#tumblr's long men syndrome

[kiwisbell]

The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 1 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 1 summary: Underestimating the power of a good omelette.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: kidnapping, violence, pretentious allusions, breaking and entering, self-reflection

word count: ~ 5k

this will be the first fic i've ever cross-posted to tumblr (yay me!); this means, however, that i am still learning and will likely make some silly mistakes. nonetheless, i have to apologise for my long hibernation and hope that bringing y'all a new miniseries will initiate my journey to forgiveness. please let me know what you think so far! chapter 2 will be posted soon.

PREFACE

“‘If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,  lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;  which if thou please to hide in this true breast,  and let the soul forth that adoreth thee,  I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,  and humbly beg the death upon my knee.’” — Richard III, I.II

chapter 1: when i first saw you, the end was soon

JANUARY

Dave York likes a clean job. 

The interior of the home presents a good start. He enters through the garage door, briefly sweeping the Range Rover’s interior for any surprises. Finding none, he gives the signal to Resnik, who moves around to the front door. He will maintain a holding position until Dave radios his all-clear. There’s only one objective tonight. 

It’s hardly your average suburb. The house is a goddamn mansion, with a winding driveway and no neighbours for four miles. It’s nighttime, dead silent, and nobody ever drives up here unless they’ve taken a wrong turn, but Dave is careful. He wore all black from his boots to his head, which was shrouded by a black hat. He brought one vehicle, three men, one weapon each. He does not intend to start a fight.

Well, not yet.

The foyer is clear, too. Two coats are hung up on the iron hooks: a sky-blue peacoat and a leather jacket. They look like they both belong to a woman. So do the shoes, which vary from a pair of cosy slippers to multiple sets of high heels (the physics of which he couldn’t hope to comprehend if he tried). It’s dark here, but a lone light illuminates the hallway ahead, shining from a room to the left. The kitchen, if his blueprints were correct. 

His finger feathers near the trigger of his .45 Auto, his back up against the adjacent wall as he creeps toward the source of the light. Kovac’s voice crackles in his earpiece (“Clear upstairs”) as Dave takes a slow, deep breath and crosses the threshold into the kitchen, his firearm sweeping every corner before his eyes can. 

The small hanging lights are on above the generous island, and a woman tends to a steaming cup of coffee behind it.

You look up and smile politely at Dave. “Hi.”

He had dealt with plenty of curveballs in his life. Avoiding IEDs, taking out a target from half a mile out, all the bullshit that came with building a business. Dave York knows how to take the shit and roll with it. 

But you're… smiling. 

Dave’s lips part but no sound comes out. You continue, stirring sugar into your coffee. “You don’t need to use that gun, do you?”

He licks his bottom lip and continues to stare. 

Your smile turns sheepish. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.” 

Stunned, Dave actually lowers the weapon a fraction. 

You don’t hold yourself like you’re paralysed by fear. There is no tension in your shoulders; you look wholly at ease in your own home, your hands warmed by the cup of coffee on its little pink coaster. Dave expected terror, pleading, scratching and kicking and screaming. 

“Boss? You clear?” comes Resnik’s voice in his ear. 

“Do you mind if I finish my coffee?” you ask, indicating that your mug is still half-full. 

Dave cannot physically produce the noises necessary for speech. He finds himself inclining his head in a vague nod, allowing you to lift the coffee cup to your mouth and purse your lips as you blow the steam away. It curls toward Dave and evaporates like a silvery ghost. 

What kind of captive goes willingly to their own prison?

One who knows their bed is made. 

“Hold,” he finally says to his team. “Apprehending target.”

“Ask them if they’d like a coffee before they go,” you offer. “I’ve got plenty to go around.”

He cannot bring himself to repeat those words to his men. He’s having enough trouble wrapping his head around you as it is.

You introduce yourself, and Dave assesses you as he shifts around the island. Sweeping his gaze from your slippered feet up to your slip of a nightgown, he finds nothing of note save for a pretty woman who knows she’s about to be taken forcibly from her home. A woman who’s seemingly prepared so well for this exact situation that she made a coffee at midnight and prepared some for her uninvited guests, too. 

For the first time in his entire illicit career, Dave does not know what to think, do, or say.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made this difficult,” you tell him. “Do they usually struggle?”

Dave swallows thickly and finds his mouth completely dry. “Uh. Yeah.”

You smile indulgently, and it knocks his insides askew. “I can scream if you want.”

Dave winces. “No, that’s—that’s not necessary.”

“Well. You should probably frisk me. They usually frisk first.” You shrug one shoulder. “I don’t have a weapon on me, but if it makes you feel more comfortable…”

He’s holding a weapon in his hands and he’s never felt more disarmed. 

They usually frisk first. 

Who are they? 

Dave frowns. “This has happened before?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “My father has made a lot of people angry.”

He feels the tension in his jaw when his teeth begin to ache from grinding them together. “Your father—”

“Let me guess. Screwed you over on a business deal.” You pin Dave with a powerful look, one whose meaning he cannot place. “Last I heard, he was in Zurich. You may be waiting a while if you intend to keep me until he returns. He’s nowhere as efficient as you seem to be.”

A deliberate choice of words, equal parts compliment and warning. Code for, If you want to travel anywhere in the next little while, you’ll have to take your little hostage with you. 

Code for, I’m going to be more trouble than I’m worth. 

He could have told you that the second he walked into the kitchen.

Dave moves behind you and watches you lift your arms before he can ask. The slight movement sends a waft of sweet, dark vanilla perfume toward him. He inhales, fascinated by the bombardment of sensations as he puts his hands on your body. The frisking is clinical—left arm, right arm, waist, hips, thighs, Jesus Christ— and ultimately fruitless. But your hair is soft and smells freshly of shampoo, your ears glisten with expensive diamonds, and your eyes glimmer with new colours he could not see from afar. You’re a picture of wealth and beauty and he’s entranced by the straightness of your spine, the incisive look in your eye.

You turn your head slightly to look at him, and Dave surprises himself when he maintains eye contact. “What’s your name?” you ask, your voice soft. He feels a cool puff of air brush his cheek when you speak. 

His hands are still on your waist. As if struck by lightning, Dave jolts away. You don’t evade his eye, sipping the rest of your coffee. It’s so far beyond being in his best interests to give you his name, especially since he plans to keep you alive. 

“Dave,” he says, fucking his best interests right in the ass.

You hum in appraisal. He feels more like the prospective captive with the way you look at him. “Pleasure to meet you, Dave. I’m finished with my coffee if you want to go now.”

“Okay,” he says, his voice gravelly. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“My house,” he says shortly. “I’m not giving you the address, so don't ask.”

“I wouldn’t ask for your address. I would dig it out.” 

He has no fucking doubt. 

“Won't your family be suspicious of a bound woman locked up in your home?”

“I don’t have a family. No one will see you.”

He realises his mistake the instant he says it. “No more digging. No more questions.”

“Will you blindfold me?” 

“Yes.”

“Am I allowed to pack a bag?”

“We’ll come back for your things another time. I’ve stayed here too long already.”

“I don't know if you’ve noticed, Dave, but there isn't another soul for miles.”

“People could always be following.”

Your face sets in a ponderous frown. “You're a paranoid man. Paranoid and proactive. Those are dangerous together, you know.”

“You aren't my therapist,” says Dave. “And I told you not to ask questions.”

He's never considered it. Taking preventative measures has always availed him, but what happens when he decides to take those measures against someone who never planned to take action? He's never taken an innocent life, but who gets to decide who’s innocent, anyway?

Your vanilla perfume and your expensive pyjamas and your blinding smile telegraph wealthy naïveté, but as far as Dave is concerned, you're proving to be lethal. 

“I’m not asking questions,” you say nonchalantly. He’s irritated by how little your talking annoys him. He should be itching to shut you up himself. Maybe it's the tired, soft drawl of your voice. Different from the gruff male sounds he's used to hearing every day at work. “I’m making observations. While I have time.”

“Time for what?” Now who's the one asking questions?

Your mouth twists. “Making observations.”

He vaguely shakes his head. “Why won’t you fight me?”

“Why won’t you?” 

Dave blinks. 

Your perfect posture makes him feel like he’s being surveyed. “You didn’t walk in here with the intention to shoot me. Your finger wasn’t on the trigger. And because you have no reason to kill me, I have no reason to fight. I certainly can’t overpower you when I’m weaponless and you have backup. This is only a home. I’ll come back to it someday.”

It feels like fire licking against water. Relentless optimism meets unwavering cynicism. A pretty face and sharp tongue meet a man willing to do anything for a heap of cash. “Why won’t you fight me, Dave?” you ask him again. “It looks to me like you’d rather do anything than force me into the backseat of your car.”

“It’s a job,” he says plainly.

“Kidnapping me, or pissing off my father?”

“You’re insurance.”

“Have you ever heard of the myth of Sisyphus, Dave?” 

He grunts, finally tearing his gaze away from you. He already regrets giving you his name.

You take his silence as assent. “And how is your relationship with your parents?”

“Okay. No more talking,” Dave snaps. He tucks his gun into his waistband and demands, with less bite than he intends, “Hands.”

You comply easily, hold your wrists together in front of you. You remain there as Dave directs his attention to his team. “Kovac, meet me in the kitchen. Target apprehended.”

“Roger.”

“Will you kill me if I keep talking?” you ask.

He pins you with a glare. “Maybe I will.”

You give him a knowing, clever smile, and Dave feels some of the tension in his shoulders loosen when Kovac enters the room, gun pointed in your direction. You lift your hands in the air and give Kovac a little wave. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kovac. Dave and I have already made arrangements in here, so no need to shoot.”

He flashes Dave a questioning glance that gets no satisfaction, but lowers his weapon. “Yeah. Nice to meet you, too.”

Dave takes you by the arm, Kovac the other, and they lead you outside together. Resnik follows to the car, plucking his zip ties out of his pocket while Dave winds around to the driver’s side. “Don’t make any stops on the way back,” he tells Ari, “and don’t let her talk to you.”

“She a witch or something?” laughs the driver. 

“Yeah. Something.” 

A faint noise of protest perks Dave’s ears. “You don’t need to tie them so tight,” you tell Resnik, wincing at the pinching pain of the ties around your wrists. 

“Shut up,” is all he says in reply. 

“You know, the best way for a hostage to escape zip ties is getting their hands cut off.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Resnik tugs on your bound hands. 

“I’m not going to run. But I will complain about chafing the entire trip if you don’t—”

“And I will sew your pretty little goddamn mouth shut if you don’t shut it.” Resnik shoves you hard into the backseat with Kovac and shuts the door. “Jesus, York. Did you have to pick such a complainer?”

Dave flicks out a switchblade and presses it into Resnik’s palm. “Cut them off and do it again. Not as tight.”

Resnik scoffs. “That's funny, man.”

Dave just stares. “Not as tight this time, sergeant.”

Resnik blinks, affronted. “Did you just pull rank on me?”

“You got a problem with that?”

The man sniffs haughtily. “No, sir.”

“Good.” Dave opens the passenger door and slips inside. He puts his gun, safety on, in the glove box. “Nobody touches her or threatens her. You answer to me if she gets hurt, and you won't be happy with my answer. Clear?”

Echoes of “clear” and “roger” echo through the car. Then, your sweet voice, piping up with a “Thanks, Dave.”

He ignores you, but catching a glimpse of you wedged between Kovac and Resnik, Dave’s chest settles a little at the sight of the zip ties around your wrists, much looser than before. 

~

They make a stop on the way back, after all. But only because Dave has to piss. 

And you're exhausted. 

“Come on out,” he says. “Stretch your legs.”

You take his hand gratefully, shimmying out of the car. Dave crowds you so nobody sees your bound hands or the blindfold around your eyes. The sky is still pitch-black, but the 24/7 service centre still has vehicles parked outside. 

“The stars are beautiful this far out,” you say wistfully, looking upward even though you cannot see the sky. “Sometimes I like to take a drive out and sit on the roof of my car in a parking lot. I like to watch the stars. They remind me I’m small.”

Dave tilts his head to the side. “You like feeling small?”

He can't relate to that. He wants to be the biggest person in the room, even if not a single other person knows it. He likes knowing he’s the one wielding the power. He doesn't understand how you can be so content with your hands bound and your eyes blinded. 

“I like knowing there are bigger things out there,” you tell him. “Makes me feel protected.”

He has free reign to look at you when you can't pierce him with that keen stare. Your body shifts in a given space with the grace of water. You were raised like a princess, no doubt. A lifetime of behaving primly and properly under the care of a nanny while your father flitted off to fuck-knows and screwed over his business associates for more power. You know how to wave and smile. Dave didn't expect you to know how to wiggle your way into a person’s brain. 

“Something tells me you don't stargaze.” 

“Don’t have time for shit like that,” he says with a mirthless laugh. “Busy being a murderous sociopath.”

“I never used those words, Dave,” you say gently, “and I don't think you believe that.”

“Says my captive.”

“Willing captive,” you clarify. 

“That doesn't make a difference.”

“It may not for me,” you say, “but it does for you. If I thought you were going to kill me, I would have made a valiant effort to kick your ass.”

Dave snorts. “You a fighter?”

“I’m a talker. Same thing.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that.”

“And I’m deeply sorry to offend you, Dave”—you feel around for his arm until you find his bicep over his leather jacket—“but you don't frighten me.”

He still feels the touch of your hand when it's gone. Dave makes for the service centre to take a piss, leaving you under Ari’s supervision. Kovac and Resnik are in the empty men’s room, too, talking idly about the choice of fast food joints in the service centre. “Hey, man,” says Kovac, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. “The girl's hungry. You gonna feed her?”

Dave rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m going to feed her.”

“I can feed her something,” Resnik utters under his breath. Kovac slaps him square in the chest as a warning. 

Dave’s jaw ticks. “Guess I wasn't clear earlier. Nobody—”

“Touches her. Yeah, I heard. Why, man, you want dibs? I didn't think we were in middle school.”

Dave has known his guys since their Army days. He knows they're capable of some crass talk, but he’s an expert at ignoring them. This time, he can't seem to shake the crude words. 

“She came with us willingly, Resnik. She put out her hands and offered you all coffee. If you want to get your dick wet that badly, fuck your hand.”

When he gets back to the car, he helps you into the passenger’s seat. “Is everything okay?” you ask him. 

“I just kidnapped you,” he grumbles, fumbling with your seatbelt, “and you're asking me if everything’s okay.”

“Well, you do seem tense.”

“Yeah. A little.” He's leaning over your body to buckle the belt, and he can smell your perfume, your hair, your freshly-laundered pyjamas. 

You offer him a conciliatory smile. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Nice try,” chuckles Dave, even though the urge itches him under the skin. “You comfortable?”

“I’m okay. Are you?”

“Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?” You lift a challenging brow. 

Dave only says, “Making me want to talk.”

Beside you, Ari laughs. “I’ll talk to you if you want.”

You give Dave your best pointed look through the blindfold. “Thank you, Ari.”

It's dawn by the time the car pulls into Dave’s driveway. He helps you out, letting you stretch your legs before he guides you into the house. He gently urges the blindfold over your head and you blink in the harsh light. “You okay?” he asks. 

You briefly cover your eyes with your bound hands. “A little blind. It’s all right. I’m sure you have a lovely home.”

Dave chuckles. “Thanks.”

You grasp for his arm and wrap your hands around it, your eyes still closed. “Okay. Guide me to the basement. I’ll try not to slip.” 

He frowns down at you. “Why the basement?”

“What, you don’t have a concrete prison for me?” You crack your eyes open and squint at Dave. “A cell with iron bars?”

“Uh. No. I was going to give you the guest bedroom.”

You release his arm. “Oh.”

Dave doesn't pause to ruminate on your past experience with kidnappings. Your eyes finally adjust and you follow him upstairs to the bedroom across the hall, already made-up with fresh linens. 

Your mouth falls open. “This is the nicest jail cell I’ve ever seen.”

“No bars, I’m afraid,” Dave says mirthlessly. “Just a lock on the outside. Sorry.”

“Just protocol,” you say breezily. 

The walls are a soothing off-white, the queen-sized bedding white and plush with a flower-patterned comforter atop it. You lift your brows at the sight of the flowers on the nightstand: freshly watered and thriving, not just a leftover decoration. There's a dresser and a plush ottoman at the foot of the bed. 

“Did you do all this?” you ask with a sly smile. 

Dave checks his watch. You assess the movement: quick and calculated, no time wasted, a quick flick of his wrist so his sleeve no longer obscures the hands. “If you're asking whether I picked the comforter, no.” 

“Long shot.” You shrug. “In any case, it looks great.”

“You aren't supposed to sound grateful.” Dave folds his arms over his chest, watching you as you make your way around the room. You have a delicate way of touching things. Your perfectly manicured nails trace gently around the shapes of objects, like you're not so much feeling as reading their auras. 

“You could have locked me in a concrete basement,” you point out, opening the top drawer. “Lots of space for a girl with no clothes.”

“I told you,” says Dave, walking up to your side and closing the drawer, “we’ll go back for your things. Tomorrow, okay? For now, you need to eat. You must be hungry.”

“I’ve been hungry since I saw your car outside my window.”

“Right. Well.” Dave wipes his hands on his slacks, hoping you don't notice and accuse him of having an unfulfilled relationship with his father or some shit. “I’ll bring up some food for you. You vegetarian?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Because I…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don't know.”

You point toward the door on your right. “Ensuite?”

It's such a tactically-posed question that his old instincts almost have him saying, Affirmative. Instead, Dave manages a tight “Yes” and backs out of the room before the rest of the air can escape in the whirlpool you create. “Wash up, if you'd like. No one’s going to bother you.”

“You made that clear.” You give him a wry look and leave for the bathroom. 

He has his head cook make you an omelette. Kovac and Resnik munch happily on their takeout food at Dave's dinner table and only clean up after themselves because their boss will wrong their necks if they don’t. Dave sits in his office and checks some boxes on the Post-it note he'd left for himself:

Kidnap rich daughter. 

Send ransom. 

Piss Daddy off. 

Check one. Two more to go. 

Dave rubs the slope of his nose and stretches out his back. He wonders if you feel as cramped as he does after being stuck inside an armoured car all night. He wonders why he's wondering about you at all. He hears the shower running upstairs and clutches his pen a little harder. 

He has a fucking hostage in his own home, using his facilities. He's heard the word stupid uttered idly tonight, his men thinking he's foolish for keeping you so close. The pretty, young, silver-tongued princess who makes coffee for her captors. He hasn't locked the windows. He hasn't removed every sharp item from the room. You can escape if you want. You can try to attack them. But you know better. 

Dave feels a bizarre surge of dread. He doesn't know how to deal with a person who shows no fear when Dave York enters their home. He knows how to cooperate through violence and intimidation. The fact that you respond to neither is not just a lack of leverage. It's a lack of power. 

Dave stands abruptly from his desk and finds his head cook, Barry, in the kitchen, sprinkling chives onto what is possibly the most beautiful omelette Dave has ever seen. “Jesus,” he mutters. “She get to you, too?”

Barry chuckles. “No, sir. Just doing my job.”

“Yeah, that's what I keep telling myself, too.” Dave folds his arms over his chest. “This looks great. She’ll appreciate it.”

Barry eyes him subtly before returning to his presentation, but Dave notices the glance. Nothing is subtle when you're a soldier. “What's on your mind, chef?”

“Just…” Barry shrugs his broad shoulders. “The girl. Guy’s gotta wonder why she's here, and not…”

“In a concrete basement?” supplies Dave. Barry shrugs again. “I wasn't aware everyone in my house was so concerned with the health and safety of my prisoner.”

“Not concerned, sir,” says Barry, keeping his eyes down. “Just curious.”

“Clip that curiosity before it gets you into trouble, chef. I’ll take this to her room.” 

“Yes, sir,” Dave hears behind his back as he makes his way back to you. He knocks twice on your door, the rap of his knuckles soft, and hears some generic shuffling of feet before you're opening it cautiously, peering through the small gap. 

It's only when he catches a whiff of your shampooed hair and looks down into your keen eyes that Dave realises—

Why the fuck is he delivering a goddamn omelette to his own goddamn hostage?

Jesus Christ. He's not stupid. He's never been stupid. He crawled his way up out of the seven hells that was his career in the Army. He wrangled together his old buddies and created a profiting security company. He kills for money and he's never found out. He knows what he's doing. 

Except for right fucking now. 

You're dressed in a large sweatshirt and a pair of shorts from the dresser. They're both a bit threadbare and mismatched, but you make them look fashionable. Your hair is damp, and you peer at the omelette in his hands. 

“That's the most beautiful omelette I’ve ever seen,” you say. “Don't think you can fool me into believing you made that.”

Dave blinks. “Should I be offended?”

You narrow your eyes. “Do you take offence to many things when you kill people for a living? I would think everything sort of slides off.”

Dave’s jaw goes taut. “Are you going to take the plate or just play mind games all night?”

“I’ll take the plate,” you say, opening the door wide, “but I don't see why it has to be one or the other.”

Dave hands you the omelette and feels a bit prideful seeing the clear hunger in your posture. You take a seat at the small, circular table in the bedroom and pull out the other chair for him. “You might as well sit,” you tell him. “You look like you're itching over there.”

Dave should go. He should lock you inside and leave you to your own devices while he gets his guys to bring you food and does his fucking job. He should be mean to you. He should threaten you to behave. 

He sits across from you. 

You eat exactly how he expects: reserved, taught, precise. Napkin on your lap, back straight. You only speak once you've swallowed and wipe your mouth after every few bites, even when there's nothing there. Dave can see your ravenous hunger, but your behaviour is learned. It’s habit. You've grown up in restraints. 

You angle your fork and knife to indicate that you're pausing your meal. “My compliments to the chef.”

Dave, amused by the details of the way you eat, leans back in his chair. “He’ll be happy to have them. My guys are like stray dogs; they don't appreciate a good meal.”

You smirk. “Men tend to eat at their food, rather than eat with it.” 

“Am I supposed to ask my food on a date?” 

“That's up to you.” Digging back into your omelette, you wait until you swallow before speaking again. Dave hinges on each syllable. “But it might feel more flattered that way.”

“Thanks for the note.”

“Are you happy, Dave?”

He rears back slightly. “What?”

“I asked if you're happy. Do you like what you do?” You finish your omelette and drop your chin into your palm. “Do you like who you are?”

The only light in the room comes from the floor lamp. You seem energy-conscious, consuming as little space and light as possible. Your eyes are soft and curious, your lashes spidery on your cheeks. The width of your pupils sucks him in like the centre of a whirlpool. He wishes more than ever that he stocked this room with alcohol. 

“I…” Dave shakes his head. “I don’t know. Should I be?”

“You have a very nice home,” you tell him. “Your cook makes great food. You have authority over some very strong men who like to make crude jokes about blindfolded women. I can understand if you’re happy with your life.”

“Yeah, well.” Dave pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’s more complicated than having nice things.”

Your smile is wicked. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy,” you say. “Except for Dave York.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “His life is only a death sentence that never kills. Nobody can imagine Sisyphus happy.”

“Maybe you can't imagine it because you don't know what it means to be happy.” The way you hold eye contact makes him jittery. It feels like a challenge—like trying to keep a foothold on the edge of a cliff. If he slips, you win. 

“Maybe I don’t.” Dave tilts his head. “Do you?”

You readjust in your seat, drawing a knee up to your chest and resting your chin on it. “Do you know how many times I’ve been taken from my home, Dave?”

His hand curls into a fist atop the table. “I don't want to know—”

“Seventeen since you,” you supply. “Usually never for more than a few hours or a night. Most times, it's because my father pissed someone off, and the men who take me can't conceive of another way to pay him back than to kidnap a woman from her safe place.” 

You give him a pointed look and guilt engulfs the discomforting curiosity weighing on his chest. Dave clears his throat. 

“That's why I have to imagine Sisyphus happy,” you say softly. “Because if he can’t be happy, doomed to live the same existence over and over, then I can’t ever be free.”

“I think,” Dave says slowly, his voice a swipe of sharp nails in the silence, “that if Sisyphus is truly happy, it only means I’m a bad person.”

Your eyes blink sleepily. “What makes you say that?”

“I did this to myself,” he tells you. “Getting into this life.”

“I don't think that's necessarily true. You're a soldier. This country isn't kind to people like you.”

“No. It isn't. But I still made this choice.” Dave sweeps a hand around the room. “You're here because I killed. Hurt people. Made enemies. I’ve let myself accept the things I do, but if I let myself be happy about all of this, then…”

“You’ll begin to wonder if you're an evil man.”

“No,” he says, looking down at the scattered chives on your empty plate. “I’m already an evil man. I just don't want to be happy about it.”

“Evil people don't go around lamenting their own evilness.” You smile at him and all he thinks is, I don't deserve that. “Maybe Sisyphus isn't happy. Maybe he’s resigned. But maybe there's something in the comfort of his everyday. If he can get even a little bit faster, a bit stronger at pushing the rock, he's making it easier. Maybe everything doesn't always have to be the same.”

He's never thought about it like that. Dave sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Your dad ever tell you you're a pain in the ass?”

You chew on your lower lip and it's the first indication he’s seen that you're remotely troubled. “If he noticed, he certainly wouldn't mention it.”

Dave doesn’t like the way light flees from your smart, incisive eyes. There’s a sharpness to their edges now, and it makes him feel cold, down to the bone. “There isn't a person in the world who wouldn't notice you.”

You lift your brows. “Maybe I should inform him. He’ll be surprised to hear that.”

Dave feels his mouth twitch at the corner. “Not the best dad, then.”

“He isn't winning any awards, though it might make him work harder at it if he knew that. He likes that I behave. He likes me quiet and prim and smiling and decidedly not ruining his reputation.”

“Sounds like he wants a houseplant, not a daughter,” mutters Dave. 

You hum ponderously. “Do you think he’ll be happy if I wear more green?”

Dave laughs and covers it by clearing his throat. “Yeah. Maybe. We can try when I give you back to him.”

Your eyes glitter with a thrilling air of mischief. “You can give me back to my quiet, empty home, Dave. I’ll get under my covers, pour a glass of wine, light a candle, and regret that I didn’t annoy you more.” You lift your fork in mock-toast. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” echoes Dave softly, lifting your used knife. The utensils clatter together in the air, and the room goes silent for a long while. 

#kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #dave york x female reader #dave york #the equalizer 2 #dave york fanfiction #dave york x you #dave york x reader #pedro pascal fic #dave york smut

[esther-dot]

So to jump in regard to the 'hot chick with a dragon' ask. GRRM's depiction of Drogo and Dani is one of those things that fandom can't wrap their head around because, yet again, they fail to see that Martin is not the woke writer they think he is and fail to remember that he conceived of this plot in the 90s. I feel like a lot of the fandom isn't well versed in scifi/fantasy books written by white men in the 80s/90s - those books are very, ummmmm....how do I put this....let's just say a lot of those writers used their fantasy books to explore certain taboos and fetishes for titilation, not necessarily as a woke moral lesson in their fictional world. I am in no way saying this makes them bad people, or that they would act inappropriately with women/minor girls in real life, because fiction is fiction, but yeah...

The Dani/Drogo relationship is literally that swords and sorcery trope from the 80s/90s where Hot Nubile Princess gets 'sold' to Hunky Barbarian, they proceed to have a ton of hot sex, and then fall in love. The fact that Martin couldn't even bare to make Dani at LEAST 16 (which still would have been disgusting) makes me side eye him a lot. But people thinking he meant for this relationship to be some dark psychological exploration of stockholm syndrome is hilarious. Do I think there might be some amorphous critique of girls being sold into unwanted marriages? Yeah, sure. But a lot of that relationship is just straight up the Hunky Barbarian trope that's why the wedding night is a 'seduction.'

A lot of discussions about these books would be easier if people just admitted Martin is a little bit of Freak when it comes to his depictions of relationships and sex and uses the fact that 'WelL ThIs Is tHE mEdIeVAl WoRLD' to depict minors in situations like this not because he's critiquing the patriarchy or whatever, but because it's taboo and therefore titilating. A lot of fans really like this series and don't want to admit a series they are really into has super problematic elements especially a series that is 30 years old which I think is silly. People can enjoy it while critiquing the author.

(about this ask)

The fact that from the inception of the story Martin was gonna have a hero/heroine engage in some fauxcest says at a minimum the man is a lil…quirky. Actually, no, I think most Jonsas would say he’s a little freak which is why we still think he’ll go for it. 😂

You’re right about the tropes of the era and having to accept problematic elements in the older generation of writers. Stephen King infamously wrote a sex scene with eleven year olds. Writers sometimes write weird shit. For something that’s finished, people can memory-hole the weirdness, for us, we have to wrestle with it a little more. I don’t like to be publicly critical of fellow Jonsas because we have nowhere else to go. The rest of the fandom has radically different ideas and have pointedly excluded us, but I don’t see a problem with voicing criticism of Martin here. It has no impact on him, his feelings or career, whatsoever. It’s tumblr, we’re not even in danger of something trending and a journalist asking him a question that breaks the wall between fandom/creator. I like reading all of the metas and different ways of analyzing ASOIAF our fandom comes up with because I don’t feel like I alone have cracked the code, but there is a danger of kinda, white-washing Martin’s problematic choices. I didn’t fully appreciate that before.

Actually, back to the tropes, I was reading some Angel Carter recently, she was an important feminist writer, but she too wrote one of those young girl & “barbarian” stories which has beats that are similar to Dany/Drogo. I’m not gonna read that one because it sounds even more racist, and grotesque in how it handles rape than ASOIAF. Long review that explains some cultural and literary context for it. People can write fucked-up, deeply offensive things and also write things we like. 🤷🏻‍♀️

#grrm critical #fandom critical #dot chat

[orionlancasterr]

W.I.P Wednesday

Posted with ten minutes to spare! I was tagged by @adelaidedrubman

This is part of my unfinished first (very) rough draft of my FC5/TMA crossover fic in which Skunk, Judas, Mary and Daisy all have statements sent into the institute. I'm still trying to get a hang of Judas's voice and I'll admit this is mostly an infodump I will need to clean up a lot in coming revisions. Also tumblr is going to eat my formatting which is important to the aesthetic of the fic :(

STATEMENT #0160402

[CLICK] [PAGES SHUFFLE, SOME FALL ON THE FLOOR AND THE ARCHIVIST GROANS AS HE BENDS TO PICK THEM UP]

ARCHIVIST Paper files…not that I don’t appreciate physical media however my office is already a catastrophe. This could have easily been a digital file. [SIGH] ARCHIVIST Alright let’s see. ARCHIVIST Statement of Judas King, regarding a specific interaction with Gulf War veteran Jacob Seed in Whitetail State Park in Montana. Original statement given April 2nd, 2016. Audio Recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. 

ARCHIVIST(STATEMENT) I don’t know why I'm writing to you. I mean, I don’t think I believe in these things and I found this place online when searching for similar experiences. London is very far away so I can’t imagine you guys care about fucked up murderers in rural Montana. I might as well just say it, maybe typing it out will help me to rationalize or comprehend it.  I have lived in these mountains my entire life. Seventeen years spent surrounded by their ancient, solid presence. They’re my most important constant which, I think, is why this experience has shaken me so much. I haven’t felt comfortable here since…Well since it happened. It’s not like strange things don’t happen. Strange things are bound to happen in secluded places far from civilization. Mostly our strange goings ons are easily explainable. Things like teenagers leaving carvings in trees or making weird sounds at night, wasting deer syndrome causing deer to hold their heads at weird angles and get far too skinny or people simply being too alone for too long and their minds creating faces where there hadn’t been faces before. My point is that it’s not a rare occurrence for people to claim the paranormal in the park. This was not an easily explainable mishap.  For a little bit of backstory I am from Hope County Montana. We are a very rural community in south western Montana. The most interesting thing to have happened here in years is when Grace Armstrong won a medal for sharpshooting in 2004. So when three men from Atlanta, Georgia rolled into town it was pretty noteworthy. The Seed Brothers. They brought a lot of chaos with them. Joseph, the middle one, came claiming to be a preacher but he’s not like any preacher I’ve ever seen. Then there was John who I think was the youngest. He was some big shot lawyer back in Georgia. He started buying out our farms and logging companies, slapping the name of their church on everything. Project at Eden's Gate. They call Joseph ‘The Father’ and think he’s some messiah trying to save them from the end of the world or something. It was all weird from the beginning but nothing violent. Not until a few months ago. Their oldest brother’s name is Jacob. He was a soldier in The Gulf War, army I think. You can see it too. I’d always thought that when people talk about soldiers having a ‘far away look’ that they were being…I don’t know, dramatic? Yet when I look at Jacob Seed I can tell he’s still in the war. He’s still reliving whatever gave him those gnarly scars that seem to over take the whole right side of his face. That is about where my sympathies end.

#im having a lot of fun with it though

[power-chords]

3, 8, 14, 19

TY Isabel :) More answers from the Choose Violence fandom ask meme…

Screenshot or description of the worst take you’ve seen on Tumblr:

Congratulations, you’ve created a false dichotomy that reinforces puritanical attitudes about sex and pornography!!!

That one thing you see in fics all the time: A prose lexicon that makes reference to slang terms, objects, products, technologies, etc that do not yet exist in the universe in which the fic is set or were not yet widespread amongst the population in question. “He would not fucking say that” is often a subtype of this general syndrome, but a 1990s convenience in a 1960s story will yank me out of a fic just as fast depending on how egregious the error is.

Common fandom opinion everyone is wrong about: Gratefully this is NOT a fandom opinion that rears its head on Tumblr at all, but I see it on Twitter all the time: in Heat, Neil mentions having “a brother somewhere” he’s lost track of; every time Michael Mann re-enters the press cycle some bonehead will correctly observe that Vincent wears a similar gray suit in Collateral, and take this to mean that Vincent could be Neil’s long lost brother. This drives me nuts because there is in fact a reason so many Mann men share this wardrobe feature, and it does have to do with the tremendous intertextual continuity that he has cultivated in his work, but this “ain’t it,” as they say.

You’re mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like: “Ashamed” is maybe too strong of a word, but I wanted to swat myself with a rolled up newspaper while I was reading Faust and thinking about Faust/Mephisto. I’m not the first, not by a long shot, but at the time I was trying to focus on other interpretations of the text LOL

[swaggypsyduck]

can i know why the tumblr football community does not like ronaldo and his family? i've been in the midst of twitter football community for too long before joining tumblr so i'm genuinely curious.

sorry if i come off as rude but i genuinely am curious :")

JDNSJDMEKD LOL ITS OKAY!! twt and tumblr r VERY different environments primarily bc most of the toxicity we get on here has transferred from twt. but also most of us r not weird cis men w lil dick syndrome that must unhealthily idolize/defend rich male athletes/celebs.

so to start off w ABSOLUTELY NOTHING against their children okay. kids r innocent to the faults of their parents. u cant choose who raised you. i just hope they're happy and healthy as all children should be.

there's a whole laundry list of things i can say about cr7 including admitting to r*pe, being an egotistical weirdo (slamming his old teams, acting out when he doesn't get minutes, etc.), and other generally weird rich person cringe that a man nearing 40 should not be acting like.

georgina on the other hand idk know much about other than my general distaste for celebs and out of touch weirdos who get their own netflix reality tv series by doing absolutely nothing. i dont like athlete family gossip especially about families so i generally ignore their existence unless the athlete shares that part w the public or it affects my games. she's also just a rlly weird person? i havent watched the "documentary" but from some clips ive seen im like? rlly?? this is what got renewed for a second season but my series got cancelled why??? ik a mutual of mine hate watches the series tho. anyways many ppl just dislike her by association to cr7. they also recently both got an exemption from saudia to live not married to keep them there. like they changed the countries LAWS to fit them bc cr7 can't put a ring on it. whether u agree w the law or not that weird as hell right?? not that im surprised saudia allowed this bc those fuckers r the worst.

at one point (2016ish?) she represented the dream wag life. she met a famous athlete working in retail at a luxury store and then started a life w him after. a lot of ppl still like her. what was her wording again: "i went from riding busses to work to leaving in lambos"

so yah that's just my reasonings on it tho. like there r other ppl in football i wouldn't mind seeing docu series on but that's bc they actually do things that aren't philanthropic events for tax write-offs.

#asks #ur not rude at all!! #me and a few others r a rarity tho as rma fans #she's still rlly popular on here and tiktok just not in my circle of mutuals

[the-queerview]

Priscilla, 2023

by Sofia Coppola

Well how couldn't I write about Priscilla.

Where do we start. As a millenial dirtbag I grew up with Coppolas Virgin Suicides, Lost in Translation and Marie Antoinette. All films fetishizing young girls. Around the 2010 there weren't many female filmmakers present, and we could say that Sofia Coppolas films were therefore as much creating a certain tumblr aesthetic, that reminds of teengirls/horsegirl fantasies, thou there weren't horses, as well as depicting a certain type of white girl, her characters mostly malenourished, blond, dreamy. What a cis men could connect trough our male gazed history as pedophile lolita-aesthetic (thanks nabokov. fuck you), would be read trough my pre-coming out gaze as something I wanna be and therefor something I realize at the end desire. Coppolas characters are those lost babes, that are bored and sad, intellectually unchallanged, and living in bizarre patriarchical structures ( thinking of the Character in Lost in translation, living isolated in Tokio because of her photographer boyfriend) or Marie Antoinette, who lives in an arranged marriage with a King, she barely knows. All those babes I want to save, I wanna take them out of the social prisons and have fun with them, and thats what those characters are basically doing in Sofias films. They escape trough different ways, and still they are all highly commercialized, superficial product value oriented, fashion films. Here we realize, that I'm bought as much as in the idea of the patriarchical constructed princess peach syndrom ( I'm supermario saving princess peach) as much as Sofia Coppolas films are in any way feminist or questioning this order.

Well so lets roast Priscilla.

I was actually very excited to see the film, especially interested in the costumes and how Coppola would deal with this grooming tale. Just a little background info: Priscilla Presley was 14 years old and Elvis was 24, when the grooming process happened. They married when she was 21 , but Priscilla started living isolated at Presley's Graceland, when she was 17/18. Elvis brought her into contact with amphetamines and sleeping pills and yeah basically groomed that kid.

The film itself is beautifully shot, as viewers we are very much following up the story out of Priscillas perspective. The prison in form of the Graceland ranch, is present here as well. Her feelings of isolation and lonelyness ( Priscilla is not allowed to have friends during her stay with Elvis) is depicted trough many close up of details, like the carpet in the house, scenes of her dog, details of her doing Make up. The control freak Elvis is treating her like a doll, and decides on her looks and dresses, who she talks to, where she even goes to school to. It's BIZARRE. But yeah all those tik tok kids out there imitating the 50s/60s fashion looks right, ITS BAD. those times were bad, and we queers would all be in prison. It's scary my dear readers. Watching time period films to me is always such a strange experience.

Anyways back to the film. So the film is dealing with Priscillas life from the moment she meets and leaves Elvis, and thats basically it. We see her adolesence passing in the prison of Elvis, and the film therefore reminds me of an old, pink stamp. It's not life changing, but beautifully filmed, like an ass log prada commercial, but also its pace is very slow, but not to slow. It's definetly an arthouse film, and I wished she had the freedom in her music choices like in her earlier works, as an example indie music and converse in Marie Antoinette.

I also thought a lot about if Coppola is actually bi/gay anything? Like she has as a certain way of depicting women, very sensual camerashoots, mellow color grading, pastell light situations, also FEET, like details. Personal theory since I witness that a lot in films made by women, this obsession with details. I feel like since we live in a patriarchical society and women were for a long time considered less smart ( educational systems, the performance of women in scientific fields worldwide is : Across the world, roughly 33% of persons employed in science research are female. The highest share is in Central Asia at 48.5% and the lowest in South and West Asia at 23.1%) SO in my theory they are so intellectually underchallanged, that they develop an obsession with details :D

But yeah the film is respectful towards the character of Priscilla, who came herself to the premiere, because the rape scene with Elvis is not depicted. It's still thou not really moving me in any way. Like I end up with the same feeling, while watching the film, I wanna kick Priscillas ass and tell her to leave and have her youth and not be in this prison. But it's not my position and as my experience being a human in this planet, not everybody want to be saved, like you can only help someone in a toxic relationship if the person asks and wants your help. So the film is evoking again those princess peach thoughts within me. I wish for Sofia Coppola to make once a film about a women, who doesn't live in a prison and maybe saves herself. Within this, babes be strong be brave out there and take care.

yours,

the queerview

[fandomfic-galore]

You’re ours now sweetheart chapter two

Get a head of tumblr by eight weeks here

Series warnings. smut, non-con, dubcon. Stockholm syndrome. Fingering. Humiliation. Voyeurism. Threesome, bondage, spanking, dark fic

Y/n didn’t know how long the car journey lasted, all she knew was it lasted far longer than she wanted it too.

The car came to a sudden halt and the bag was removed from y/n’s head. Blinking, it took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight. Glancing next to her she noticed that Negan had left the car, he slammed the door which made y/n jump out her skin. Her car door was forced open and someone grabbed the top of her arm.

“Move it!” The blonde man screamed. Looking at his face y/n wondered what happened, half his face melted and she knew deep down that Negan had done it but why?

Y/n knees were weak as she tried to keep up with the group of men. She knew Daryl had been taken as well, and it made her blood boil. What was Negan’s end goal? Why had he taken both of them? Y/n knew that Negan always liked the way that Daryl fought and how fearless he was but her mind pondered why she was here.

Walking through an old factory that had been repurposed for people to live in, Y/n saw a canteen and people lining up with trays waiting for whatever food - that smelled like heaven - filled Y/n's nose. A hand grabbed the top of Y/n's arm, dragging her up some stairs and she became nervous as the blonde haired man walked faster and with purpose. Walking down a long corridor, the blonde haired man came to an abrupt stop as he opened a door, pushing Y/n into the room. The door slammed shut behind her and she heard the lock turn. She knew from that moment she would be left alone for a while.

Minutes seemed like hours and hours seemed days, just waiting for someone to tell her what was happening or give her some food or water, she had finally sat down from her pacing. Her nerves had not settled and her breathing had only just calmed down. The room reminded Y/n of the old days, the days where you don’t have to fight for your life because of walkers. There was a king sized bed with a small dresser either side and a black leather sofa underneath the window. Y/n didn’t want to sit on either the bed of the sofa and opted for the floor instead.

Her eyes became heavy as she sat and pondered about everything that had happened. She hoped Daryl was ok and she would see him again and he wasn’t locked away in a cell. She hoped that Rick was coming up with a plan to save both of them, but she knew that chance was slim. Rick hated Negan and was scared to death of him, of course he wouldn’t be able to come up with a plan.

The sound of the lock turning caught Y/n's attention, but she didn’t get up from her spot on the floor. She did lift her head up though, to slowly inspect the intruder.

“Y/n,” the all too familiar sound of Negan’s voice rang through Y/n ears. She shivered and she hoped it would be anyone but him. “You’re still awake I see” Negan stomped towards her and crouched down to her level making eye contact. He didn’t say anything for a minute, just took in the sight before him. “Wanna know something sweet cheeks” the nickname made Y/n want to vomit but she knew better. “You see Rick the dick didn’t have enough supplies for me this week, so I took his favourite thing. Daryl!” Negan’s grin grew across his face. “But…now this is a big but, I think Daryl has a thing for you so what better way to get him to obey me than to take you and…well you’ll see”

Panic started to wash over Y/n as she came to realise that the reason for her capture was to make Daryl listen to Negan, that meant Negan could, and probably would, do anything to Y/n. Y/n's breath caught in her throat and she felt the walls surrounding her cave in. Her heart beat so hard it could be felt through her chest. She was suffering from a headache, her head was spinning. All Y/n wanted was a way out but she knew that wasn’t an option especially if she wanted to keep Daryl safe.

Fluttering her eyes open Y/n didn’t remember passing out from her panic attack. She was curled up in a ball and her whole body ached as she stretched. Lifting her head up slowly she looked out of the window. Darkness had now filled the sky, she didn’t want to have another panic attack, so Y/n tried her best to stay calm.

Getting up slowly she made her way to the door, she wanted to try her luck and she turned the handle. To her surprise it was open. Creeping out of the room Y/n tried to make as little noise as possible, walking down the familiar corridor, Y/n could smell food. She can’t remember the last time she had eaten a fully cooked meal. Thanks to Negan and his men, Alexandria was suffering and everyone was going hungry. Making her way down to the canteen, Y/n hesitated as she watched people line up and wait for food.

“Now there’s my sugar tits” the voice made Y/n skin crawl. The low rumble of his voice made it easy to identify the owner of the ridiculous nicknames. “Now sugar, you don’t need to wait in line, come with me” Negan wrapped an arm around Y/n's middle and she tried to resist but the thought of food made her weak. Leading her to the front of the line, the other people kneeled as soon as they saw Negan. It confused Y/n, how could someone hold this much power.

An hour had passed or what felt like an hour, and Y/n was truly stuffed. Meatballs and spaghetti was something that she had craved for years and finally she had a taste. Bear in mind it wasn't the best but it was still better than nothing.

“Now, in your room” Negan popped up “is a dress, tomorrow morning I want you to wear it. With the heels that have been provided. Do you understand?” It took a minute for Y/n to comprehend what was being said and frustration grew on Negan’s face “well?” He questioned.

“I understand”

Taglist

Twd Everything. @hc-geralt-23

Everything @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @foxyjwls007 7 @xoxabs88xox

#negan x you #negan fic #negan smut #negan fanfiction #negan x reader #daryl x you #daryl smut #daryl fanfiction #daryl x reader #twd negan #twd smut #kidnapping #dark fic #stockholm

[bookshop]

ted lasso (really just way too many thoughts on season 2 of ted lasso)

me, in the middle of wrestling with yet another unwieldy twitter thread that no one will read: fuck it, what if i just made this a tumblr post? i hear tumblr is hot these days

so anyway, i am the last person in the universe to watch ted lasso.

i put off watching it for a very long time because i really hate obnoxious levels of twee in television — at least twee when it's not tempered by cynicism. this is why i barely made it through 2 minutes of OFMD, and why i really hate parks and rec and spent most of the 2010s telling anyone who would listen that it was a bad cheap white liberal political fantasy, only for everyone to eventually arrive at that conclusion themselves, much later.

the first season of ted lasso almost had me, though, because it was just cynical enough to make ted's methodical whimsy feel like a battering ram against pessimism. the whole of season one was very strongly and obviously, dare i say it, hopepunk. and that was just surprising enough to be a hook.

the second season is a lot trickier. maybe it's because i'm bingeing it, but it seems to me like everyone who argued the second season didn't have a point/central theme missed the glaringly obvious explorations of toxic masculinity in every episode. i read a lot at the time it was airing about how the show revealed itself midway through the season as being unexpectedly about depression? but even more than depression i think this season was about toxic masculinity — and especially about nate's struggle with toxic masculinity. when i went looking for reviews for season two, few of the reviews i found even mentioned nate even though it seemed abundantly clear his growing turn towards the dark side was the motivating issue of season 2 — and then, of course, it turned out to be the driving force behind the events of the season finale.

i think a lot of this was underwritten but it was always present; every episode of season two was focused on the ways the men of richmond — especially nate, who also had to deal with his imposter syndrome and everyday acts of racism, alongside his growing ambition and his justifiable sense of feeling sidelined and minimized by the white men around him — grappling with the ways they're socially allowed to express and experience their emotions.

perhaps that theme got muddled because of the show's obnoxiously twee trappings, which became so much more obnoxious this season once all of richmond adopted ted lasso's guide to whimsy (the funeral scene was the most atrocious example, as was the gratuitous way they kept shoehorning in excuses for hannah waddingham to sing, like are you kidding me? I HATED IT and hated it long before we arrived at rebecca 'my best friend's wedding'-ing her dad's eulogy, are you serious, who let this show out of the house). but it's very clear when you marathon.

(when i was discussing this with @earlgreytea68 she suggested that perhaps the show has a tone problem, and that the audience expectation built up by all this wholesome whimsey is for a doubling-down of the "ted vs the vague abstract evil nihilism of the capitalist sporting industry" of the first season. thus, viewers just aren't prepared for a show whose second season is like, "sure, exhausting amounts of wholesome fun, yes, but also in the corner is this character who finds all of this whimsy exhausting, and whose position as a marginalized brown man facing daily microaggressions makes all this performative bullshit a form of petty torture and a way of further alienating him."

I find that show absolutely fascinating, but i think EGT is right and that's maaaaybe not quite the show that season two became, because it was also sabotaging itself by idk implying that santa was real and having hannah waddingham gratuitously sing yet again, and idk that surrealist episode with beard and the pants, and having them stop to reverently touch the "believe" sign yet again. like, we get it, clear eyes, full hearts, etc, but this is not friday night lights, and the pathos that seemed built into 'ted vs the sports industrial complex' feels unearned when the show suddenly does a pivot towards plumbing the psyches of its characters while also still trying to be the king of twee tv.)

speaking of shows that were abundantly twee but never ever obnoxiously twee, i also keep thinking about how ted lasso is probably the closest cultural heir to the gilmore girls we've gotten? irresistibly charming small town meets perky chatterbox main character who distracts everyone from their insecurity with non-stop banter and pop culture references! i am not alone as it turns out because someone made a ted lasso/gilmore girls fusion. (edit: me trying to figure out how New Tumblr works: you mean i can embed this tweet but not interact with any part of it?! YOU MEAN I CAN'T DO CONTROL-K TO HYPERLINK TEXT ANYMORE?! wow wordpress, wow.)

all that said, i do think ted lasso is a show that is far more traditional than progressive. it glibly missteps too often to really age well, even aside from all the obnoxiously twee moments. like, this is a show that wants to confront toxic masculinity, but for plot points it can't think of anything better than drumming up random sexual tension between various straight characters. (and EVERYONE is straight, why is everyone so straight?) it's forced and lazy and so boring, and imo totally unrealistic. the other day i attended a lecture given by a trans woman who casually discussed living with her wife, her other wife, and their husband. these relationships exist, they are real and valid, and by now you'd think media would at least be better about being able to, idk, comprehend them instead of still being stuck decades back, tripping over concepts like cheating and divorce. honestly, catch up, just catch up to what real relationships are like in the 2020s! if murderbot can do it, so can you!

so anyway, I honestly feel really strongly that a resistance to queerness and even the idea of fluid relationships is a canary in the coal mine for forms of regressive patriarchal storytelling. if, in the modern era, a TV show or piece of media can't conceive anything beyond a 1:1 cisgender heterosexual monogamy as its outer limit for what relationships should be/are allowed to be, then i have come to see that as a bit of a red flag that this work is more than likely to be regressive rather than progressive, even if it's masking itself in idk progressive aesthetics or something.

to me, ted lasso exhibits that all over the place. there's the random forced pairings. there's its ambivalence about whether beard/jane is a toxic relationship or a quirky form of chaotic idiosyncratic good. there's the way everyone is straight because, again, really?????? two seasons into an all-male locker room and you can't find a gay character anywhere? (there have been multiple references to juno temple being flattered by the idea of lesbianism without ever actually making her ID as queer, and there was a baffling one-off joke in s1 about a character using grindr, which.... what is the punchline supposed to be???? these things are frankly pretty offensive.)

then there's the age difference combined with the power dynamic between rebecca and sam. both of these are far too great for the show to handwave so easily, let alone treat like some revelatory joyous thing for both of them, without any amount of self-reflection or serious consideration for how it might make sam vulnerable.

there's also the quite frankly absolutely unacceptable number of harry potter references in the second season of the show. we had absolute proof that JKR was an outright transphobe by June 2020, two months before the show was even renewed for a second season — so well before it was being written and produced. so what the hell were these writers thinking? seriously, what the hell?

(there's also me punching the wall over how glibly the show makes TRENT CRIMM, THE INDEPENDENT, just casually toss away his journalistic integrity by giving up the identity of an anonymous source like what the hell do writers think journalists are? a real journalist would never ever ever in a million years think of doing this, just to be clear!!!!!!! if this is meant however to shade the independent for its subpar editorial standards, well then, i have to admit they have a point, sob, but at least the fictional independent quite rightly fired the reporter who did this unethical thing, sob, trent crimm i trusted you, why did you let down the team like this)

even the stuff that does feel genuinely healthy about season two, like all of the therapy and dudes learning to be emotionally expressive often comes off as really gender essentialist. take the two conversations about "girl talk" and "guy talk" that bookend the season. ted's revelation, which he then passes on to the diamond dogs, that sometimes conversations can just be about venting (without needing to lead to an action-item list of things to change) might feel more interesting if it weren't framed as a girls/guys dichotomy. again, this feels so regressive. this show's gender stuff overall feels very idk late 90s to me. or like it exists in a universe where cultural views on relationships are primarily dictated by reality tv; such a show might feel clever and smartly forward-looking in such a universe! but not in the real world of the 2020s where your trans university lecturer casually talks about their three spouses and meanwhile you're quoting jk fucking rowling like it's 2007.

i wish i had something smarter to end this on than "so yeah that's what i think about ted lasso" and also "o hai tumblr it's been a minute"

but it's my day off so i don't have to come up with a snappy kicker. so yeah, i guess that's what i think about ted lasso! hi, tumblr! it's been a minute.

#o hai tumblr #ted lasso #meta #lol i don't even have a tv tag #aja watches tv

[philosophicalparadox]

Sorry to bother you! I want to ask you a few questions to which for some reason I could not find answers. Reading your posts, I get the feeling that you are a history teacher (if you really are not) or something like that. I decided to try my luck, maybe you can answer my questions. Thank you in advance!!💓 1. What was the attitude of people in the Middle Ages or in general in ancient times towards haemolacria (exudation of blood along with tears)? What were the superstitions and how did they try to treat it? 2. Same question about albinos. 3. Can you tell me interesting facts or something about female duels? 4. How were transgender people treated in the Middle Ages or in general ancient times? 5. How did people in ancient times deal with asthma? 6. Is it possible to make a bowstring out of a person (that is, from tendons, intestines, etc.)?​

Thanks again for your attention!💗

Well, that’s quite a few questions, so this is gonna be a very long answer lol.

For the record I’m no historian; I am but an amateur autistic person who sometimes fixates on particular parts and peoples of the past because, frankly, my Mother was a history teacher, lol. Or she wanted to be one anyway.

Buuuuut let’s actually start answering these:

First, I reblogged a post a while ago and talked about Humoral Theory, which is integral to the idea behind your first question. Alas Tumblr seems to have eaten it so I can’t post a link.

Haemolacria

(1) There are exactly two medical conditions that cause haemolacria; Haemophilia and Porphyria. Coincidentally, those are the two conditions most often associated with an excess of Red Blood, and Porphyria in particular was quite well known in Medieval Europe going back as far as Ancient Greece. Europeans often didn’t have a particular name for it, per se, though it was called porphyria because of the Greek name meaning, quite literally, “Purple madness”. Why was it called this? Because the characteristic symptom is purple colored urine, and porphyria more so than anything was responsible for the “madness and hysteria” that could be associated with having too much Red Blood as a humor.

It was well known in later centuries because quite a few kings and nobility in England and France especially carried the genes for Porphyria and occasionally it expressed itself. King George III, the “mad king” of England in the late 1700s, is often thought to of had Porphyria.

Haemophilia was much rarer in the medieval era, simply as a consequence of the way people lived and natural selection being considerably more involved. But if it did happen, it was usually very unfortunate, because the main way to treat an excess of Red Blood was…to bleed you.

Sooooo porphyria would be a much more likely cause. But honestly bleeding from the eyes would be among the least notable things about it - porphyria very often causes severe neurological syndromes and for some bizarre reason causes extreme aggression in many patients.

For this reason, it was too often the fate of anyone exhibiting those symptoms to be dragged away, tied up, and basically left to die. If porphyria was not determined to be the cause of the madness - though bleeding from the eyes would definitely have suggested that - or if they were particularly important people, they might be assigned a kind of languid caretaker. But for most people suffering such an affliction, they’d be presumed infectious and ousted. People knew very well that contact with other people’s blood could make you sick, especially after the Black Plague in the 1350’s. So someone bleeding from someplace they shouldn’t and having no signs of injury? Even if they were acting fine, most would assume them gravely ill and - if you’ll excuse the pun - avoid them like the plague.

Bear in mind for a moment, here, that physicians back then were usually either Men of the Cloth, whom actually typically took an oath not to abandon the sick, and in some cases would do what they could to help and house them, and…executioners. Yep, guy who cut off yer dads head was also your surgeon, more often than not your barber, and also might of been a torturer or alchemist (pharmacist) on the side.

However, while these are two very different kinds of men, regarded in quite opposite ways by society, the fact was that they both existed because one was better than the other at certain things and worse at others. Executioners and torturers knew human anatomy better, courtesy the Church’s dumb rule about not desecrating the dead - which meant no one, or at least no one pious, was allowed to do necropsy or autopsy or anatomical examinations. Unless of course you cut people up for a living; the church already scorns you, so why not? Let’s get in there and see what’s what (plus executioners often sold human body parts to alchemists if they weren’t one themselves - there’s a whole class of medicine derived from human remains that was popular in the late medieval period to early renaissance).

So, executioners were objectively better surgeons and because they had a steady hand they often would barber too. But they also generally understood how to treat eye, teeth, and sinus problems much better than the average clergy, since those were delicate areas requiring a steadier hand, just like with barbering; pretty much anything that required a steady hand and unflinching resolve was left up to the local torturer or executioners to do. Sometimes if they got lucky they’d just become barbers working for a wealthy family, but they were still surgeons and doctors too.

Clergy meanwhile had cumulative knowledge and history to a greater degree, and understood that conditions like that run in families…which wasn’t always good for the family, as the Church might very well decide they should stop having progeny. But that was very rare; more often than not a child or person with porphyria, if they weren’t already insane, would be adopted into a monastery, where they could be tended to and cared for for the rest of their life. Sometimes that care could be crude and cruel, particularly if they were mad or violent, but it was not an intentional cruelty, per se, so much as a form of self defense. If the crazy man muttering to himself while bleeding out his eyes and nose will viciously attack you when you try to feed him, you’re not going to want to feed him for very long.

Now onto the fun one: Albinos.

(2) the overwhelming attitude was, Frankly: they were defective. And more often than not left out in the woods somewhere to die of exposure.

Part of it stemmed from a fear of them being some being - what depends entirely on where and when, though they run the gauntlet from changeling to ghost to demon - part of it was that albinos just don’t survive that often, even with modern medicine. The genes that code for pigment production are very close to the ones that code for some important proteins in the liver, blood and intestine. Sometimes when the pigment alleles disappear, so do the ones that code for those proteins, and the baby will starve to death or fail to thrive no matter what you do. Modern medicine can sorta work around it, but ultimately not many albino humans survive past the age of three even today. Back then? No sense trying.

However, very leucistic (aka Hypomelanism) and piebald people did happen sometimes. Edward the Confessor of England was highly leucistic to the point it was a major part of his character; we know he wasn’t albino because he had blue (a very pale blue) eyes, which require the presence of melanin, but he is among the only people on earth to have ever had naturally platinum blonde hair.

Technically strawberry redheads with pale skin and very light colored or “silver” eyes are also likely to be leucistic, and while rare, are the more common expression of the Alleles.

Piebaldism has nothing at all to do with either, being fundamentally a developmental disorder where certain cells just aren’t formed in parts of the skin. 99.9% of the time this disorder is fatal to a fetus in utero. But very rarely it manifests in a more or less harmless way - oddly, the most common form of it in humans is a single white forelock.

Then there’s Vitiligo - looks like piebaldism but genetically is not. Vitiligo happens when melanin in the skin randomly just doesn’t appear; the melanocytes are there, but they’re broken. A few things can cause it, but it’s mostly harmless.

Well unless you live in the Middle Ages.

A white forelock might not be regarded as much by some, but it was an indication of disease or spiritual uncleanliness for others, particularly in women. Similarly other kinds of birth marks or odd coloring might have been interpreted as a consequence of sin - either that the mother had sinned and cursed the child, or the child was conceived in sin. The mother could be punished or killed over this, so often the child was killed discreetly and claimed to be stillborn for the sake of protecting herself and her husband’s reputation, if she had one.

Now as to (3):

Women dueling.

Well…didn’t happen, in the strictest sense. Not in the Medieval period. Duels were a thing between knights, and sometimes men at arms. The prevailing belief was that if two fighting men who were otherwise trained to kill each other could not settle their differences, let them duke it out and to the victor go the spoils. It was a crude but popular logic in this long time period.

Women were not only expected to be more demure, but were pretty strictly forbidden from violence of any kind. If they had beef with another woman, they got creative about it. If they had beef with a man, they’d implore their husband or father to act as an intermediary.

Not to say shit didn’t happen; Elizabeth and Mary Tudor famously beat the crap out of each other once as children, and Anne (Boleyn) and her sister Mary also got into a physical confrontation on record. But generally it was not seen as particularly feminine to be so brutish, and could get you in a lot of trouble, even get you flogged (whipped or beat with a cane).

In later centuries, especially the 1800s and early 1900s, when dueling became more ritualized there were a few instances of women dueling, but alas I can’t say I know much on the subject.

(4)

Trans people in the Middle Ages:

First you have to understand that back then, “deviances” were NOT seen as an integral part of the person who did them, it was just a behavioral problem.

What does that mean? As an example, It means that there was no such thing as “a gay man”, just “a man who behaviorally screws other men”. It was not a thing you were, it was a thing you did. That’s an important thing to keep in mind. There were terms thrown around, I.e “Sodomite”, but those still weren’t exactly descriptive of the person they were assigned to in the same way “gay” is today. (Never mind that Sodomy was literally anything non procreative in nature). This applies just as well to the idea of Trans people too. It’s not that they didn’t exist, but the concept of them did not strictly exist, so records are really speculative at best.

Second, a transgender woman that passed well, like today, would have gone on fine. They could be conservative and stick close to the Thespians (more on them in a second) just in case they needed a fallout, but for the most part they’d live life fine, so long as they didn’t bed anyone that was not aware of (and very understanding about) their issue. And of course assuming they tried to dress the part after leaving home.

If one did not pass well, but still dreamed, then joining the thespian’s (actors and theatre folk) was the best hope you could afford. It was by no means guaranteed to be a good time for you; yes there were very commonly other trans people there, courtesy the fact women were forbidden from acting, but thespian “cults” were not called so for no reason. Think of circus cults and you can get an idea.

Rarely, they might be able to join the Church, and become a monk, which was something a LOT of queer men did in the hopes it would reform them. (It did not - quite a lot of gay sex happened in monasteries). But even if they did, there was a risk of being found out, and at best admonished for thinking that they should be anything but how god made them, much less a weak woman. At worst someone might take advantage of them, since they want to be a woman and all. (That likely happened in the thespian cults too)

As for trans men, there’s not a lot of information about them in a medieval context. Likely if they found a mercenary company or band to blend into, they might strike it lucky; but better still would be for them to be a torturer or maybe a barber/surgeon. There’s no hormones back then so they’d be very unlikely to be an executioner, which requires some heft. That job, however, would decidedly deter anyone asking crude questions, and would keep all but the most odd ducks well outside the prospective mate pool, so that would be less of an issue.

But if they were discovered by the wrong hands in either of those scenarios, they’d almost surely be “assaulted” or beaten at the very least and likely killed. It was especially bad for a woman to wear men’s clothing, broadly speaking, because that is directly and specifically condemned in the Bible. So any Trans man found hiding was facing down the short end of a long drop.

5) Asthma

Asthma was well known from the ancient Egyptians onward and the treatments didn’t particularly change until the renaissance. Herbs, among them coltsfoot and horsetail, were used for their bronchodilator properties and the afflicted were kept outside as much as possible to get fresh air. They’d be treated with the medieval equivalent of nebulisation too, using ginger, thyme and alcohol to form a fume one could breathe in.

Depending on what they believed was causing it, patients could be leeched or bled, but that was mostly done in very late medieval times and during the renaissance. More often than not asthma was associated strongly with stress, and the prescriptions tended to focus around alleviating that. Going away into the hills for a few days, spending time with relatives and eating a rich diet with plenty of onion (vitamin C) was the basic script.

Now it’s worth mentioning that there was very little distinction between asthma, allergies and malaria. So if one had bad allergies or asthma during the summer, it could be assumed one had malaria and be given treatment appropriate to that; trouble is that often those made asthma symptoms worse. Slippery elm was the primary plant used to treat malaria because of the quinine in the bark ( not that they knew that) but it’s a dangerous plant because it can ironically constrict the airway.

6) Bowstrings From Human Body Parts

Possible? Absolutely.

Human tendons and sinews are tough. Very tough. They have to be to keep us upright. The sinew in our back and legs is particularly well suited to making thread, and people did that. Remember what I said about executioners selling body parts to alchemists? Well, they took tendons and skins as a priority, because it was quite popular in the middle of the Middle Ages (1200-1400) to bind certain books in human skin. Mostly these books were medical manuals, herbal remedies, and sometimes holy books. But the point is, people did use human sinew to make…well, sinew.

They also used human intestines to make sutures! It was believed that since the material was made of human, if you put it in a human, they’d have less of a reaction.

As to bowstrings…while I certainly wouldn’t put it past someone to use human entrails or sinews in a bowstring for clout, sinew isn’t actually that great of a material for bowstrings. It absorbs oil from your fingers, and decomposes quickly without rigorous maintenance. Many peasants used sinew bowstrings because they were cheap and easy to replace. What’s more, this is an era of man’s most foul enemy (as viewed at the time) : Mice. And I can personally attest, having had my own sinew strewn bow eaten by mice, that they are drawn to it like flies to honey.

What was more commonly used by professionals was hemp or flax, with a very specific weave that left it strong but flexible. Some archers used composite strings made of both sinew and flax, but it was not common since weaving them together is tricky.

However, interestingly, it wasn’t too outlandish to presume one might use human bone in the construction of a composite bow. It was common to use horn for the bow nock, the part that holds the string, but sometimes decorative bone, antler, or rarely rock was used in front of that. The piece would be very small, but there nonetheless.

Human bones were used to make amulets and sometimes medicine too.

Thank you for the ask! This was a lot of fun to answer.

[spookyagentfmulder]

knowing your partner well can potentially make writing a lot easier, repost, do not reblog. meet the mun.

— basics

name: Herald! Or Hel. Hal's fine too. pronouns: He/they with a leaning towards masculine signifiers preference of communication: Tumblr IMs work just fine but I'm usually found more readily on Discord.

— three facts

I have a connective tissue disorder known as Marfan's Syndrome.

I like to collect magical girl figures and paraphernalia (ie: Sailor Moon, Cardcaptor Sakura, Pretty Cure.)

I don't do it as much anymore, but I like to write poetry. Mostly in prose but I often default to iambic pentameter. (secret fact!: when tired I start to speak in rhyme without realizing it.)

— experience

From what I remember I started rping around age 13 on places like deviantart and on AIM, Yahoo, MSN and the like. I officially started my foray on tumblr RPC by talking with a Professor Layton account on my personal. Eventually I became thetumblrturnabout (yes and back then I didn't have to use v's or anything to have that url) and the rest is sort of history. Through RPing I discovered I was trans and it's been one of the best things of my life. I have primarily written sad, wet, older men the entirety of my RP career(?) and hope to one day be that sad, wet, older man. I have written mostly sci-fi/horror and prefer action and drama over things like slice of life. On tumblr I have written: TXF, Twin Peaks, Gravity Falls, Ace Attorney, X-Men First Class, Dangan Ronpa (a dark time), Homestuck (an even darker time) and even some of my own OCs.

— sub-genres

I love the horrors. Either it be the horror of man, the horror of science, the horror of time/space and the inescapable nature of fate: give me that juicy existentialism baby!!!! But as I have written here on Mulder I have found that another huge component of my writing is my expression of love and wanting to see the world be treated more kindly and with more understanding than we often get. Dale Cooper really opened up my eyes with that, and Mulder now too has reintroduced me to how much people want to love and be loved. Get loved, idiot <3

— plots vs memes

I have Constant Plotter's Disease, and already I have about three or four plots waiting in the wings. Having a rich backdrop in which I can play off of allows me to better write my characters, I feel. Plus, TXF is a sort of a monster-of-the-week type show and each episode hinges on a sort of self contained plot most of the time. Memes are just as good for this as anything else! And in fact I find they are wonderful ways to develop character interaction.

— long or short replies

Listen, sometimes I can go stupid crazy and lose myself in the moment and the writing but I try to keep it under wraps. I always feel bad when I don't at least give a paragraph but I NEVER expect my partners to match my insane ability to extrapolate ad nauseum.

— best time to write

Fuck it, we ball. However I am often more available in the evenings and am a bit of a night owl.

stolen from: @handgiven tagging: whoever wants to do this

#;out of truth #look at all my sins #look at them

[lindyloosims]

Just Rambling

So I’ve been wrestling with something for a few days, and I’m still not sure what the right thing to do is. I feel like just deleting my account and leaving, but I also love coming on here and reading everyone’s posts and stories, I’m conflicted, which is why I’ve taken a break. Tumblr (Simblr) is the only social media platform I use regularly, I no longer have Twitter since Musk took over and I haven’t posted on Facebook in months but I keep it because I have a lot of my Canadian cousins on there and I don’t want to lose touch with them. The only other platform I dip in and out of is Instagram as I’ve been on it since 2010 and I kinda love it for its simplicity and (in my personal experience) the no bullshit no drama feel.

I’m in a funk, I started this new year with positive vibes and a spring in my step. I cared for my mother long before she got terminal cancer, she had mental health issues and her anxiety was a huge issue, so there was never any time for me outside of work. She died a month before I turned 40 in 2019 and I thought that after the grieving process I could start my life. Then the pandemic hit and it was 2 years of staying in and not meeting people. I lost my 14 year old labrador to general old age, my own mental health took a hit and all I had was Simblr even though I had barely any followers or notes at that time, it was escapism for me. So after three years of limbo I decided that this would be the year I would have a baby before my uterus and ovaries closed down and ceased production, I always thought that I would get married and be a mum but life dealt me different cards. I have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome and Hypothyroidism which alone they aren’t great but together they’re shit! I’ve been tracking my fertility since January and the chances of me conceiving look promising at the moment, but I lack the main ingredient...a boyfriend/husband/male love interest. That’s my own personal problem but the one thing that I wrestle with on a daily basis is this; is it fair to bring a child into this world the way it is now? Is it selfish? Am I too old? These three questions boil down to one thing, should I even try to have a baby, and the truth is that I don’t know. All I know is that from an early age I always wanted a husband and children, I just lived in a small community where the pick of men wasn’t great, and let’s face it who would be able to deal with my life where my mother came first all the time? This is something I need to think long and hard about, but I know I’ll make the right choices for me and for any potential future child that I may or may not have.

So the reason I toy with leaving Simblr is because sometimes, like real life, I feel like a misfit/outsider and that I don’t fit in. I’ve felt this all of my life, I had a lovely bunch of friends and followers in The Sims 3 community, but haven’t really managed to find my place within The Sims 4 community. I’m just rambling, have the winter blues and I will likely get over it, but this is how I feel at this moment so...who knows what’s around the corner.

Anyway, life’s a strange thing!

#nonsims #non sims #LJ rambles #just me getting my thoughts out #hopefully I'll get over this

[the-rainbow-lesbian]

I am at a point in my life where this is how I operate with other “lgbt” people to protect my mental health:

if someone says they’re “queer” I am like okay straight

“pan” straight

“gay” if you have an opposite sex partner I actually hate you if you use that word 0/10 would not befriend. otherwise idk depends on who you are as a person

“demisexual” normal person but has main character syndrome thinks everyone else is an NPC

“ace/asexual” tmi but thanks for sharing ig, but if we are on a dating app thanks for letting me know I don’t want to date anyone who can’t find me attractive

any other unholy variation kids on tumblr cooked up: straight

“bisexual” props for using a word that makes sense, if you don’t have homophobic opinions we’ll get along

“lesbian” doubt, unless you have a long term female partner, a wife, or no history of enthusiastically dating men

[haystarlight]

I posted 8,758 times in 2022

That's 4,061 more posts than 2021!

327 posts created (4%)

8,431 posts reblogged (96%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@lollytea

@insaneillusionist

@the-a-j-universe

@agrebel18

@unidonkey

I tagged 737 of my posts in 2022

#willow's taste in men is immaculate - 104 posts

#the owl house - 91 posts

#toh spoilers - 73 posts

#huntlow - 72 posts

#the owl house spoilers - 57 posts

#uquiz - 50 posts

#hunter x willow - 43 posts

#luz noceda - 41 posts

#willow park - 35 posts

#hunter noceda - 33 posts

Longest Tag: 124 characters

#🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Sometimes a family is a witch milf, her history nerd sister, her secret agent partner, her adopted daughter with ADHD, the bio mom who is the only “normal” person on the group, the last member of an extint species, another extint species who got brought back by unnatural means, a bad but sad boi, his weed farming girlfriend, their other friend who has gifted kid syndrome, three gay siblings who got disowned by their bio parents, two traitorous rebels, all of their animal familiars and literally the ugliest thing I’ve ever witnessed.

1,146 notes - Posted May 1, 2022

#4

Another Uquiz!

Who are you in the “Every friend group should include” meme?

https://uquiz.com/bZL6eg

1,343 notes - Posted February 22, 2022

#3

I love how, at first, everyone thought the appeal of Hunter was "Oh, he's a Bad But Sad Boy™, he's so cool and scary and mysterious, he wears leather jackets and boots and shirts with skulls on it, his hair is all long and perfect, he never smiles and he's emotionally distant"

But, in reality, it's more like "No, he's a huge, HUGE NERD, he wears crocs and Hawaiian shirts in the middle of autumn, he wears matching homemade Star Trek costumes with his little brother, he dresses like a giant chicken, his hair is a mess".

Y'all though you were getting a hot bad boy but you're getting a wet cat. And he's so much better.

1,986 notes - Posted October 9, 2022

#2

“Hunter wants Willow to like him because he likes Willow (romantically and/or platonically, too)” and “Hunter wants Willow to like him because she is ‘Team Captain’, therefore she is an authority figure in his mind and Hunter always wants to impress authority figures” are both interpretations that can coexist. not mutually exclusive.

2,156 notes - Posted April 3, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

People from this country are always so beautiful

(the flag is super pretty, too)

2,642 notes - Posted November 28, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #wow this is really shocking #I thought there'd be more

[a-b-riddle]

First time using tumblr platform for my stories.

Taken Part 1

Tw: Dead Dove. Kidnapping. Stockholm Syndrome. Dub-con. Manipulation. Spanking. Mentions of past abuse. Humiliation. Forced pregnancy. Gaslighting. No gatekeeping. No girl bossing.

January 2020

It wasn't all that frequent that the Avengers would humble themselves to dwell amongst the common folk. They all had this somewhat painted facade of perfection. Captain America was national hero, the Winter Soldier was a tortured prisoner of war and Iron Man... if the man himself didn't believe he was a god then over half of the world did.

For whatever the reason, Elizabeth Snow had always felt somewhat uneasy around them. She caught glimpses of who they really were; under the metal, behind the masks and tight spandex, they were still men. They were men who got too frisky with her coworkers, but tipped so well no one ever complained and tonight they sat in her section.

The restaurant could be best described as a high class bar. Although there were technically no poles, there were plenty of beautiful women for anyone who could cover the door fee. Her coworkers joked that it was a brothel that had a food permit. Men, and very seldom women, would come in and have one or a few of the escorts come and join them. Sometimes they bought them dinner, sometimes they even took them on as sugar babies. Elizabeth was at the bottom of the totem pole, merely waitressing. Granted she got paid more than the women who simply sat and talked to these men for hours, but she did a whole hell of a lot more work and had to dress as equally as scandalous.

The restaurant was always dimly lit, giving a relaxing ambiance to her patrons and staff. The room had oak chairs with plush red cushions. A huge golden chandelier hung in the middle of the room. The walls mirrored that of an opera house. Detailed crown molding and an atmosphere that wreaked of privilege and entitlement. She could never relate to this world and yet she were still in it; a mere ant compared to the people who came in to dine on overpriced food and liquor that was older than she was.

It was on tonight's special occasion that the club had been entirely rented out courtesy of Tony Stark. Elizabeth and the other girls guessed that it was something with S•H•I•E•L•D• given that most of the men looked more like secret agents than the usual patrons. Several of the key members seemed to be missing from the group centered in the middle of the room.

At the biggest lounge section sat Thor, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, and several others she didn't recognize.

In her black cami dress that she bought from some fast fashion website, she straightened herself, kept a good postured and walked over to their table with as much courage as she could muster. "Good evening, Gentlemen." She greeted with a smile and customer service persona on high. "My name is Eliza. What can I get you all started with to drink?"

She could feel their eyes burning on her body. She felt Steve's eyes linger a little bit too long on her bare calves before he answered. "I'll just take a beer, sweetheart." She further asked what kind, having several on tap as well as bottled, both domestic and foreign.

Mr. Stark ordered a Macallan neat and didn't try to hide his ogling as either, but his eyes seemed to venture more north.

"I will have the same as Steve." Thor answered, not being shy to stare blatantly at her chest. It wasn't uncommon for patrons to look. The standard was at long as they looked with their eyes and not their hands.

"And do you have ID?" She asked the boy who appeared to be a bit too young to even be there. He sat there wordlessly, just staring at her. One would have thought the kid never saw a woman before in his life the way he was staring.

‘Jesus Christ.’ She thought.

"He's with me," Mr. Stark answered, nonchlantly. "Just get him a Jack and Coke." She was too afraid to confront that the kid was obviously a minor. She would have to give her manager a heads up. It wasn't uncommon for socialites and the occasional trust fund baby to pop in with a bullshit fake, but if they threw enough cash, the higher ups ignored it.

Two others had given their requests and now was the one that made her nervous to walk over to the table. Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, and the only one out of all of them, who actually scared her. She had seen the news stories. She would be stupid not to be scared of any of the Avengers, but something about Bucky was just terrifying. He seemed unpredictable, deadly.

Bucky looked over the wine & spirits menu before answering "Surprise me" and staring her down. Not at her legs, not at her ass or her chest. His eyes connected directly into her deep green eyes. She swallowed nervously but kept her composure. A sweet smile and a forced ignorance at the obvious stares she was getting.

Be sweet. What she had always been told.

"All right, great." She said penciling down everything, making sure to get it right. "Did you want a beer or a hard liquor, perhaps something more like a cocktail?" He replied with cocktail. Nothing sweet. Unlike the others, he was the only one who kept consistent eye contact instead of staring down at her body; it made Elizabeth's skin tingle uneasily. "I'll get those right out. Can I put in for any appetizers? We have a chef special tonight, the Grand Plateau which has jumbo lump crab cakes, North Atlantic Lobster, shrimp cocktail and six oysters on the half shell."

"Bring us out two," Tony ordered, his eyes darting back to the menu. "And we'll go from there."

"Fantastic. I'll give you minute to look over the menu and if you have any questions, I'll be happy to answer them when I come back." After turning to head toward the kitchen, she felt their eyes glued to her backside. It wasn't uncommon at work since looking attractive was the primary job requirement. But nevertheless, it made her uneasy. Sometimes a patron would get a little too drunk and a little too frisky, they would either pay a fine that was given to the girl or be blacklisted from the establishment.

What scared Elizabeth was that not only that everyone currently at her table powerful beyond inhuman means, but they had the richest man alive buying their dinner tonight. A $5,000 fine was nothing to Tony Stark. The possibilities of the outcomes or what could happen made her want to switch tables. But her boss was insistent that she was the one to take them. Everything needed to be perfect.

What she failed to mention was that she was requested by name and some extra incentive was passed along to make it seem coincidental.

"You should be getting a good tip tonight." Calliope remarked as Elizabeth starting their tab. "Mr. Stark always tips well." Calliope was a bubbly 20-something blonde from Ohio. Since both of them moved to New York and had no connections here, they relied of each other here and there to get by. Often they would switch tables when the other needed to make a little more money.

"Well let's hope that's true for tonight." Elizabeth finished up their tab set up and headed to the kitchen to place their order first before going to the bar. Given the size of the group, the bartenders were a little short staffed working on the back and helping serve.

"What are you making?" Calliope asked following behind Elizabeth like a puppy. "My tables just put in an order for food so I'm just killing time." Time Elizabeth wish she had right now.

"I found online." She dismissed. "One of them said 'surprise me'. Do they not realize how stressful that is? Like I don't know what you like to drink."

"But what is it?"

"I don't know, I didn't make it. Rim the glass with sugar, muddle some cherries, two ounces of bourbon, one ounce orange juice, add some bitters, half an ounce maple syrup, strain over ice."

Like most 20 somethings, Elizabeth spent most of her free time on social media apps, even though she promised herself she would be more productive. She even went as far as buying a few new books that just seem to be collecting dust. When she came across a recipe she liked, she saved it. Her camera roll was more full of screenshots and saved videos than anything else.

"That sounds pretty damn good. Make me one after this shift?" Calliope asked, resting her chin on Elizabeth's shoulder. Calliope was only a little taller than Elizabeth, but she was far more skinny. Elizabeth had thighs that required anti-chub rub powder before every shift or else she would pay for it later.

"If I last that long, I have been cramping literally all day. I almost called out, but Jonathan begged me to come in since the whole place was gonna be packed." Jonathan was their manager and Elizabeth were the first person he always called to come in and cover a shift.

"Are you still not on birth control?" Calliope narrowed her eyes at her. Elizabeth had been complaining of cramps the last couple of months, but never managed the time to get it sorted. She usually just took a Midol and spent the evening cuddle up next to a heating pad.

"No I looked into getting another IUD, but out of pocket is so expensive." With insurance, that she didn't have, she was looking at about $400 for the ultrasound alone. Not to mention she would have to pay for the visit and the implant out of pocket.

"Just go to your gyno and have them write a prescription for the pill." Calliope said, irritated that they two were having this conversation yet again. She never made the time to take care of herself or to just take a day off. Elizabeth was all work, no play and truly dull. Add-in a recent breakup and her social life was, well, pathetic.

"Your first mistake was thinking I had a gynecologist. I barely can afford a minute clinic.”

"Then go find one." Calliope said. "I have a great one a couple of blocks down."

"Sure. I’ll go see them, but with what insurance?" She countered.

"Fair enough." Calliope decided to just drop it. One thing she learned about Elizabeth since the two started working together is that she was sweet, shy and didn't like confrontation. But if there was something Elizabeth didn't want to do, she wasn't going to do it. No arguing. Just a simple 'no, thank you' or 'I'd rather not'.

"It's not like I'm seeing someone anymore." Elizabeth sighed, placing everyone's drinks on her tray before picking it up. "I can't remember the last decent date I went on."

"That's because you won't give anybody a chance."

"I don't like anyone enough to give them a chance. Don't you have food to go check on?"

Calliope rolled her eyes and headed back into the kitchen.

"Alright, gentlemen," She set the tray down at the edge of the table and distributed the drinks. She set the beverages in front of their intended. "Here you go." She was about to put the final one down, when Bucky reached out for his drink instead of letting her just place it on the table. Instantly, her face felt prickly, almost as if she had pre-workout that was a little bit too intense.

The look on his face, she wouldn't call it smiling exactly, but there was definitely a look. Nothing sinister or mischievous. It was just... nice.  "Is there anything else I can get before I check on the food?" They said they still needed time looking over the menu, she nodded, gave a meek 'okay' in response and scurried off into the kitchen.

"See something you like, Barnes?" Tony asked, noticing the Winter Soldier still kept his eyes glued to her as she disappeared behind the doors leading into the kitchen.

"Pretty little thing, isn't she?" Steve remarked. "Told you this one was perfect." Steve had took the liberty in paying to make sure that Elizabeth was the one catering to their needs tonight. He had come several weeks back with just Sam and he knew he would be perfect for her. Unfortunately, he had a different waitress tending to him that evening, so he was left looking at her from a far.

But once he saw her, he knew she would be perfect for him. "You got that right. I can't believe how much she favors Connie" Bucky agreed and took a sip of his cocktail. Bucky ran his tongue along his top lip. "That's pretty good."

"A girl who knows how to make you a drink after a long day." Steve raised his eyebrows, a playful smile on his face. "It'll be nice, Buck. Just what you need."

Once the appetizers were ready, Elizabeth brought them out. Back straight, stomach pulled in and hips swaying. Who would have thought confidence was so easily faked.

"What did you give him?" Tony asked pointing to Bucky.

"Oh it's something I just whipped up behind the bar. Just bourbon, orange juice, some bitters."

"Yeah, but what is it called? In case he wants to order another." Tony pressed and she felt like he was talking to her like a child.

"Nothing. It's just something I made behind the bar." She tried to explain. "Why? Did you not like it?" She her brow furrowed. The concern was written on her face.

"No," Bucky assured, but enjoying that she was worried about whether or not she did something wrong. "It's great, keep 'em coming, doll."A chill ran up her spine at the pet name.

"I'll take one too. Hell," Stark waved her off. "Just make it a round."

She smiled, happy that it wasn't a flop. "Sure thing." She said before shuffling back to the bar, leaving them to peck at the food. More drinks meant more money spent, more money spent meant a bigger tip.

"If you stare any harder at her, you're gonna burn a hole through the back of her head, Bucky." Steve laughed as he sipped his drink. "I told you she wasn't bad on the eyes."

"Nope." Bucky said watching her intently. She was oblivious to his stare; too focused on making him and his friends drinks. "She's something."

"Followed her for a few weeks. Makes a b-line from work to her apartment. Takes her dog on a walk in the morning at 7 am, lunch and 6 pm. I don't think I've seen her actually go anywhere else. Practically a recluse and perfect for snatching." Steve was always proud when it came to that sort of thing. He almost perfected Pepper's behavior. Tony preferred someone that fought back a little, but didn't like things to get physical. And Steve was more than eager to help.

"I want to take it slow." He said. "Ease her into it."

"That's no fun."

"Some of us have patience, Tony." He Bucky finished off his second drink. "Besides, I would be worried if she was eager to jump into it. I like a bit of a chase." That's how things were back in the day. Bucky was still unaccustomed to this new era of 'dating'. Women, men, everyone took things too quickly. There was no build up. Quick satisfaction and very little substance.

She returned with the drinks and hoping for everyone's approval. "Everything come out okay?" She stood, waiting for them to say whether the appetizer or drinks weren't to their liking.

Tony was the first to take a sip of the concoction. "That’s good." Tony said sitting back in his chair. "Do you bartend on the side?" His held tilted to the side. It was nice that their gaze had some what changed. Granted, she wasn't oblivious. She knew how she looked, especially in that attire and it didn't make her any less comfortable.

"Oh, no." She replied bashfully. "I just do it sometimes here. Short on staff tonight and it's honestly not that hard."

"Well what's in it?" Steve asked swirling his glass before taking a sip himself. "May have to order me another one."

" It's just muddled cherry, bourbon, orange juice, bitters and maple syrup over ice." She answered,  somewhat proud of Steve's compliment. "So what are we feeling food wise?" They all rattled off their orders, except Bucky, who just replied with "surprise me" again.

"Beef, chicken or seafood?" Again with the option. Although he preferred to be in control, he wanted her to be self-ensured on making certain decisions.

"Let's go beef." He said and gave her a soft smile. Again, the unsettling feeling trickled down her spine.

She wrote down an order for a Wagyu medium rare, sided with lobster Mac & cheese and creamed spinach with garlic confit. When she went to turn away, her heel weirdly turned on the floor causing her to lose her balance and stumble. Bucky's hands quickly shot out to make sure she didn't fall.

"Oh goodness, I-I'm sorry." She apologized, his hands still on her hips. Bucky loved how she seemed so frazzled. She looked cute when she was embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it, Doll." He said slowly letting his hands slip off of her. Her skin felt like it was on fire where his touched lingered a bit too long.

She thanked him again before going to the kitchen to collect herself.

Calliope saw sweat beginning to collect at Elizabeth's forehead. "You good?" She asked.

"Yeah," she reassured. "It's just a busy night."

"Well if you need any help, just let me know." She said before picking up two dishes in the kitchen window. Elizabeth promised to just try and steer clear from the table until their meals were ready.

She carefully set down Bucky's meal last. "I guessed you for a medium rare kind of guy."

"You guessed correctly." He said. "This looks amazing."

"Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Just another round of drinks, but perhaps a surprise shot this time?" Tony ordered.

"Yes, sir."

She made quick work behind the bar. 1 ounce of grenadine, 1/2 ounce of whipped cream vodka, 1 ounces of vanilla schnapps, shaken with ice, poured into an empty shot glass and topped with a small thing of whip cream.

She never liked to taste the alcohol in her drinks. She prefered anything sweet and fruity and would trade beer for a cosmopolitan with heavy cranberry juice any day.

She brought the red shots over and placed them around, having to lean a bit to get them to everyone, being sure to be mindful of her feet this time.

"This is a little bit more sweet than the last one so if you don't like it I can just make another one no problem." She offered.

"I like sweet." Bucky smiled and she gave a smile back, just to be courteous.

Everyone seemed pleased with their drinks and service. They ordered another round of the bourbon drink she made earlier and Elizabeth began to clear plates and empty platters when Steve spoke up.

"What are you doing later?" Steve asked boldly. "After dinner we were going to go to Stark Towers and have a little get together." She was surprised at the offer and felt it would affect her tip if she just flat out said no. The murderous look Bucky flashed Steve went unnoticed.

"Oh, I'm scheduled to close." She lied. "I probably won't be getting off until 4 or so."

"Well no reason why we can't wait up." Tony tilted his head, almost as if he were challenging her.

"Oh you don't need to do that." Elizabeth urged. "Plus, I have to work tomorrow so I really need to go home and rest up." Something in her gut was telling her even those the were the same people who saved the world, protected Earth, and were regarded as unequivocally being the 'good guys', she needed to get the fuck out of there. "Anything else I can bring you? Dessert? Another round?"

"We're fine for now." Tony said. She gave a swift nod and a smile before retreating into the kitchen.

Elizabeth pulled Calliope away from the conversation she was having with the cook. "Hey! What's the deal?" She asked. "I'm trying to cop a free meal."

"I'm not feeling well and Jonathan said I could clock out at 12 since I came in to cover a shift and it's already 1:46. Do you think you can handle my table for the rest of the night?"

"We close in literally another hour, can you not just push through it?"

"Whatever they tip, I'll give you half." Her tone instantly shifted.

"Go home and get some rest, Birdie." She urged pushing Elizabeth toward the back room.

"Thank you, thank you," She said going to the computer in the back room and clocking out. She made haste getting her shit together while Calliope took care of New York's heroes.

"Hi, I'm Calliope and I'll be taking care of you for the rest of the evening."

"What happened to the other girl?" Steve asked pointing to the direction their previous waitress just fled.

"Oh, she wasn't feeling too well so I'll be taking care of you for the rest of the night. Is there anything I can get you? Maybe some more drinks or are we thinking a dessert?"

Steve shot Bucky a look. "I think we're good." He answered. Tony pulled a couple of hundreds from his wallet.

"Here is your tip, my dear." He handed her the money. "I'll be sure to give our waitress her tip when we come in next time. What was her name again?" Calliope told them. Bucky repeated her name, liking the way it felt coming from his mouth. Instantly he imagined him moaning it as he buried himself inside her.

To say Elizabeth ran to her apartment is accurate. She didn't know why but she had the feeling she was being followed, but she always did. Elizabeth always felt afraid of every shadow and strange noise in the darkness. Like something would reach out and grab her.

She finally relaxed when she locked the apartment door behind her. Mia, her 80 pound Rottweiler was ready and greeting her at the door. As intimidating as she was, she didn't growl, much less bark. She initially kept her with the intent of being a guard dog, but turns out she was a social butterfly.

She put on Mia's harness and took her outside to potty before the two of them went to bed. Pulling out her phone, she sent Calliope a text to check-in.

*So how did it go?*

*ok. Stark gave me a $300 tip. Said that you would get your tip next time they came in*

*youre fucking joking*

*i swear . They acted really weird when I told them you left because you weren't feeling well.*

*shit you told them I wasn't feeling good?*

*yeah whats the big deal?*

*they asked me did I want to go back to Stark Towers after they finished*

*holy shit why didn't you go?*

*I just got a really weird feeling. I don't exactly feel comfortable with them.*

*why? They were so nice.*

*idk it's just like a gut feeling. Did they stay long after I left?*

*no they actually didn't order anything else and headed out.*

Mia finished her business and Elizabeth began to panic. Did she make them mad by refusing their offer? What's going to happen next time they come in? She was so caught up in being worried about having pissed off the strongest people in the world, she didn't even notice a set of eyes watching her, from a car parked across the street.

Stark Towers was dimly lit with they returned. The Avengers had quickly turned Stark Towers into their own home and headquarters after the battle in Wakanda. Tony resided in the penthouse. The floor below him was Steve, then Bucky followed by Sam, Bruce, Natasha and Wanda. Peter still lived with his aunt May and Strange resided... well no one really knew where Strange lived.

Everyone retired to the floor below Wanda's which served as the common area. There was a well stocked kitchen and walk-in pantry, a couple of couches and a pool table.

"So, that made for an interesting dinner." Steve said throwing his coat on a bar stool. "What do you think, Buck?"

"I think you were right, Steve." Bucky remarked taking off his own leather coat. "She's exactly what I had in mind."

"Well I suppose asking her out the old fashioned way isn't the route your taking." Tony remarked.

"I'll try to woo her a bit, but I'm not into a chase if that's what your asking."

"A chase worked for me and Pepper." He defended.

"Where is Pepper?" Peter asked.

"Oh, Pepper," he said. "That's right." His expression was of feigned surprise. "I suppose we forgot to invite her along before we left, Cap."

"I suppose we did." Steve sinfully smirked. "Let's go see if she's still busy."

Tony and Steve walked to the elevator, leaving the others in the common area. "So are you going to help Bucky train this one?"

"If he needs it." Steve offered. "I don't think she'll be much of a fighter. She was so scared she took off before we were even done eating. Not one for confrontation."

"I told Bucky he could borrow the mansion upstate when he was ready. It's hard disciplining them while in the city. You get too worried that they'll try and escape."

"Tell me about it." He said walking into Tony's penthouse. It was nothing short of state of the art. Everything was sharp and clean. They walked into a hallway, where at the end led into Tony's office. On the wall, there was a shelf. Steve rolled up his sleeves as Tony pulled a book, causing the bookcase to move to the side, revealing a hidden door.

Steve and Tony entered the room where Pepper's body hung from the ceiling. Her once perky and neat ponytail now sagged, stray baby hairs flying in different direction. Her arms and legs hogtied together, letting her hang in the air. Her head hung limply down, strings of drool pooling around her gag and falling on her chest. The sounds of her deep breathing and the low hum of the vibrator filled the room.

"So," Steve asked wrapping a hand around Pepper's throat. "Did we learn our lesson?

[otter1962crystalball]

A Shocking About Face

There come times when something happens that makes you really stop and think. It is a situation that totally threw me for a loop. 

About a month ago, I connected with a man who had shown interest in me. I’ll use the name “Fred.”  We hit it off immediately and we had a whirlwind romance for about three weeks. There was a lot of connection and I realized that I was being open and free for the first time in years. I’ve met guys and some of them wanted to date me. There was some sort of connection, but there was always something seemingly absent.

With this man, I found myself being totally me. I was laughing a lot, we spent several weekends together which was easy and very comfortable. I even found myself singing in front of him. That is something that never happens to me. There was a lot of joy, passion and sharing in learning about the other. It harkened to when I felt this feeling a long time ago, but it was different somehow. 

Upon reflection, I am a different person now. I have worked through a lot of situations, traumas, heartbreaks, finding that I had picked the wrong guy, etc. I have learned that as a caregiver, I have to be careful that I don’t put myself into a situation where I am trying to help someone. I call it the broken wing syndrome. There was always this need to take care of someone else - especially those needing self-reflection and a better understanding of who they are as a person.

I’ve often written about my two narcissistic relations, which can be seen in my other blogs on Tumblr. I’ve come to know the characteristics and what to look out for before getting involved. I’ve had to end potential relationships because I knew they were narcissists. My friend Maddox always says that the universe will send you things that you need to learn about the most. I was unwittingly still attracting narcissists. I’d like to point out that I have met some wonderful men who were not, but there was a basic lack of connection to pursue a more long-term relationship. It is only this past year that I’ve stopped attracting them - because my outlook on myself is different. I now can say that I love myself.

With Fred, I knew instantly that he was not a narcissist. In fact, he seemed to be very genuine. He told me many times how beautiful I was, how sexy, how kind, how caring and so on. I found myself doing the same thing back and I felt amazing because I truly felt it. Fred might have the potential to be long-term, or so I thought. 

We spent three weekends, two at my house and one at his. Each time was magical - full of fun, passion, intimacy and more. It was something that I hadn’t felt in more than twenty years.

Sure, I knew about his ex-partner because Fred spoke of him from time to time. He expressed certainty that he no longer wanted the relationship because the man (big surprise) was a narcissist. He even acknowledged that. In my group of friends, it was clear that he had escaped an abusive relationship. I think that my friends kept telling me how good of a match we were. 

I repeatedly told Fred things to show him that I respected him and that he deserved to be respected and treated kindly - all the things that were lacking in that relationship. Anyway, we had planned to get together this past weekend and had plans for March Break together. Last Wednesday, he told me how beautiful I was on a video call. He had said several times that no one had ever treated him like this - it was so new and exciting. He was smiling, happy and excited about the coming two weekends. Then, it all changed as the axe fell.

On the next day, Thursday, I had an impulse to change the lyrics of a song and send it to him. The guys in my circle thought it was sweet and wonderful. However, the man didn’t respond at all - until later at night when he knew that I was going to bed. He told me, in a text that he would speak to me in the morning. So, I went to sleep looking forward to being with him because it was the Friday when he would arrive. Instead, he called me in tears saying that he was having problems with his self-esteem and that he needed the weekend to work it through. I told him to do what he needed to do. I sent a text later saying that I would be there and that I had left the door open. Later that day, I was at a gathering and I received a text from him telling me that he had decided to go back to his ex-partner. He expressed that everyone would be mad at him for doing it, yet he went ahead with it anyway.  My heart dropped - I was in shock. Luckily, I had a friend there to support me. That friend had contacted Fred and he found that the ex-partner had called his family due to a death. His mother called saying that the ex still cared. So, Fred went back to his partner.

The sad thing was that he told my friend that everything that we shared was perfect. My friend asked him if his ex gave him any of that. He said no, but went back to him anyway. The ex had been hounding Fred to give it another go, but Fred said no and that he was enjoying the time with someone who treated him right (me). The ex somehow convinced him to go back to him. In reflection, the ex knew exactly how to hook him back in. I saw it immediately because I had experienced the same. The narcissist starts out charming so the man falls in love with him. Then once he has him, he starts treating him with disrespect and disdain. I heard that the ex had told Fred that he only tolerated him. Hence, the reason why Fred left his ex - was because he was starting to believe in himself. Then this happened and he is now back in the same situation. I doubt that he now believes in himself.

In reflection, I know that I will not grieve too long as the relationship was very short. What it did do for me was make me realize that I have the capability of being all the things that I showed him. If I did it once, I can do it again. I think that I am finally seeing the benefits of all the internal work I’ve done on myself in the past three years. Sure, I miss him and may for a while, but I know that I will be okay. The hard part is the sadness that I have for him because I know the situation having lived it. This time, I can’t be a caregiver. He needs to go through this himself - no one else can help him. He needs to help himself. Hopefully, he will learn the lesson about loving himself and taking care of himself first before he tries to do it with others. I truly hope that one day he will love himself enough to do what is right for him.

With that, I say “Carpe Diem” and move on.

#lessons #narcassists #innerwork #nomoreabuse #I'm me and I'm okay

[tidalcreek]

ok im pretty sure whatever neural pathways everyone on here formed about spn when they were in middle school i did the same thing with the hobbit movies. not sure how much better that is

#long and bloated badgood media about white men who are gay but arent gay. token gender man (jackles/ra). 2014 tumblr syndrome #spn obviously way more insane in execution and cultural impact but i decided not to watch it in 7th grade so. this