogs, overpowered Metas calling themselves ghosts, and someone is having far too much fun with the boxes around Gotham. But this ain't about them.

What was lost, found again by @halfagone

Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. Danny Fenten & Batfamily. Empath Danny Fenton. Hurt/Comfort. Unreliable Narrator. 34k. completed. DPxDC xover.

Being half-dead had its perks, apparently. Like finding and saving a teenager trying to dig his way out of his own grave. Yeah. This is Danny's life now.

Eldritch Toddler by @halfagone

Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. Danny Fenton and Batfamily. Magical Age Regression. Creepy Danny Fenton. Fluff and Humour. Crack Treated Seriously. 7k. One-Shot. DPxDC xover.

Bruce is not prepared for when John Constantine hands over a young boy who has been de-aged. While Constantine goes off in search of the one responsible, Bruce and his family are left to care for the child. Danny is a sweet kid, he isn't fussy either! This should be fine. They quickly learn to take Constantine's warnings seriously.

Enjoy the fics! Lemme know what you think or if you want more recommendations!

#dpxdc #fic rec #fic recs #fic reccomendations #thinking thoughts #any askers

[woundlingus]

Okay, Unfinished Business 13x20 THEE Gabriel master thesis of episodes for his characterisation tells me one very important fact about him, and that’s that he is an unreliable narrator.

This is perhaps not even his fault, years and years of suffering the worst kind of abuse it’s hard to think clearly about much at all, let alone the intricacies of what happened to put you where you are and trying to understand other perspectives. It’s hard when you’ve spent a near decade (or undisclosed amount of time being shifted between Earth and Hell) with only the worst kind of torture at the forefront of your mind.

Or maybe, he does know. He is the trickster in every way that matters regardless of if he’s the original Loki or not. I’d find it pretty hard to believe that the trickster who haunts Sam Winchester’s nightmares would be unaware of the irony of his situation and the symbolism of his own torture, I imagine that makes the punishment all the more humiliating and bitter. Gabriel is also a show boat. A peacock. He’s always paraded himself around as tough and unknowable, he’s also a known liar and both of those traits work together to create a very convincing story in whatever episodes story it is he wants to tell. But he is a liar.

What sounds better? Gabriel ran away to hide under the skirt of his pagan friends?

Or, Gabriel was living a luxurious life where he was pampered and beloved;

(That’s right, the pornstars obviously)

That these so called friends wined and dined him, fed him his fill, and then when he was at his most vulnerable after they’d made well sure he felt comfortable enough to let his guard down- THEN, and only then, did they strike out against him. He could have never seen it coming. The ultimate betrayal.

Gabriel can’t keep his story straight the whole episode. He opens with a bold faced lie (can you spot the resemblance to any other lies so far?)

He knows this looks bad. He’s already so fragile, and he knows the Winchesters want him for his grace so I can’t imagine him knocking on their door for help was a decision he came to easily. So these two men who are bigger than him, stronger than him, and have a bone to pick with him, bring him into their motel room while he’s bleeding his guts out and can barely stand. He peacocks. I’m fine, “you should see the other guy”, wink wink. God forbid they know he’s weak, god forbid they think he’s any more pathetic than they already do.

He’s guarding his very fragile ego right now, frankly, it’s the only thing he has left.

I don’t doubt for a moment that Loki’s POV is any less clouded by his own personal prejudices and ego, they’re very much the same after all. Loki was in that cave, Gabriel did rescue him.

These are facts. That doesn’t change that Loki freed Gabriel from a cave of his own and saved him from his family as well.

They are equals in this fact. But neither willing to admit to it. Loki I understand, he’s given very little time to plead his case and so he gets right to the point. I saved Gabriel’s life, he killed my father.

Gabriel however, has plenty of time to explain himself and wastes it spinning a story in which he can both simultaneously look cool and still find himself to be the ultimate victim in. He wastes time keeping the Winchesters in the dark and it could have cost them their lives when they ran in after Gabriel without the whole story. Lucky for them, no one here cares about the Winchesters lol Loki is as occupied with Gabriel and he is with Loki. But they could’ve been hurt!

I’m not saying Gabriel doesn’t deserve catharsis, that he shouldn’t get to kill Loki and his children. I don’t need to, Gabriel does-

Maybe that was the tricksters best trick so far, that Gabriel managed to warp his own memories and perception of what happened to fuel his own survival, and now that he’s out and the world is real again he can’t make himself let go of what he had to tell himself. That Loki was unnecessarily cruel. That Loki snapped out of nowhere. That his closest confidant sold him out for money of all things. He can’t let himself remember it was more complex than that, he tells himself he needs this, because if he doesn’t he’ll have to admit that under all this peacocking and lying he is that weak and broken and scared. If Gabriel has to sit down with the reality that he’s never going to be that cool and sexy guy who gets everyone he wants and couldn’t care less, he’d probably want to kill himself (which is what really starts to get him down in the following episodes because guess what, killing Loki didn’t fix anything he’s still broken, :( always will be)

I think he believes if he can lie hard enough, this fabrication could be real. It can be real to him at least, so he doesn’t have to face the humiliation of either admitting to his own stupid naïveté and he didn’t see the obvious coming, or that he knowing and wilfully begged Loki for a place by his side and got throw down hard for his cowardice. But it’s not like there’s anyone left to contest his story now.

#this is so ramble-y I’m so sorry 😭 this probably doesn’t make a lick of sense but it’s plaguing me #gabriel spn #supernatural #spn #supernatural s13 #supernatural 13x20

[witchofthesouls]

Following up on that take about TFP Megatron, this is something I’ve wanted to talk about for awhile. When Optimus became amnesiac after the battle with Unicron and went back to Orion Pax, did anyone else notice the strange, tenderness and delicateness of their relationship? Especially with Megatron being so uncharacteristically patient with Orion?

it could be Megatron just manipulating Orion or me reaching as a MegOP shipper, but I think when Orion came back, so did Megatron’s feelings for him.

Megatron hates Optimus prime, but he loves Orion Pax. And I think if he could, he’d get rid of the former and keep the latter.

What’s your take?

I think it can swing one way or the other or even both. Megatronus/D-16 and Orion Pax had forged an alliance among the lower classes and like-minded individuals to bring change to the dying and oppressive state of the Golden Age of Cybertron. 

The Decepticons were dangerous. Not in violent acts, but what they represented. Fundamental and irreversible change to the status quo of Functionism. That mecha should not be corralled and defined by their own functions, determined by their frames. (Which makes me kinda side-eye the advertisements that Megatron enjoys My Little Pony, but that’s a different story.)

When Ratchet recalls the events that led up to the War, he says, "It was here that [Megatronus] begins to reveal his true colors." But we should also take into consideration of Ratchet’s biases and that he’s an unreliable narrator; he describes a young Orion Pax finding out the corruption and inequality through his work in the Iacon Hall of Records and being moved to mentor the miner-turned-gladiator. In the Aligned novels, Orion hailed directly from the Wastelands, outside the safety from the walls of a city-state, the guy didn’t even understand Neocybex or whatever language the city-dwellers used.

I’ve seen takes with Orion being very ignorant by his own high-caste status and was mainly pushed by his own innate goodness and idealism, but I have yet to see takes on Orion’s unique position being from the absolute boonies and snatched up by Alpha Trion. I mean, you’re telling me that a very respectable individual in a very important position adopts a literal feral barbarian man/child and no one makes a comment? I don’t think so!!

Ratchet has his own ingrained prejudices: it’s shown how he speaks about the locals on Earth and how he dismisses Bulkhead not being a scientist as well as how all the Autobots fell apart when their Prime was taken away from them. 

So back to Ratchet’s recall: the Autobots view Megatron as the megamanic that doomed their society, but the Decepticons view him as their liberator from chains.

Megatronus demanding to be named the next Prime is a power move on his part. Not in a way to consolidate absolute power, but it puts the old guard in a really tough position. The massive crowd against them won’t be swayed by pretty words or empty promises, but like Pits, they’re going to validate the uprise with the holiest of relics. Personally, I truly believe that the Senate endorsed Orion to break the revolution and its base. 

I also think that Megatronus and Orion, while on the same team for a better, had played cards too close to their sparks, and believed the other mech to betray the cause. I mean, he wasn’t kidding that Orion would have made a great Decepticon, but there arise so many misunderstandings from this.

Honestly, the whole thing is really damn tragic when it’s broken down.

Megatron is really tsundere when you think about it. For all of his harshness, he does care, deep, deep down.

Why else would he demand sets of partners on missions after MECH got Breakdown? Why else the Vehicons were color-coded after he latched a car off the deck of an air-bound Nemesis? Why else he kept taking back Starscream? 

Optimus-to-Orion brought out some of Megatron’s past before the wretched meeting, but he still manipulates the situation to keep him in the dark: decode the library and how Cybertron became a wasteland.

Megatron is not Megatronus/D-16, just as Optimus is not Orion Pax. They are very two different people shaped by what happened. If anything, it just hammers the tragedy of what happened.

#ask #transformers #transformers prime #tfp #optimus prime #optimus #orion pax #megatron #cybertronian culture #my thoughts #I thought they both played their cards without telling the other #maybe they thought to salvage to the situation #too bad they couldn't talk #I have had many thoughts regarding this okay?! #maccadam #tf headcanons #ratchet

[ineffectualdemon]

Thank you for answering my ask, (from the anon that ask before).....If you don't mind me asking again, my other ask is about Scum Villain....Who are your top 3 or top 5 fav characters from that fandom and why do you love them? What are your top 5 or top 7 fav moments from the series? Feel free if you want to pick either or answer all the questions....Thanks if you want to answer....

I love these asks! It's like being invited to info dump and it's so much fun!

Warning this is long:

Okay top 5 SVSSS characters are easy peasy

5. Liu Qingge: man he just doesn't catch a break. He's this jock meathead type guy on the surface who is rough around the edges but he's so caring once Shen Qingqiu earned his trust. Also the yearning! The pining! The fact that this guy who he shows devotion after devotion to just chooses someone who has, by all appearances, just abused him again and again is heartbreaking. And even post canon when he has been unwittingly but irrevocably rejected he still does the same acts of devotion.

The man needs a drink and to get laid.

And homoerotic fistfights with Binghe

4. Mobei Jun: this is on his own. Paired with Shang Qinghua it's different. Mobei Jun actually shares a lot of qualities with Liu Qingge. They are both rough stoic men who constantly do acts of devotion and love towards their loved on and those acts are always misinterpreted and they face constant rejection.

The difference is Shang Qinghua is not aware of Mobei Jun's intentions and does not realise those are acts of devotion. And if he did realise he would be thrilled. The problem is cultural differences not emotional constipation

Also Mobei Jun has been pining and yearning for decades and that's amazing

I also like what he tells us about Airplane. Because he's Airplane's ideal man both in what he is attracted to and what he longs to be, but that "what he wants to be" is based on how Airplane reads him. And Airplane reads him as stoic and cold and cool (metaphorically) and untouched and unbothered by anything. Which tells us that that's what Airplane wishes he was, but Mobei Jun is in reality someone desperate to hold on and be held in return. He's lonely and devoted and loyal and unwaveringly honest.

Which is maybe telling of how maybe secretly Airplane wants to reach out and be honest about his feelings and ask for what he wants.

3. Luo Binghe: god there is so much to say. He is a dark reflection of Airplane. He is so parched for love and affection and that he latches on to Shen Qingqiu and cannot let go but he can never feel worthy enough. Never feel like he deserves happiness because time and again it's ripped from his hands.

No one will choose him

He is all alone

Even when he has everything he has every wanted he can't believe it. Because surely this will be ripped away too and he will be left hurt and alone again

He is every dark thought Airplane had alone in his room writing 10,000 words a day to keep his head above water in a dingy room knowing he's unwanted by either of his parents

And man if that doesn't cut deep into me as the unwanted child growing up

That feeling of believing no one will choose you ever and you will never be really loved and then making the one person who does the centre of your world but constantly afraid they will change their mind?

Yeah.

I can identify with that

it's gotten better over the years but uh yeah. The insecurity is still there

2. Shen Qingqiu/Shen Yuan: the tragic comedy of his internalised queerphobia while attracting a harem of men. The unawareness of self, the disassociating, the mental gymnastics he goes through to no homo himself

He's a fascinating unreliable narrator and also his internal screaming is really funny and relatable. I don't have the System but I do have disassociative identify disorder and we definitely get in internal screaming matches sometimes because some of us are dicks. So that kind of internal fighting is very familiar and even funnier to me

I also find it interesting that canonically when he transmigrates pretty much the only overt trauma in his life up that point is dying. He grew up relatively wealthy with a distant but loving family and managed to hit the top 10 of whatever he tried so he was successful enough without being outstanding

In a lot of ways before transmigrating he sounds...bored and unfulfilled

But when he dies he has never had to process trauma before so he just ...doesn't. But also I think he's excited and interested and involved in his life for the first time

And I think it's really interesting that he self identifies more with his online handle then he does with his actual name. There is no reason he couldn't say his name was Something Yuan. But he never tries to go by his original name in the book. He hides behind his ridiculous web handle instead.

And I think that tells us that while he was from a relatively good life on the surface there were issues. Because I think even in his first life he was doing a lot of masking.

Because Shen Qingqiu/Shen Yuan reads as autistic. PIDW is his special interest. He's can info dump about monsters. The way he uses his fan is like a stim. And the way he masks as Shen Qingqiu is too practiced right away.

Even though he gets caught out right away he thinks he's masking well and it feels like he's used to it.

That combined with him preferring his online handle and how he drops the mask completely around Airplane who knew his online persona makes me feel that online is the only place he allowed himself to unmask and I find that very interesting

1. Shang Qinghua/Airplane:

I love him

I love him so much

He is just so tired and done with this shit.

He barely hides that he's a transmigrator, barely hides that he's a spy. He immediately calls Shen Qingqiu Cucumber Bro because he's so relieved he isnt alone

He's terrified of his King but god forbid anyone even think of harming a hair on his favourite's head

He is a sell out because he is a survivor. He has a lot of the same insecurities and issues as Binghe but he also has age on him and a cynicism that sees him through

He is as devoted to Mobei Jun as Binghe is to Shen Qingqiu but there is a mellower edge. He doesn't expect his King to choose him and he's fine with just being useful for most of the text

It's interesting to me that Binghe was willing to destroy the world to make it that Shen Qingqiu had to choose him because there would be no other choice

But Shang Qinghua gives Mobei Jun a challenge

He doesn't do it consciously but he basically tells Mobei "come find me and make it up to me. It's your turn to chase me."

Which is something Binghe cannot do and I really think that's speaks to the length of time Shang Qinghua has been alive in comparison but it's also just an interesting character moment for him

He wants what Bingqiu have but he wants to be the one chased now. After decades of being the servant afraid of being thrown away or killed he just wants domesticity and someone doing acts of service for him! And he gets it!

He's someone who causes the death of many children and everyone just kinda...overlooks that

Because he's just a little guy! And is so weak and pathetic except he's not. Not really.

He's jsut so fucking fascinating because he's got huge insecurities and issues but he's also got such a thick skin and thick face

He doesn't care what people think about him as long as he can be with his King at the end of the day

I could go on forever about Shang Qinghua but this is already so long

Top 5 moments:

Now I'm gonna say I haven't got the last two volumes yet so while I have read the whole story before it's been awhile since I read the end so things might be misremembered a little but I'm gonna do my best

5. The moment in the extras when Luo Binghe asks Sha Hualing, Mobei Jun, and Shang Qinghua for love advice because all 4 of them are so fucking stupid but especially Moshang and I love them

4. the Reveal of Shen Qingqiu in the plant Body in Cang Qiong. That "caught you" is so *chefs kiss* I love it! Then following that up with Binghe on one side an all his very hurt Martial Family on the other.... It brings me such joy. It's so well done

3. My Boy Diving after his King! The fact that right before it Cucumber was going to save Shang Qinghua but Mobei was already there protecting him, the fact that when Shang Qinghua goes to throw himself after his King Shen Qingqiu tries to stop him but is shoved aside!

It's such a great MoShang moment

2. The Self Detonation scene. It is such a moment! It's tragic and beautiful and sad and ahhhhhh. The way it's such an act of love but it's also so deeply traumatising to Binghe. Everything about it is exquisite

1. From the extras again Airplane protecting Mobei from his uncle. The image of the ring of fire with Shang Qinghua between them. When Shang Qinghua refuses to scream as long as he can, that when he breaks Mobei Jun overcomes everything just long enough to send his Uncle flying

Oh my god I think about that scene all the time

Honourable mention: Tianlang-Jun thinking SQQ is having a threesome with Zhuzhi Lang and Luo Binghe and is just like "...fascinating..." *Scribbles in his notes*

#svsss #liu qingge #mobei jun #shen qingqiu #luo binghe #shang qinghua #moshang #bingqiu #liushen #svsss meta #long post

[cupcakes-and-pain]

Charles & Ollie: Chapter 10

Enjoy! And sorry, this took longer than expected

CW: pet whump, past kidnapping, fear of punishment, fear of abandonment, really bad headspace, unreliable narrator, internalized dehumanization, caretaker new master, multiple caretakers

———

Bruno was on their fifth cup of coffee when Callie came into the kitchen. She couldn't stop herself from checking on Ollie again, assuring herself that he was safe. He was asleep now, so that was probably a good sign. Maybe? Honestly, she wasn’t sure.

"Coffee? Again? Bruno, you're that stressed out?"

"Of course I'm stressed! We have a person in our apartment who can't even call us by our name without clear permission. Plus, as much as I hate it, legally speaking, he's stolen property. We could face some serious jail time for literally just helping someone. How could I ever not be stressed?"

Callie put her hands up in mock defeat.

"Hey, don't yell at me. I'm with you, this whole situation is very messed up. I just- maybe hold off the caffeine for a second. And, I dunno, stress is just so unlike you."

Bruno smiled half-heartedly. A moment of silence and calm passed. Callie took a deep breath, centering herself.

"Alright, well, we should have a plan. To minimize stress and keep Ollie safe. First things first, wasn't there a guy involved with pet rescue who used to work for the painter? He'll probably know what's best for Ollie."

Bruno nodded. "We also need to go shopping. Clothes for Ollie, toiletries, more groceries, and stuff like that. How about I go out shopping tomorrow while you stay here with Ollie and try to contract the guy?"

"Alright, it's a plan."

- - -

Ollie woke up on an unknown bed in an unfamiliar room. It took him a second to remember where he was, and when he did, he started crying. Muffled sobs racked his body as his mind wandered in a desperate loop. He wished Master Charles was here. Whenever he was crying or scared, Master Charles would calm him and sometimes hold him. Ollie would get a treat and gentle words. But now, he'd be lucky if these people even decided to keep such an annoying pet.

It was a bad thing to do, thinking of his past owner. So, so incredibly bad. He belonged to Bruno and Callie now, both of whom hated his old owner. To be missing Master Charles, or worse, crying for him, was disobedient, bad. He was a bad pet. They'd punish Ollie for sure. They'd kick him out afterward, assuming the two wouldn't decide to just kill him. And he had just got a new home. He didn't want to lose it so fast.

Once he had finally calmed a bit, he quickly dried his eyes and tried to think of something else. When his thoughts proved that almost everything reminded him of old Master and thus made him feel worse, he forced his mind blank. He cleared out all of his thoughts like he was throwing a white sheet over something and ignoring the movement underneath.

The sun had just begun to rise. He had woken up early enough to make breakfast for the new owners that said they weren't his owners. Maybe he could change their minds, or, at the very least, change Mx. Bruno's. That one seemed very nice, despite being a bit stressed. They remind him of- no. Do not think about Master Charles! Stop it stop it stop it stop itstopitstopitstopit.

Maybe he could be a good Friend and make them both want to keep him. Failing that, he might make Mx. Bruno love him. Maybe he wouldn't mess everything up this time.

As he crept out of the room they had given him as quietly as he could, Ollie purposefully ignored the fact that he didn't know the first thing about how to be a Friend.

- - -

The kitchen was small but pretty. It was decorated with lots of flower imagery, and a fresh vase of daisies was on the table. It smelled like spring and tea in here.

Tea! Master Charles liked to drink tea sometimes, and Bruno had a cup of it when Ollie first met them, although, after that, they were drinking coffee. If Ollie could find either drink, he might find favor with them. And if he found favor with them, maybe they'd prevent him from getting kicked out. Perhaps they'd even give out lighter punishments, even though Ollie knew he wasn't worth that. Master Ch- old master was just nice. Ollie knew how harsh he deserved.

After a while spent searching, bad pet, sneaking around and looking through things- no. He was being good. He was making breakfast. It was okay to look if it was for his owners. (At least he hoped so.) Finally, he found some tea and a kettle. He hoped that clove tea was good enough for his owner, but he didn’t see anything else.

What else could he do? He saw eggs and fruit while trying to locate the tea, but had no clue if either would be okay. He barely knew that Bruno liked tea, based on yesterday and the fact that the kitchen already smells like it. He had no clue what either person would want to eat. They wouldn't throw him out for this, right? Some owners definitely would, but these two seemed nice. They gave a chance to a worthless, second-hand, dirty mutt like him. The same people who would throw out a pet that couldn't make food would've never taken in a stray in the first place.

He'll be fine. Everything’s fine. He’ll be fine. If he repeated it over and over and thought of nothing else, maybe he'd convince himself. He'll be fine.

———

Tag list: @whumpzone @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpsweetwhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @apples-and-whump @professional-idiocy @nicolepascaline @cowboy-anon @wolfeyedwitch @kim-poce @guachipongo @badluck990 @secretwhumplair @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @morelikepainsley

#charles & ollie #ollie #Bruno & Callie #whump #pet whump #pet whumpee #tw fear of punishment #fear of punishment #tw fear of abandonment #fear of abandonment #caretaker new master #caretaker new whumper #multiple caretakers #unreliable narrator #bad headspace

[tiny-huts]

oh wait, yeah that whole thing does get way simpler if you assume that since Nalfein died at the same time, Drizzt just stopped counting as sacrifice material, rather than Nalfein replacing him as The Sacrifice in a roundabout way. like functionally the same outcome but less twisty mind chess to get there

(I do remember Malice specifically saying that it might offend Lolth to sacrifice him unnecessarily but that could also have been her justifying it unreliable-narrator-style, since she wanted to keep him)

seems like something where if 1 and/or 2 is dead, the Matron in charge could make the call that #3 Must be sacrificed no matter what (if she really wants to sacrifice that one or doesn't really care about keeping him/cares more about getting the sacrifice out of the way earlier) or that he only counts as #3 if 1 and 2 are both still alive when the sacrifice is made

So I suppose that's all just evidence that sometimes weird circumstances lead to the actual thirdborn son not necessarily being sacrificed, so the Drizzt birth situation doesn't really factor in to the question of whether Minthara's "every son after #2 is killed" statement was canon or if she's just lying for fun (which yknow. she's allowed. (normal about her <3 !) nobody can stop her from lying for fun)

The number of sons that del'Armgo has and the fact that nobody comments on the presence of more than two sons in any of the houses being unusual (also since not every guy at Melee Magthere was noted to be an elderboy or secondboy, and nobody in the books mentions drow families only ever having two boys, and this seems like the kind of thing Young Drizzt would have taken note of at least once or at least might've gotten an exposition line in other Menzoberranzan POVs) seems like proof enough that 4 and beyond don't legally need to be sacrificed

(but if Minthara thinks they should be maybe they should consider– (wait I like equality.and men..) I mean maybe she shouldn't get too influential down there)

I think Minthara just was saying that to fuck with Gale TBH. and honestly I really have my gripes with how larian did Drow so idk how much they actually paid attention to the lore from the novels. But yeah Drizzts situation was weird but tbh I think it's made pretty clear that every other notable house maybe other than Melarn has more than two so... suggests you can keep the fourth. So I don't think Barrison Del'Armgo or Xorlorrain are doing anything weird and I think you could make a case for them being eliminated if they were defying Lolth so openly especially with how many sons Barrison Del'Armgo has

[user-needs-new-hyperfixation]

uh as someone who is in svsss fandom; not sure what that other person was talking about in terms of everyone “glossing over” how it ends. people know it’s bad. that’s... kind of the point, both of the entire series and that scene. spoilers for that, and the rest of svsss though I’ve done my best to keep everything vague, but you can choose to disregard this and I wouldn’t fault you for this. tl:dr svsss is definitely not for everyone and if this isn’t your thing, probably not for you. sorry in advance for the essay. it is an absolute train wreck, which is kind of the point.

that scene involves sex. that scene involves one person withdrawing consent. that scene continues despite the withdrawal of consent, and mind you it’s not what most people would call erotic by any definition.

this book is a horror that gets masked by the comedy from an unreliable narrator; what if you got isekai’d into the absolute worst of the worst online web novel, that is just porn and a revenge catharsis male power fantasy, what if you were stuck there? what if you were stuck in the role of a character created to be the source of misery, a character who actually has to suffer that horrifying punishment that is inflicted by the protagonist of this revenge fantasy by the end if you fail to change a story that’s already been written?

it’s a terrible world to be sent to because the book is deconstructing that entire genre that honestly I don’t think exists to the same extent in english, it’s a genre that is made to sell chapters via exactly that; a revenge catharsis story built on male power fantasy, with flimsy justification for porn at every turn. so this terrible situation to be in ends like that; with god awful porn tropes everywhere, of course the world ending and trying to avoid it involves sex that, if anyone involved with was real, would be horrifying.

the main romance is, as has been joked about, a solid red flag finding solace in another solid red flag. they’re both doing terribly mental health wise without much prospect of getting better but considering the circumstances it’s the healthiest dynamic they both could be in.

i’m not saying it’s a perfect story by any means, but I feel like people’s disdain for it often comes from the expectations. if you go into this with the expectation of it being like tgcf or mdzs you will be blindsided by all this, and it’s a lot to be suddenly exposed to without warning. personally I would absolutely not have enjoyed this as a romance primarily; but I still do enjoy it as a black comedy that hides the horror of what it’s deconstructing, and basically just happens to have an absolute trash fire romance in the background.

if you somehow got this far; thank you. if you don’t want to read svsss that’s fair, it really isn’t for everyone for various reasons. but if you’re willing to read it, reading it as a romance might not be for you. the protagonist and point of view for us is a very unreliable narrator and I’m not sure why entirely but this fact gets thrown out a lot when people get around to reading it.

I don't think it's necessarily unfair to say it gets glossed over at least in the sort of...idk, public-facing side of the fandom? Like I'm sure there's deeper discussions and meta and such going on within the fandom, but from the outside I've seen like 3-5 posts about the darker stuff and 100 cutesy memes of the curly haired guy being a whiny baby 😅

THAT SAID, I really like how you've broken down the premise here, and it is very interesting. I love SO MUCH about MDZS even though I don't like the sex, and I love MXTX's storytelling, so I could definitely be down to read some dark comedy-horror trope deconstruction from her. I do think that management of expectations is a big part of it: I daresay most people come into MXTX novels via MDZS or TGCF first, and both of those are certainly to large degree romances. So it kind of makes sense that then people head over to SVSSS expecting more of the same and get unpleasantly surprised. I appreciate both you and the other person I was talking to kind of breaking down the differences. I definitely do feel like, if/when I do read it, I'll be going in now with a much better sense of what to expect and how to interpret it. Thanks so much!

#asks

[agentravensong]

While I'm here, I wanted to say something else:

I'm pretty sure Tenna is going to be the main boss of chapter 3, not Mike - and I don't think Mike is going to be the secret boss either.

Between the damn_you_tenna page (btw, has anyone picked up on the url maybe being a utena reference? just me? cool) and the Twitter Q&A, it seems pretty clear that a) the TV (Tenna) and Mike are separate characters, and b) that Spamton hates the TV/Tenna, but cares about Mike. Perhaps even considers (considered?) him a friend.

The two things that make me think Tenna will be the main boss of the chapter are:

a) We've gotten multiple direct hints to their existence now, from both all this and in-game, with the smile appearing in the TV static as the last image we get from Chapter 2. An obvious cliffhanger - too obvious for their existence to be a surprise like with the other secret bosses. I mean, they're called "secret bosses" for a reason. Remember, Jevil gave no hints about Spamton, but he *did* give a hint about Queen.

b) The tweet makes a reference to "THAT [Cathode]'s CREW". If we assume this is referring to Tenna, which makes sense based on the use of cathodes in CRT televisions (and recall the line from Spamton's fight about turning "THOSE [Cathode Screens] INTO [Cathode Screams]"), then it makes me think there are multiple other characters working for Tenna. Miniboss-type characters that our crew will have to contend with over the course of Chapter 3. (This is also supported by Spamton saying "EVERYONE WILL PAY" except Mike, implying that there are multiple people at fault in his eyes, even if it all comes back to Tenna.) And, structure-wise, it makes a lot more sense for the main boss of the chapter to have a bunch of encounters with lackeys building up to their battle than the secret boss.

Now, as for Mike... my thinking with him is that, again, he's already been hinted at too much to be a proper secret boss. Though, it could start being a trend now that we're two of seven chapters in that secret bosses start getting hinted at, I suppose.

The other thing is that he seems to have been Spamton's friend, specifically during his Big Shot era, whom he lost contact with (likely, cut Spamton off). And yes, Spamton is a boss (in video game terms), but what elevated him to the level of climatic secret boss was his attempts to transcend his Darkner status by taking the NEO body and then Kris's SOUL... not just being a salesman who appeared on TV sometimes. Maybe Mike has gone off the deep end since then, but at current, for as little as we know about him, he just seems like... some guy.

My prediction for him right now is that he'll be more of a Sweet Cap'n Cakes type, where we fight him - perhaps because he initially thinks we're working with/for Tenna - but then he becomes our ally, whom we may actively try to protect from Tenna's crew.

That all being said, it's worth keeping in mind that Spamton is... an unreliable narrator. It's possible that Tenna and their crew aren't actually that devious; that they aren't the bad guys.

...then again...

...maybe not.

EDIT - I almost forgot one other thing that makes me think Mike won't be the secret boss:

Tenna as the main boss of Chapter 3 will put the focus on the entertainment side of this Dark World. I'm sure there will some personal ties back to the Dreemurr family with them being the TV that got unplugged by them some time ago and being the centerpiece of the living room (I can only imagine the things they've seen/heard), but, at the end of the day, they're a TV character in a TV world.

So, it would make sense to me if the secret boss is derived from a different element of the Dreemurr household more specifically focused on Dreemurr family backstory. Something like the discarded flowers in the trash can, or the missing green crayon, or any other number of forgotten, non-TV related items. Which, assuming Mike is a microphone or something similarly tied to the TV / its shows, would not include him.

#deltarune #deltarune spoilers #image descriptions in alt text #tenna #mike

[dumpster-fire-deluxe]

Good time of day to you, most preeminent rubbish receptacle! I hope this obnoxiously long (1) book rec finds you well, I took my (prescribed) adderall today if it's any consolation lmao

As a fellow palpatine enjoyer, I was wondering if you have read "Lords of the Sith" by Paul S. Kemp? Kemp commits one cardinal sin, in that he uh, he makes Darth Vader run lol, like a lot. He uses the word "sprint" often. But other than THAT, it's stupid good. It's about the early days of the empire and the subjugation of Ryloth.

Both plots are given a similar amount of time and meet together at the end so idfk which is the A plot and which is the B plot, but let's call ryloth's rebellion the B plot, since our sith friends arent in this one til the end.

The A plot? Darth Vader and the Emperor crash land on ryloth (a la RoTS, palpatine even makes a fucking joke about the similarity) in ryloths single jungle, its equatorial (think the amazon for climate, but spread over the entirety of south america for size) with just 2 of palpatines red guards, and all the radios on the whole planet, including imperial transmissions, all of it, are down.

So they're just, stuck there, no help, traipzing through a huge ass old growth forest trying to find "out" with stampede amounts of large bug-like feral carnivorous animals and a small rebellion trying to personally hunt them down (the bug monsters are included in the "personally hunting them down" bit, btw lol)

You get so much insight into how palpatine works, thru his actions, thru how the red guards react to finding out palpatine has the force, what they think of him in general and also through Vader's perspective (pov character), and theres parts throughout where it's clear Vaders being a bit of an unreliable narrator (lol @ him being a reliable narrator) which is always fun, and palpatine's teaching vader darkside lessons and philosophy on their trek, including some excellent zingers and one liners which are v in-character actually, and hes actually participating in the action and violence too, no one but vader and his personal redguard are there so he can use the force willy nilly without having to keep up the weak old man persona and dude goes ABSOLUTELY ham. That robe of his generates ungodly amounts of static electricity, just shocking.

And the A plot, that's Cham Syndulla and his freedom fighters (the characters from the TCW ryloth episodes) and there's twilek/ryl political stuff on the ground and senate levels and theres guerilla warfare and secret missions and theres even spycraft! Really good spycraft!

It's set riiiiight after RoTS, so this is like, the FIRST act of resistance against the Empire. Actually wait, maybe that's why vader keeps running. He hasn't learned he doesn't need to yet, slow learner and all that. I'll downgrade that to a venial sin. But it still displeases me.

It's ~350 pages (8"×4" book, avg paperback size if that helps anyone), but both times I've read it, I finished in under 3 hours, cause its that captivating. It also reads a bit different each time, I noticed new stuff that enhanced the story on ea read, so if you(or followers) have read it already but it was over a year ago, it's def worth it to read again imo.

*****

Medium CW for fatphobia; one of the lady moffs gets compared to a Hutt (only in a few chapters, but its constant in those chapters) and her appearance is spoken about by her direct underling (a pov character) in very, uh, conducive to fascism way. which, apropos ig lol. Hes pretty much the only one doing it tho, like palpatine and vader absolutely have the opportunity to jump in on the fat bashing but neither do.

No wait, palpatine makes fun of orn free taa's appearance, but to my mind it's a 50/50 on whether he was mocking him for being fat or if he was doing a "Jesus this guy sweats a LOT when he's around us, eh vader? Embarrassing for him, huh? Probably thinks he's gonna die. Go ahead and toss him into the bulkhead on your way out I need to make a point later" and the second is more, uh, in character for him, so.

The fact that you're into palpatine of all ppl indicates to me there's probably not a lot of cw's that you'd need, but just incase I wanted to give it cause it's like, very realistic (it's the most realistic part of the damn book, it's star wars lol) and there isn't any warning in the text that its coming. At all. Belkor (pov character) complains about mosquitoes and then goes on a spiel in his head about how fat and gross and gluttonous and lazy his moff is out of fuckin nooooowhere just cause shes in the room now, it's our literal introduction to her character. And I KNOW I have friends that'd be at minimum bothered by that for sure, so, its getting mentioned.

Also by nature of the story being set on ryloth, there's slavery, there's forced sex work, there's a vigilante ex sex worker that murders imperial johns sometimes, for fun. Theres on page drug use, cause its ryloth, the planet where they mine the drugs. But like, nothing about spice remind me of any singular drugs IVE taken (unless you've somehow got access to opium concentrate to mix with some cocaine and a micro dose of lsd lmfao) so i doubt anyones gonna be jonesing for the shit han solo's smuggling if you feel me.

The fatphobia IS jarring though if you're not expecting it, i think Kemp got free reign to be an asshole about her cause shes an imp. He doesnt do it to the other imperials, but i dont think there are other female presenting imperials for him to rub his 2015-era internalized mysogyny all over either.

So, okay, 1 venial sin, 1 cardinal sin that wasnt considered a sin by publishers when the book was written, and probably wouldnt have a hard time going to print today. But (spoilers: but not really, this tells you nothing i could mean anything by this) she gets hers. Also she's a lesbian.

(And no they don't burry their 1 gay if any of your followers want to know before diving in, but also shes not in a relationship it isnt a gay story there's no romance shes just a random fictional facist who likes bush, and its v likely that someone figured they could squeeze a queer in there for brownie points if she was in the bg and a bad guy. She's still a v compelling character tho, and one of the few characters who expirience growth and betters themselves, and good lord the tragic backstory.) Either way id probably hang and that means i say shes cool.

Got it in paperback off thriftbooks for smth like $3, if you/anyone don't have access to a library!

Adderall made me aggressive so you're doing much better on it than I did 😂

and palpatine's teaching vader darkside lessons and philosophy on their trek, including some excellent zingers and one liners which are v in-character actually, and hes actually participating in the action and violence too, no one but vader and his personal redguard are there so he can use the force willy nilly without having to keep up the weak old man persona and dude goes ABSOLUTELY ham

Okay I'm sold I'm gonna read it lmao

The fact that you're into palpatine of all ppl indicates to me there's probably not a lot of cw's that you'd need

Idk why but I laughed so hard at this. "If you're into THAT then you must not be shocked easily". Like, it's so true, I'm known for being stoic or apathetic (I'm the one people confess or vent horrific things to because they know I stay cool as a cucumber). Guess the Palpa-porn was on-brand all along 😂

Thanks for the recommendation! I'd heard of a "Vader-Palpy buddy road trip on Ryloth" book, but I hadn't read it yet. I found the audiobook so this is going to be fun 🎉

#book rec #lords of the sith

[phantomhydeoftheopera]

I posted 17,291 times in 2022

25 posts created (0%)

17,266 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@fabulousvelociraptor

@stupid-lemon-eater

@patchworkbluejay

@enjaami

@zhangpdf

I tagged 2,316 of my posts in 2022

#dmbj - 446 posts

#mdzs - 146 posts

#guardian - 50 posts

#heihua - 41 posts

#the untamed - 33 posts

#xiaoge - 26 posts

#yin yang master dream of eternity - 25 posts

#hei xiazi - 25 posts

#fo ye - 19 posts

#save for later - 19 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#40 year old kitchenaid mixer i love you but you’re so messy…… i have to stir around the flour a bit so it doesn’t get all over the counter

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

all the prime numbers on that salty ask list, just to make you do math on a saturday morning >:3

........................ man come on

Okay fine we're doing all the prime numbers on this list. I'll humor you.

2. Any popular fandom OTPs that you only BroTP?

Fuck idk uhh I was never really a fan of SangYao romantically?

3. Have you ever unfollowed someone over a fandom opinion?

I will just say yes and leave it at that.

5. Has fandom ever ruined a pairing for you?

Pingxie isn't that bad and I see the appeal behind it but some of y'all are too much there I said it.

7. Is there anything you used to like but can’t stand now?

I mean... those of you who have known me for a while probably know that I used to be into h*talia but keep that shit away from me now.

11. Is there an unpopular character you like that the fandom doesn’t? Why?

Not really? No one is coming to mind.

13. Unpopular opinion about XXX character?

I think we should let Xiaoge be a weird little guy. He's been through enough shit he should be able to do whatever the hell he wants he can't be sexy all the time.

17. Instead of XYZ happening, I would have made ABC happen…

Instead of The Entirety of Yi City Happening, Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen stay together and wander the world and eventually settle down and found a sect together I think that would be nice.

19. What is the one thing you hate most about your fandom?

Oh boy. *cracks knuckles*

I was not looking forward to this section but I think some of you need to chill. Please. We're here to have fun. This may be a hard pill to swallow but sometimes you gotta accept that people didn't ask. They didn't ask for shipping opinions, they didn't ask for watchlists, they didn't ask to have the same fandom experiences as you. And sometimes things that are canon are worse. There's more to a show than romance and more to romance than two conventionally attractive people making eye contact. Thank you.

23. Unpopular character you love?

Song Lan did nothing wrong.

4 notes - Posted April 30, 2022

#4

for the character bingo: qingming~

QINGMING……

Bisexual legend, foxy boy, my beloved, my rotten soldier, my sweet cheese, my good time boy. When I say he doesn’t have enough screen time I mean that I nEED THE SECOND MOVIE.

AND HIS CHARACTER ARC………… FINDING SOMEONE HE WANTS TO PROTECT………. (chef kiss) Delicious. I love him so much. My darling. My funny man.

Thank you for asking!!!!

4 notes - Posted August 20, 2022

#3

Tag Trope Game

I was tagged by @forerussake, thank you friend!

found family or soulmates || slow burn or established but complicated || enemies-to-friends-to-lovers or best friends-to-lovers || love at first sight or get back together || morally grey character or unreliable narrator || sunshine character or sarcastic character (both, and I think they should kiss) || self-sacrificing or teamwork || fire-forged friends or childhood friends || description-heavy or dialogue-heavy || fluff or angst || high school au or college au || flower symbolism or color symbolism || hero from the start or reveal the hero near the end || body swap or gender swap || bed sharing or clothes sharing (both) || magic au or human au || de-aged or future fic

This was fun!  Tagging @pangzi @bi-disaster-wei-wuxian @psychic-waffles @beanmaster-pika @enjaami @scaredysap @cuterocks @tinydragondreamer @s1utspeare

4 notes - Posted September 22, 2022

#2

for the fandom blorbo ask thing did you already get dmbj?? if u did that one already then i'll take a shovel and dig out any memories of bnk characters you've got

My dear friend my beloved thank you for giving me another opportunity to dump more of this bullshit on you.

Blorbo: Pangzi my beloved my everything. He's supposed to be the fat guy comic relief but carries the series honestly.

Skrunkly: I'd say Zhang Rishan but just the bright eyed young man he is in Mystic Nine, not yet the Juimen President and weirdo that he is in Tomb of the Sea. Off topic but it's very important to me that I tell you about this one scene from Tomb of the Sea in which he and Liang Wan, a miraculously still alive female character and his love interest are leaving the desert and she tells him "hey I'm still kinda in love with you" to which he responds "sorry. I've dedicated my life to Fo Ye, my dead boss from the 1930s." And then she blasts him with pepper spray. In the desert.

Scrimblo bimblo: Ba Ye. This funky little man. I've only had him for three episodes of Mystic Nine and I love him.

Glup shitto: Kanjian!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I don't know what has made my brain latch onto that slingshot himbo but I don't care. Highlights include teaching Wu Xie how to use a slingshot so he can cheat on a test and a guy dragging him into a meeting like "hey I found this guy outside can we keep him?"

Poor little meow meow: Wang Can I guess. He's an asshole but by god was he fun. And Hei Xiazi, who only falls under the pathetic category.

Horse plinko: Liu Sang. He gets whumped to hell and back and we love to see it.

Eeby deeby: Oh absolutely Chen Pi. I've only had him for three episodes of Mystic Nine and I hate him. The living embodiment of "I also choose this guy's dead wife" and a freak (derogatory) among freaks (affectionate). Crimes include wanting to fuck his master's wife and putting Zhang Qiling in a basket.

4 notes - Posted February 11, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I have been working on this one for a couple months, and I’m really happy with how it turned out.  This movie was one that I watched nearly every day as a kid and it was fun to combine it with heihua, so please give it a read!!!!!

10 notes - Posted August 23, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #long post

[starlightreindeer]

See, the beautiful thing about the relationship between Katya and Goncharov is that Katya wanted to be free. Did she want to maintain her standing in society? Yes. But the moment she starts acting on her betrayal of Goncharov, she draws a line between herself (her social image) and herself (her actual, buried personality). And I will definitely not say that Katya didn't love Goncharov. But for him, loving her was never an option. Sure he could love her as something like a blown glass statue or a fragile piece of art. But loving her as a person? As an equal? That would never happen, in part because Goncharov didn't actually respect her. He never saw women as people in the first place, that was his ultimate mistake. And even after Katya having faked her death, we don't really see much of her as a person. (Keep in mind that the entire montage of Katya is from Goncharov's PoV) We see her putting on a front. Katya is an idea. She is something to strive for, but never achieve. She is like perfection. I think the duality of Katya is one of the most interesting things that the movie does, and a reason why critics hate it. They can't seem to grasp the idea of a woman in a misogynistic society putting up a front as a shallow person to keep herself safe. That is also a reason why I think those scenes are some of the fan favourites.

Anyway, contrast this with Goncharov's relationship with Andrey. This is a man who would literally kill for Goncharov (as he does)(multiple times). He is a man, and hence in the eyes of Goncharov, immediately deserves some respect. The rest of it Andrey earns by being someone who is not as easily moved by Goncharov (The guy has a type.....) In the cigarette lighter scene, even when Andrey is offering up the flame, he doesn't really look down at the flame. He keeps his eyes on Goncharov, and Goncharov on him. The point is, that both of them make the other feel seen. The one offering something traditionally kneels, or atleast is lower than the one taking. Here they are equals. And again, in the restaurant we see Andrey sitting on the right side of Goncharov. Right hand man. And the movie, knowingly or unknowingly paints Goncharov and Andrey as equals in some capacity. So the idea that Goncharov would have romantic feelings for someone who saw him for who he was instead of a status symbol is not that inconceivable. Neither is the idea that he would probably fall more in love with someone who was genuine, instead of putting on a front like Katya was. Where Katya was an idea, Andrey is real and concrete as a person. He is more than an idea. What we need to remember is that "Goncharov" is a movie about deception and self reflection. We are shown this in multiple ways, with the ol' cloak and dagger thing that the mafia did, to the fog when Goncharov was shot, to him staring at his own reflection on the pier scene. The entire shadows and light of the midnight hall scene with Andrey and Goncharov. Even Katya faking her own death. All of it is talking about deception, and putting on false fronts. And what is true is the fact that Goncharov is an unreliable narrator or PoV person. So when critics say that Andrey and Goncharov's relationship could not be anything more than professional, they tend to forget that we as the audience never really know what's going on in the entire film.

#goncharov #movie analysis #film analysis #katya goncharov #andrey goncharov #goncharov 1973 #martin scorsese #gonchrey #gonchayas #scene comparison #unreality #i dont know why i did that #someone stop me #please

[daja-the-hypnokitten]

Jukebox reviews part 2! For context, see my post “A Project” under this same tag. If you want to see a full list of his EMCSA stories, they can be found here, sorted alphabetically.

Reviews under a readmore, just because it can get long.

 Addicted To Love

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3/3/2001                                       mc md fd bd hu

Oh hey, I get my wish from my comment on "Simply Irresistable"! The Wish Giver is back, and here we see him being a fair bit more callous - I'm unsure if that's because he was putting on a facade in the last story, or he just liked her more than he likes this guy - who knows? But as I find this man much less tolerable than the gal we met previously - she at least seems to *care* about the folk she influences - I'm ok with it. That said, it doesn't really feel like a *mind control* story, really. Not to me. So any enjoyment I get from this story is from Mikal being a fun character. 3/10 spirals.

  I Touch Myself

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3/10/2001                                     mc ff md

Oh, this one. On the one hand, a sort-of betrayal by a friend is usually not to my taste. On the other, the set up, the ... well, EVERYTHING about how it happens, is wonderful. I do wish we got more of an internal shift in Leigh - we see the changes, but not any change in her internal view of things. That doesn't feel like it meshes with how Anne describes the spell. And Anne commenting that she has a life outside her Master doesn't jibe with the observation that she just disappeared from her friends' lives. Having said that, all of that is just as easily explained by Anne being an unreliable narrator to her own experiences, which adds a level to the spell and the control. Really, if only we got more of an internal shift in Leigh, I'd put this story among my favourites. (Hey, I like what I like.) 8/10 spirals.

 High On You

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1/12/2002                                     mc ma sf

There's a ... humor? I guess? to the end of this story. I don't know that I find it hot, exactly? But I still really enjoy it, more as a piece of speculative fiction than erotica, though. The characters are delightful, the premise is intriguing, and nobody's being cruel. It's just a fun romp, really, with a touch of a comedy of errors vibe. 7/10 spirals

  Submission

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1/19/2002                                     mc mf fd ma

I adore the slow, letter by letter shift in how Alec thinks. It's a little ... cold? impersonal? Both? And I prefer very personal attention approaches. But even then, this gets a LOT for me just from seeing how Alec changes over each letter, and how he's effected by the stories he reads. And, well, the idea of being slowly, irrevocably changed by reading hypnotic stories is extremely hot, too, which balances out the less-to-my-taste tone of the story. 8/10 spirals

  A Question of Time

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2/2/2002             10/28/2007                 mc mf md

A rare multi-part story from Jukebox! And it's a good one! The amount of stating what would happen if... just makes all of it so extremely true, in ways that as an experienced hypnotist I recognize. The priming is amazingly well done, even as the ending feels predictable from the beginning. It's the technique here that I enjoy so much, the priming and subtle conditioning and using the stress of the situation to keep her from strongly questioning what's going on. I also appreciate that each chapter starts in the same basic way; it's a nice touch. 7/10 spirals

 Under My Thumb

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11/4/2007                                     mc mf md

This is one of those stories where I have to wonder what happened before what we're seeing. Did Molly choose this? I hope so, though I know it's unlikely. The premise of manual having the effect it does is really clever, though, and I appreciate the nod to how conditioning has to be reinforced, and it's a good way to go about it. 8/10 spirals.

  Shameless

 date uploaded   date updated     Tags

11/11/2007         39403                 mc mf md

I love this story. The idea of someone knowing what she wants outside of what an outside (judgemental!) observer thinks she should want? That she's being warned it's a "bad" relationship, but can see that it's only by their standards, and that she wants that anyway? Yes please! Having said that, it's a bit too ... focused on the sex for me. I wish I liked it more than I did. 5/10 spirals.

  The Bitch Is Back (Jukebox)

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11/17/2007                                   mc mf fd

This is very much a turn-off for me; not just the coldness of it, but the use of a fear to compell obedience. It's just much too dark for me, for all that technically it's a solid story.

  Transylvanian Concubine

 date uploaded   date updated     Tags

11/25/2007                                   mc mf md

The description of meeting the vampire's eyes in this story makes me swoon. It doesn't end the way I'd like it to, of course - though that's quite alright, it's a way that makes sense for the characters, given a definition of sense. But for that single breath of a scene at the beginning of the story, this one will stay with me for a long, long time. Jukebox has captured the very idea/sensation that makes vampires one of my particular flavors of hypnosis kink. 8/10 spirals.

  Sex as a Weapon

 date uploaded   date updated     Tags

12/2/2007           39676                 mc mf fd

Way too much sex for this ace gal. I don't feel capable of giving it a rating; the military vibes also ... like, I *grew up* around women in the military, and it just clashes so much with the women I knew and know that I just can't get past that to get into the story.

#jukebox reviews #emcsa