#BUT too often it seems like a cheap way to have a woman be sexually assaulted in the adaptation

[nervousbreadpuppy]

cowards route: oh mr hyde sexually assaults woman because hes evil

warriors route: gay sex

#like no i get why they do it #it shows how jekyll views his own sexuality as a terrible part of him #so when hes free to express it he ends up doing some pretty bad things #BUT too often it seems like a cheap way to have a woman be sexually assaulted in the adaptation #(because of the male gaze) #and gay sex would add a layer that most people wouldnt be thinking about #so yeah! make dr jekyll gay in your adaptation today!

[sevikasbeloved]

POKER FACE

Part 2

(Link to Part 1) https://www.tumblr.com/sevikasbeloved/705383162739621888/poker-face

Word count: 4.7k (chonky boi)

Warnings: sexual scenes, threats of violence.

Your head thrummed as you shielded your eyes from the low hanging light above your booth, your face painted in the remnants of whatever part of you made it to the next day unscathed.

The sound of cheap boots scraping the wooden floor alarmed you to the barman sliding an unknown substance your way, with a smile filled with pity.

You nodded, gratefully swigging the sweet liquor to quieten that hum you couldn’t seem to shake. Your hands idly shuffled the cards in your hand, as your eyes lazily scanned the room.

It was one of those quieter days in the bar, the days where the worst of them seemed to be causing trouble elsewhere, but unfortunately for you that meant less suckers willing to lose their money.

You slowly found yourself blended in with the brown leather booth chair as you sunk into it biding your time for something, anything to happen. Your head dragged along the side of the chair, following the few people walking around the room aimlessly, one of the men standing with his stomach pressed against the jukebox as he carefully eyeballed the names of the discs rotating through.

You glanced at your suddenly empty glass, and at the stack of cards that sat almost begging you to pick them up. You let out a frustrated sigh, dragging your palms flat across your face, peeking over your fingertips at the rest of the room.

You let out a sharp whistle, breaking the mutual silence among the other bar patrons, where none but one looked to you, his face scrunched up in annoyance at your disturbance of his peace.

You smiled, goading him a little further, drumming your fingers against your cards. You’d seen him around, he was one of the older poker players, half-retired, that is until he runs out of money, which happened often enough for him to only be considered half-retired.

He shrugged his shoulders at you, turning back to his ragged little book.

“There’s no way that book is more interesting than winning my money!” You taunted from across the room.

“Piss off, I don’t want your money.” He grumbled, not even giving you the decency of some eye contact.

“Pfft.” You purse your lips at the back of his head.

The sound of what you thought was crashing glassware echoed from the top of the stairs, alerting the whole bar to the second floor. The sound of muffled arguing started up alongside the smashing, and it lasted for what felt like twenty minutes, until it went completely silent.

The entire bar felt like you were holding a collective breath as you all waited, then the door slammed,

“Don’t waste my time again, Sevika!” You heard Silco’s voice roar.

Not soon after, the sound of heavy boots slamming against each step, almost like clockwork, sent life back into the bar again and all the side conversations and loud silences began where they left off.

You, however, stayed silent, watching her hulking physique stride confidently past you, undeniably unphased by whatever lashing Silco gave her.

She turned her head in your direction, her eyes low as she looked for a moment at you, and you were sure she saw you because you caught a glimpse of a smirk before she turned back towards the door, and then out of your sight.

You sighed back into your seat again, pulling out a half smoked blunt from your pouch and sparking it brazenly as you closed your eyes, your mind unashamedly wandering to her.

Openly you wouldn’t admit it but she intrigued you more than you thought she would have from all the stories about the scary woman. There was more to her than her actions you thought as you took a long drag of your blunt, exhaling deeply as you sat up again, that vertigo feeling you’d get every time you’d smoke creeping up on you.

“Jesus fuck!” You screamed as you opened your eyes to a white haired lady glaring between you and your cards. One of your hands, gripping your knife in your holster raised to the side of your head,

“You can’t sneak up on me like that man,” you said, taking a final toke before stubbing out your blunt. You watched her in bewilderment as she sat down in front of you, her face set in a natural frown.

You slid out of the booth slowly, trying to keep a healthy amount of distance between the two of you.

“Get the lady a drink, will you?” You said walking out of the bar almost as dazed and confused as you came in.

Maybe no more daytime visits to The Last Drop for a while, you thought.

_____

The night was young and you decided to give the bar another try. You were immediately greeted with the familiarity of the gross lingering smell of piss at the front door, which, in any other case would’ve been a good sign to turn the fuck away, but down here, it meant there was life inside, and where there was life to be found, there was money to be lost.

You sauntered in at the prospect of stealing a fortune, pushing the door open with conviction as you headed to your lucky booth.

To your surprise, it was occupied, very occupied. The booth was filled end to end with card shufflers, readers and observers, including the half-retired guy you’d seen earlier in the day.

You had half the mind to take his money from him now, teach him a lesson about turning down a game from you, but before you could even think to exert your prowess onto him, you heard the familiar whirring of a very particular metal prosthetic.

Draped against the back of the booth was Sevikas clunky metal arm, a royal purple colour bleeding through the clear tubes.

Clearly, she was excited.

You tilt your head to get a better view of her front, a smile on your face as you catch her side profile plastered with a subtle yet confident smile. As your view of her cleared, you quickly noticed a woman sitting in the hitch of her hanging arm, a beautiful woman, dressed in fantastic garments that shrugged and cinched at the right places, clearly one of Babettes own.

You unintentionally let out a scoff at the sight, alerting Sevika and her arm candy directly to you.

Her face was arrogantly smug as her eyes raked up and down your length before locking with yours, and for the first time you didn’t know what to day or to do, not for a long long time had you been stumped like this, and for her of all people, you wanted to crawl inside yourself.

“Y/n, you gonna join us or stand there all dazed and confused?” She snided.

Your breath caught in your throat as she spoke, a part in anger, that she spoke to you like that, and a part in shame, that you let her.

You let out a deep, exasperated sigh. She’d pissed you off with the way she spoke to you infront of everyone, and for the rest of the night it would be fair game, you thought.

You moved behind one of the men that had pulled up a stool from the bar, your eyes still glaring at Sevika’s smug face.

Without even looking at the man below you, you pulled him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him off the stool, taking his place, leaning comfortably forward into the table. He fell to the ground crashing for a second before trying to get up again to reclaim his seat at the crowded table.

“What the fuck?” He spat, his saliva splashing against your cheek and temple.

Almost immediately you pulled him closer to you, by the front of his collar this time, and whispered,

“I would highly recommend you fold this game right now because I am in no mood.”

You watched from your peripheral as he shook himself free from your grip, mumbling the word “fold” as he grabbed his chump change and wandered off elsewhere.

The table looked at you, some with faces of astonishment and curiosity as to how you got that lad to fuck off so abruptly, most with discontent, because they knew you were good, and clearly tonight you were out for blood.

“Alright, it’s time for a real game, don’t you think?” You said, your voice painfully sarcastic as you rubbed your hands together.

“We have to finish this game.” A younger guy said, squished in between two women who clearly didn’t realise he was there.

You smiled at him pitifully, reaching into your pockets, pulling out a large stack of bills and slamming it on the table.

“Anyone who wants to start a new game gets a cut from that stack.” You offered.

Immediately the table was cleared for a new game, some of the men never having seen that much money on a poker table in their lives.

You looked at Sevika again who’s face had adjusted from smug to astonished, although she tried hard not to show it. You looked at the lady in her arm who was clutching for dear life to her side, practically infusing herself with her. Your smile grew, and became more genuine as you got your head into the new game ahead.

You felt your blood pump, the table filled to the brim with more spectators crowding at the mention of a game with the top poker players in the city at the table, those being you and Sevika, of course.

Sevika collected the cards in quick speed, shuffling them between her fingers before lifting the deck up to her ladies lips, letting her kiss the top card on the deck.

Her eyes flickered to you for a moment, before she started handing them out among the rest of the players, and how that excited you. You knew that she was going to be cutthroat, but you’d known of her game for a while, you knew that when she was playing for sport instead of playing for money, she’d crack, if you applied enough pressure.

That was the fun part, and oh the pressure you’d apply…

_

The game had been going on for about thirty minutes, four people had folded as their hands proved useless against the rest, and the atmosphere in the room had become sour, even more so than before. It was as if the game between you and Sevika had multiplied and the entire bar was now sitting on the edge of their seats, wondering if this would end in a bloody fight.

Sevika placed a large amount of coins into the pool, to which you added on more, and the next person did the same, everyone playing under the same understanding of ‘go big or go home’.

“Fucking bullshit!” The burly man beside you cried, his eyes burning on the two women opposite.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” One of the women spat back.

“I should kill you.” He growled, his hands balling up beside him.

This had happened about three times before now, an accusation turned into a threat, usually you or Sevika would dissipate the pressure a little reminding them of the large sum of money that had built up, but this time, neither of you could care less if these idiots took themselves out of the game.

You shot her a glance and she grinned, knowing that if they were going through on their word it would just be you and her, which is what the two of you had been itching for from the start.

“Oh yeah?” The other woman jeered, pulling out a rusty knife, if you could even call the serrated edge of a piece of aluminium a knife, “do it.”

The man stood up from his seat, slapping his cards against the table, automatically bowing himself and them out of the game as they stood up with him.

The room filled with mumbles of patrons egging on a fight they had been so bloodthirsty for from the start, only riling them on further.

Eventually the three came head to head, knives waving across the table, and drinks spilling off and on it.

Quickly, sevika had come to the end of her enjoyment of it, slamming her closed fist against the old oak surface, grinding the fighting to a halt.

“Take your shit outside, there is still a game to finish.” She said, her tone measured and calm, although everyone knew she was anything but.

They followed her orders like a bunch of sheep, walking out single file, until the doors slammed and a whole bunch of muffled shouting started up again from the other side of the door.

“Now,” she turned to you again, her entire demeanour changing, like she’d suddenly become interested in the game in front of her, “shall we start the real game?”

You couldn’t help a faint smile crawling across your face as you recognised the desire for her to come one to one with you.

You didn’t say a word, not wanting to validate her sudden rivalry with you.

The two of you put your final stack of coins in the middle of the table, ready to see who had the better hand.

“You know it’s interesting that your luck seems to change whenever it’s just the two of us standing.” She vaguely observed, clearly trying to get into your head. The girl on her arm, clearly wanting the game to be over, giggled as she crossed her thigh over Sevika’s.

Your eyes honed in on that movement, your heart beating fast despite your brain's logic being steadfastly against it.

You leaned in, your eyelids low as you spoke in low tones, “maybe it’s just the universe’s way of bringing us together, Sevika. Or maybe I’m just that good.”

You exchange a look with Sevika, both of you frustratingly unaware of its meaning.

“I never got your name, love?” You asked the girl, your voice smooth as you held out your hand for her.

She looked at Sevika, searching for her permission, and she granted it, bouncing her thigh indiscreetly.

“Milan.” She smiled as she put her hand in yours.

You placed a chaste kiss on her soft knuckles, your thumb rubbing against the length of her middle finger,

“Sevika’s lucky charm, Milan.” You whispered to her, yet loud enough that Sevika could hear.

You could see from your peripheral that Sevika was burning a hole into your head, because god forbid another woman touches what’s hers for the night.

You knew full well, as did everyone else, that what was Sevika for the night was exclusively hers unless she said otherwise, but you liked to have a little fun on the dangerous side.

“I really hope you win for your sake, y/n.” She grumbled, taking a cigar out of her pocketbook, putting to her lips as she angled it to the already lit flame beside her.

She took a deep puff, blowing it out the side of her mouth as she looked at you with her stone cold eyes. In that moment you thought perhaps you had pushed it a little far, perhaps she’d kill you tonight, but you’d already done the damage now so, fuck it.

The final community cards are placed on the table: 8 of hearts, Ace of clubs, and King of diamonds.

The two of you glance at your cards, then back at each other waiting for a tell at the last chance.

“Are we still going or do you fold?” She asked, clearly confident in her hand.

You slid another couple coins into the middle, showing your confidence in silence. She looked at you for a moment, a sliver of doubt in her eyes only you noticed, she then added her coins in too.

By this point the mound of money on the table was nothing but a taunt to one another, neither of you really cared for it but the two of you loved to see each other writhing in your seats every time a coin was added to the pool.

Sevika placed her cards on the table for viewing.

“A royal fucking couple.” You murmured to yourself, taken aback, though you made an effort not to show it on your face.

You then reveal your cards, watching Sevika’s lips upturn at the sight.

“A straight draw, you better hope that holds up sweetheart.” She jeered.

You didn’t say a word, knowing anything you did say would hardly change the outcome of the game.

The entire room is silent waiting for the final card to be drawn, for the first time in this bar, the drinks had stopped being poured and cigars had laid dormant as the final card was revealed.

Queen of Spades.

“Shit.” You grumbled, your straight posture falling as you laid witness to your first loss in months.

Sevika grinned as she sat up, boastfully pulling her winnings closer to her side. The room erupted in ooo’s and ahh’s as the verdict was reached. Sevika had won, and you had lost.

You seethed in rage as you watched the pompous smile grow and grow on Sevika’s face as she collected her congratulations from around the room.

You stood up, not wanting to sit around for her appraisal any longer than you had. You headed straight for the door, your hand already reaching in your pocket for a well earned blunt.

You leaned against the front of the bar and sparked up, taking an inhale deeper than you’d ever taken before, feeling the smoke glide through your system and out again.

You knocked your head back against the wall, closing your eyes, filled with anger and embarrassment that you let your personal… feelings, fuck up your game, and your well earned winning streak. Most of all you were mad it had to be her.

“Fuuuuuuuuckkk!” You yelled out loud, every fibre of your being needing some form of release.

“Don’t beat yourself up sweetheart, I never lose.” A voice from the door spoke.

You rolled your eyes incredulously, as your head turned lazily towards her. You took another inhale of your blunt, blowing the smoke purposefully in her direction.

A cloud of smoke covered her face, which made you feel the slightest bit better, but as it dissipated the smile on her face returned you to that same pissed off mood.

“Good for you, Sevika.” You said very sarcastically.

“Thank you so much.” She replied with even more sarcasm, making you smile despite all the muscles in your face trying to deny it.

She stepped closer to you, hovering over you as she did the one night before. You craned your head to look at her as she looked down at you with her steely grey eyes. For a moment you didn’t share a word, only an exchange of looks between each other, the stubbornness in the two of you became increasingly frustrating.

“Sevika, what is this? What do you want?” You asked candidly.

She sighed slightly, averting her eyes from you, but it wasn’t the question that made her uncomfortable, it was the answer.

“What do you want me to say?” She said,

You furrowed your eyebrows, the blunt in your hand burning close to your fingers.

“I don’t know,” you put the blunt to your lips again, “we’ve spoken twice including right now, but I can’t shake this feeling I have.”

“And what f- feeling is that?” Her voice shook, the first time you’d ever known her to be anxious, even when you didn’t know her personally.

You turned your entire body to face her, causing her to turn her head to you again. She looked almost vulnerable, like whatever you might say would change the trajectory of her life.

So you didn’t say anything.

You pulled her into a kiss, a soft one, feeling her lips run warm over yours. She let you take the lead, her head following yours as you dove deeper into it, wanting to show her exactly what you’d been feeling.

She pulled away, keeping her face desperately close to yours,

“Oh,” she said, and that was all she said, taking your hand as she guided you back into the bar, the blunt dropping out of your hand.

You followed behind her silently, hoping that you hadn’t just ruined everything. Your eyes scanned the bar, half of the room looking curiously to the two of you, most thinking that this was the day you’d die, and you could understand that, given the determination plastered on her face as she manovered you through the crowd.

She took you upstairs, down the hall and into Silco’s office. You’d never been up there before, and as she opened the door, a green hue that emitted from the window flooded the room.

She led you in front of her as she closed the door behind the two of you. On the floor you could see shards of glass scattered everywhere, which you immediately linked to the fight earlier in the day.

You didn’t mention it though, a more pressing matter standing just a mere feet away from you. Your breaths became deeper as you watched her stand in front of your only exit, your hands clenched behind your back, suddenly missing the feeling of hers intertwined in yours.

She began making steps towards you, quickly closing the space between you.

“That feeling you’ve had ,” she started as her metal prosthetic rose to your chin, her shar talon gliding over its surface, “it’s not just you.”

You almost couldn’t believe her, you only knew what sencerity looked like when you were playing poker, this, whatever this was, was uncharted territory.

“What about when you said ‘girls like me always do’?”

She smiled, “I thought I knew what kind of person you were,” her talons vibrated as they traced the length of your neck, “but I clearly didn’t”

One of her talons toyed with the collar on your shirt, you keep your chin raised as she did so.

“I could see how jealous you were tonight of Milan, how much you were willing to destroy me, just to soothe your own ego.” She husked, laying out the harsh truth as she moved impossibly closer to you.

As her lips ghosted yours, your eyes fell shut, waiting for her to either kill you, or kiss you.

“You asked me what I want?” She whispered, her voice soft yet so strong.

You hummed as a response, unable to utter a word.

“I want you.” She admitted, taking your lips into hers as her talons ripped your shirt easily, revealing your lacy bra.

You took in a stout breath between the kissing, a cold breeze brushing against your clothed nipples.

She began, lowering herself down, still tracing your body with kisses, giving extra care to your breasts and stomach as she fiddled with your shorts, pulling them off quickly.

You stepped out of them, watching her as she looked up at you, hand wrapped around your thigh, with pure desire.

That arrogant smirk returned to her face as she lifted you with ease, causing you to yelp, carrying you to the velvet chaise lounge chair, laying you down against it.

She slotted her thigh between yours, opening you up to her, causing your back to arch against her knee wanting nothing more than relief from this tension.

Her arms locked in either side of your head as she pushed her knee against your clothed core, her eyes watching intently for your every reaction.

You looked up at her as your hips involuntarily cocked and drove down on her thigh, your eyes fluttering as your clit received bounds of stimulation from the layers of fabric.

“fuck yourself on my thigh, baby” she huffed, encouraging you to speed up as she inched her knee ever closer.

You followed her orders with pleasure, your breathy moans quickly became more guttural as you controlled your own pace and pleasure.

“Sevika,” you moaned, your mind and heart in unison for the first time since you met her.

“That’s right baby, say my name again.” She growled, aroused by your voice.

“Sevika!” You said again, with more conviction, pleased to make her know what it is that you want.

Pleased, she dipped her human hand between your thighs, moving your panties to the side, leaving your nakedness to rub against her, the fabric overstimulating you instantaneously.

Your breath shook as your hands moved to hold her wrists as you ground into her with vigour, not letting up as you chased that long sought after orgasm.

She leaned down to your ear, your mind reeling over the feeling of her soft lips pressing lazy kisses to your temple.

“I see you play,” she huffed through broken breaths, “I know you always get what you want,” her knee began sliding up and down your member, driving you crazy as you felt a warmth build in your stomach.

“You always win don’t you?” She asked, her question layered with so many meanings that you were dying to know.

“Yes, fuck,” you mumbled, your moans overtaking your words.

She chuckled in a low tone, “but tonight I won, didn’t I?”

Your eyes struggled to stay open but the cryptic messages kept them straining to stay agape, anticipating her next move.

“Mmhmm,” was all you managed, eagerly waiting for her point.

All of a sudden, she moved her knee away from you, your hips jerking up in reaction to the loss of sensation, eliciting a pathetic mewl from your mouth, which caught you by surprise, your eyes flying open, face still pressed against hers as she began a low chuckle at your desperation.

“I won tonight, let’s keep it that way huh?” She whispered, and you could hear the smug smile on her face.

She pulled back, kneeling against the couch as her hands freely roamed your body, tracing every inch of you.

Your eyes flickered between her face and hands, both of you watched each other as her finger traced against your naval, stopping just above your pubic mound.

Then she moved her hand so it was flat against you, her thumb toying with the hood of your clit. Your hips jerked again, your bud still sensitive and bordering on finishing.

You whined again, looking at her with complete desperation and frustration.

She leaned again into you, her hand still firmly against your bottom half, her lips skated yours as you chased them across your face. She immediately stopped you in your tracks, her metallic beast of a hand gripping your cheeks as she stared into your eyes with her steely grey pools.

“Did you think you were gonna win this easily?” She smirked, revelling in your want for her. She removed her hand from your clit, licking the excess juices that glistened against her digits, “You’re gonna have to work a lot harder for that, angel.”

She stood up soon after, gazing over your naked and spread form with lust, a part of her wanting to just take you now, but she held back.

you noticed her hand curl into a ball as she looked at you, but quickly relaxed as she caught your eye again.

She turned away from you and headed towards a wardrobe that sat in a dark corner of the room, pulling out an oversized shirt that belonged to her in a past life.

She threw it at you, moving to sit against the edge of the desk, watching you intently as you dressed yourself again, walking to the middle of the room to grab your shorts again.

She stood up as you had them over your calves, looping her fingers into the belt loops as she pulled them up the rest of the way for you, bringing her fingers dangerously close to your sensitivity as she zipped and buttoned you up again.

You looked at her, unable to find the words to describe the conflicting feelings you felt.

You couldn’t tell if she’d played you or if she was playing with you. You knew she had the upper hand when it came to whatever this was, purely because you didn’t know the rules. She was playing dirty and she wasn’t hiding it.

You stepped back from her, leaving a space between the two of you, which she seemed to find comical as she grinned at your stern expression.

You wanted to be mad, but you weren’t. The only thing you could think, was when the next time you’d see her would be, and when that time rolled around, you knew you were gonna win.

No matter what it took.

#arcane #sevika x reader #sevika #wlw

[mysteriouslybluepirate]

Watching Con O'Neill's old stuff cause it's fun. Day #? Soldier Soldier S06 EP.09 Asking for it (Con's Conography. 1996)

In future if you want to read all of these posts, I've added the tag 'Con's Conography'. Now they're all in one nice spot!

Warnings for: Sexual assault/rape (committed by Con's character), abuse of power within the military structure, assault, abuse of power, sexist comments(what you would expect from the military).

Should I watch this before reading this? Is it worth it?:

Con plays a military official who abuses his station, sexually assaults a female private under his care, and semi-gets away with it with barely a scuff on the wrist in the end.

It's a really fucking good story about how women are treated in the military. Especially victims of sexual assault. He uses his power to try to get her kicked out. When that fails, he knows they're onto him. Without much evidence, he can't be prosecuted so he asks for a transfer, which he receives. He's not a repeat offender, his first assault happens mid-way through the episode, but he's a fucking jackass who couldn't take no for an answer. They give him internal reasons why he thinks he didn't go too far, and it is very real. If you're still interested, watch it.

Again, cause I went into this fully blind I will be saying whoreish things about Con. If you just look at his costumes, he has some 'hot' ones in this if you don't know what he does. If you look up Soldier Soldier a good chunk of it is people rebloging hot photos/gifs of Con without context.

He did this 1 year after Scarborough Ahoy and basically has a shorter haircut. Still in the 'hot young Con era'. They literally throw him into a pool fully clothed for fucks sake. After the scene happens, my tune changes. I promise. Again, they don't define him as a man with a history of assault, but Con's character is definitely the type to think 'I only fucked up once, I'm still a good person.' just fucking gross.

If it's too much skip around my live reaction and jump to the end for my final thoughts.

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

So, military. Should have guessed based on that title. This intro is very 80s for the 90s. If they kill anyone I'll kind of be surprised.

CON! IMMEDIATELY!

Angry swim coach Con, yes.

God, he pulls off military type so well.

"If you've got the energy to smile, go give me a few more laps." HELL YEAH.

God, I know that's his voice, but god it sounds like it hurts.

I hate military types...so much.

This bike tampering is dumb, and dangerous, and is going to get both of them beat up. Also, these men(E-1 privates) 'respect' women more than any vet I've met.

I'd be entertained by that shit. And fucker seems like an ass so might as well give it to him.

Con looks huggable in that jacket. It's a nice soft blue. Love it.

CON IN A HAT! With a little feather.

"I never thought of you as a romantic!" GOD FUCKING DAMN IT. Can he just be evil? Or a douche? Every single fucking project this guy needs to be sad and lonely, wanting a friend/lover. Hurt by a past relationship and just wanting justice in his life. Don't get me wrong, I eat this shit up with a goddamn spoon. But Fucking HELL. EVERY CHARACTER?

HE'S DIVORCED. THAT MEANS HE'S AVAILABLE BABY. "There's only room for one woman in my life, I joined the army, she made a man out of me." I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE.

ALSO THAT CARDIGAN, AHHHH. It's obviously cheap military clothes, but god.

CON SMILING BABY!

(The young couple we've been following all episode) They're a cute couple (I say, a military brat that got out before I was 10. They'll fuck, have a kid, and be just as unhappy as anyone else on base. Divorce before their kids fifth birthday. Love that)

OHH I think I've seen clips of this scene!

ROBERT! THEY GAVE HIM THE NAME ROBERT. :) Funny in an Ironic way. He couldn't find a date? If he's a teacher then he probably doesn't leave base often, and a divorce? This man is going to be relationship adverse as fuck.

Also, parental issues be damned, he looks nice in uniform

I love that he got all up in his space, and Robert just looked fucking dead inside. Then he ruined his meal.

Also, please tell me he isn't going to fucking go after a woman in his charge. :). Please. Fucking please. I'm holding on by the edge of my rope, if he takes advantage of his subordinate, I will be pissed.

God, Con's speech around 12:30 sounds like a good ol' time.

BOB. I know it's a shortening of Robert, but Jesus fuck.

Also, this amount of restraint is admirable. He should have gotten screamed at.

We as the audience are probably supposed to think he's an ass. Nah, he didn't humiliate him in front of the other officers, held his ground when he thought he was being made fun of. This is just good leadership. Izzy Hands could fucking learn a thing.

Bitch, he would have already heard about them fucking. The gossip would have been spread by lower-level officers. This 'damn, she got away' thing shouldn't work.

OOooooo sexist Con line. Don't like that.

Small break to talk about a fun real life military thing.

His point about some people getting ahead by passing tests is a real thing many in the military resent. (In the US you go up an E-4 on day 1 if you have a bachelor's degree in anything, to Corprol. Hell, depending on if you were reserves you could go up higher, when most start as E-1). This motivates some to join up even after they could get a job away from the civilian world. If you are poor, you're fucked. Take the long way around and don't get good pay.

Personally I see what Robert is saying here to be the main thing Izzy holds a grudge with Stede over. Stede was able to purchase being a captain where as he had to fight for it. Possibly die for it.

Now, back to this episode. There are bullshit and bigoted reasons behind this belief, not just class-based. It's used to say why women shouldn't serve, etc. Con's a sexist pig here and says these same reasons. It is exactly the reason I never followed in my family's footsteps. In male-dominated fields they will 9 times out of 10 treat you like shit. BACK TO THE SHOW.

Robert, if you fucking assault this woman I will reach into the screen and murder your ass.

Okay, a drunken apology is fun. Jackass trying to get in her pants.

EWWWW.

Forced attempted kiss/assult.

Don't like this. Mam, just scream close to the doors if you feel uncomfortable. Jesus Christ. OH THAT'S FUCKED UP.

Okay, he's forcing himself onto her. Gross.

Also, real-life examples of abuse of military power.

I DON'T CARE IF IT'S EMBARRASSING TO PAY FOR SEX, RAPE ISN'T BETTER YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE

He assaults her here.

Hey, you remember when I didn't want con to be in roles where he wasn't sympathetic. NOT LIKE THIS. This is actually one of the worst things you could have made him do.

BEAT HIS ASS UP. (This is around the 40-minute mark.)

I DON'T FUCKING CARE IF HE'S HIGH RANK, IM SWINGING.

This is where I started skipping around, thus why the rest is so short. It's all too painful and real. He's called into the office to answer for his crimes and bluff.

He threatens her in private, and thinks that he's going to get away with it.

Again, the military is in to protect their ass, but it's good to see the woman investigator standing up for the victim.

OH GOOD, FUCKING KILL HIM (he's almost drowned from the victims boyfriend, but gets stopped).

So, at the end of the day. There's not enough evidence to put him in jail or kick him out. She's left traumatized, and Robert gets away with some glares and very little else.

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

Story: 8-9/10. Very real. I was wearing Con tinted glasses, but as a military kid who grew up around this shit, I almost immediately coped with him as the type to assault an officer. Lonely, doesn't get out much and feels like women owe him something. The type.

Con: ?/10 He plays A Fucking Vile piece of shit. The worst of it is you know his character has half a dozen reasons of justification. I was tempted to write out all the ones he says in the show, but no. I've heard it all before when men come onto me, and I tell them I'm gay. 'But you looked at me and smiled?' type shit. He plays the part really fucking well. Skin crawling performance of a 'nice guy'. He just does it so realistically I don't want to say like 3/10 you know?

Characters besides Con: Realistically, and sadly, more men would have sided with Robert. He has the rank, and though not well-liked, he would have been given the benefit of the doubt more than he was in the show. Everyone's performances were realistic and semi-heartwarming with how they believed the E-1. I liked the main couple and I hope they get together in the end. This a good example of why we need high-ranking women in the military.

Editing: Of it's era but non intrusive.

Overall: ?/10. I don't know how to put this one.

Again, if I wasn't ex-military kid/grew up around vets it wouldn't hurt as much. They sell you a dream when you grow up thinking the military does no wrong. How successful your male family members are and how they are heroes. But as a little girl, I quickly saw just how fucking dangerous to live up to these expectations was as an woman. On and off the field. If the purpose in this was to reassure the public that female victims would be believed, then it kind of works as propaganda.

This show fully explores it in a military with less rigor than the one I'm used to seeing. Still the same sexism bullshit regardless of where you are.

Don't worry, I'm watching a Val (BBC Uncle) mega cut after this to soothe my head.

I'd love to hear if anyone else has watched this, and your thoughts on it!

Have a lovely day.

thanks to @ivegotnonameidea for the list :)

#soldier soldier #con o'niell #con oneill #Con's Conography #Soldier Soldier #Col Sgt Robert Hicks

[ucouldhearahairpindrop]

"your roommate's cheap-ass screw-top rosé, that's how"

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES

and drinking cheap rosé really feels like something you'd do with another girl. I'm not trying to gender drinks here, it's really just what happens most often. Much like how drinking beer is seen as a masculine thing.

Also she talks about 'rosé flowing with your chosen family' in the 1. Chosen family is very much a thing rooted in LGBTQ+ culture.

There are other references to wine too (tangent incoming)

Dress 'spilling wine in the bathtub' and that song might as well be a queer anthem

False god 'got the wine for you' (that song is 😳🥵) AND in that song Taylor calls herself NYC, and her muse the West Village. - In Maroon she goes on to talk about dancing with her muse in New York. Same person maybe?

Paper rings 'the wine is cold' and in that song she talks about marrying her muse with paper rings, although she seems to do a full 180 on that subject in lavender haze. I'm sure someone smarter than me can figure out what's going on there. (maybe she is engaged and really trying to throw people off? That's what the unapproved genius annotation is saying. I don't think so though) anyway she's using wine in a romantic way again

August 'august sipped away like a bottle of wine' not inherently romantic but it is the line directly following the narrator imagining being twisted in bedsheets with the muse. So though not romantic, there are still sexual connotations there. Also August is potentially a woman's name.

Willow 'lost in your current like a priceless wine' okay taylor we get it, wine is romantic. Willow could also be a woman's name.

No body,no crime 'este's a friend of mine/ we meet up every Tuesday night for dinner and a of wine' and 'that ain't my merlot on his mouth' -i know this song is fictional but it's interesting that taylor uses wine as a romantic/sexual symbol and she's using it here to talk about dinner with her friend - hmm smells like infidelity indeed lol.

Ivy 'drink my husband's wine' asking someone she's having an affair with if they'd drink her husband's wine with her, so they can move on from him together? The gender of the person she's having an affair with is never specified. The forbidden love theme found in a lot of her discography is used again here, which of course is easy to relate to for queer people. Ivy once again, could also be a woman's name. Poison Ivy is also the name of a famous queer DC character (PS I'm gonna make a post on how DWOHT, ivy, and the great war are a trilogy)

With respect for Taylor's live performance of clean from her reputation tour, I'm not going to talk about the wine imagery in that one

Overall, she most often uses wine in a romantic/sexual sense. Interestingly though, she does seem to mostly use it in songs which have very wlw undertones. As it's mentioned in the opening verse of maroon, it sets the tone for the rest of the song.

#gaylor #gaylor swift #maroon #analysis

[hypnolurker]

Nina felt used. Disgusting. Less than a piece of trash. Lying there, cum leaking out of her overused pussy as the man she hadn’t met until just an hour ago dropped cash on her as payment for his use of her body.

Only the other day she had been a respectable lawyer. One of the best in her firm. Then in court that day, a man had said something to her about lawyers. He was unable to keep up the payments to the firm for their fees and as they told him they would no longer be able to continue their services, despite his ongoing trial for rape, he snapped. He looked at Nina who was supposed to be representing him and told her that “lawyers are all the same; whores! They’ll do anything for money! They are desperate. Lower than trash.” Then he was forcefully removed from the firm’s office building by security.

Nina tried her best to continue her work but she was so distracted. His words kept going around her head. Lawyers are whores? He called her a whore…said she would do anything for money. Admittedly she would do anything for money but she was no whore. She was respectable and focused on her work. She didn’t even think about sex often.

However, the more she tried to think about work the more she thought about sex and whores. Whores would represent any client if they had the money. They didn’t have to be someone they know or like. Whores got their clients off and then never saw them again. Whore got payed very well for their work. Whores were experienced and skilled in their area of work. Whores’ clients were usually seedy types who were often guilty of crimes like rape and theft.

Lawyers seemed so much like whores. She couldn’t think of any differences really. If they’re in an office they’re a lawyer, if they’re in the street they’re a whore. That thought went round and round her head as she walked home. She was on the street. She was a whore.

No that wasn’t right! She was a lawyer. She knew that…but…she couldn’t get the image of beckoning a guy over and him proposing she perform sexual favours for cash. It seemed like such an easy way to make money. She liked money. She would do almost anything for it….

No! She wouldn’t compromise her morals for money. Or sex. She got home and thought it didn’t matter because in her formal work clothes no one would recognise her as a whore. She looked too prudish and ugly. Whores wore more makeup and looked sexier.

This morning she got ready for work. She would go out and be a good worker and make lots of money. She applied her makeup. Thick red lipstick, dark eyeshadow, lots of blush. Perfect. She put on her clothes. Revealing, lots of skin on show. Perfect. This would be great for making lots of money.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Slowly she realised she looked like a complete whore! What had been going through her head when she was getting ready? She was…well she thought back and realised she was thinking about making lots of money. The mans words from yesterday ran through her head again.

She tried to ignore them but as she gazed into the mirror at her whorish reflection she found it harder to deny. She did want money. Was it so unreasonable that a hot young woman would fuck guys for money? Money was so great!

She walked out into the street still clad in her whorish ensemble. She was unsure of whether she was heading to the office or just walking around in search of a nice street corner with no cops where she could find a guy to fuck. It would need to be near a cheap hotel so that she could take guys back there if they wanted to fuck her on a mattress.

She was taking a bit of a detour on the way to the office. It was becoming clearer that she wasn’t going though. She was now in a seedy area of the city miles away from the office building. Soon she spotted a small hotel with a dilapidated sign and dirt on most of the walls. She purchased a room, it was unbelievably cheap. Of course she realised why when she saw that it contained a mattress only. It was enough. The walls were also quite clean. For now.

She was struggling to think of her morals. Trying to think about doing lawyer work was impossible. What did she even do at the firm? She remember lots of typing and talking to people. It was all stressful. She wondered if she had ever been a lawyer and might be imagining her whole life as she stood out on a seedy street corner, waiting. Her stance as promiscuous and whorish as she could manage.

Then her first client came. He seemed familiar and was grinning quite a lot as he asked her how much. She got more excited than she had ever been. It felt like she was making free money! All she had to do was name her price and fuck this guy! She asked for $300 for her whole body and he agreed. Simple as that. She was amazed. Why was she a lawyer again? Was she….?

Now she is lying on the mattress, cum leaking from all of her holes as her first client throws money on her. She feels disgusting….depraved…a complete whore! That man was right. It suddenly comes to her. The man who told her what she is, he’s the one she just fucked. She weakly turns her head to see him grinning, throwing money on her from her own purse and laughing as he yells what a whore she is and how he was right about everything.

She learnt a valuable lesson about whoring today, always get paid up front.

#story #mindbrokensluts #not mine #Reconstruction

[pervysenpaix]

-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅ 𝕭𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖊𝖘 - BakuMina x Izu(Y/N) ⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ

warnings: mature content, mature language, swingers, penetration, oral sex, semi group sex, rough sex

"Are you sure about this" YN sighed, looking over her slim figure in the mirror. She was a tiny thing. Dainty like a ballerina, and short in stature. Though she did have small curves, it was nothing compared to the voluptuous Mina Ashido.

The pink girl looked amazing in her black lingerie set. Filling it out like y/n never could. Her large breasts bulged provocatively, threatening to burst through the seams. While (y/n)'s flat chest barely lifted in the lacy white material.

"Oh (y/n), don't be nervous. They're bestfriends, they share everything. This was bound to come up sooner or later" Mina shrugged, "besides, I wouldn't mind being on the receiving end of that Detroit smash everyone's always fawning over.

The statement made (y/n) flinch. The thought of her Izu being intimate with Mina, her close friend and his best friend's girlfriend made her nervous. Mina was everything she was insecure about; a perfect curvy body, a fun and outgoing personality. She had it all, why did she need Izuku too? Seemed kind of greedy.

Mina, noticing her friend's hesitance softened and stood behind her. SHe wrapped her arms around (y/n)'s torso and rested her chin on her shoulder. "Look at you. You're gorgeous (y/n).' She coos, placing a soft kiss on her neck, "don't you want them to see how good you look?" Y?N sighed, leaning into her friend's touch. "I'm just nervous. I look like a little girl standing next to you." She pouted, but the expression dropped when MIna lowered her hand to rest against her clothed clit.

"You're definitely a woman, (Y/n)" Mina murmured against her neck and pressed against her sensitive mound. (Y/N) bit her lip to hide the moans that were threatening to spill out. "Besides, good little girls get rewards."

**

The two say on the large California King in Bakugo and Mina's master bedroom. Bakugo was sprawled out with his hands behind his head while Midoriya sat against the headboard. Both close enough to feel each other's body heat but, still not touching.

They were ,both, nervous and excited. Years of buildup, and unexplored sexual tension. An invisible threat that was threatening to snap. Made weak through years of pining and obvious want. The only thing that held it together, like cheap tape, was the need to "one up" each other. To beat the other. To succeed and gain what the other could not. That greed had kept them separate all these years but. tonight it would bring them together.

The bathroom door opened, revealing the two women. Bakugo muttered a curse and Midoriya nodded in agreement with his mouth covered and wide eyes. Mina stood behind (y/n) dwarfing her tiny body, her lips swollen and her neck and chest was covered in fresh hickeys.

"Sorry we took so long, boys. Something came up" Mina smirked, licking (y/n)'s ear for emphasis. The smaller girl covered her face in embarrassment which lead to a low whistle from Bakugo. "Fuck, Deku." He groaned, "if I were you I'd never leave the bedroom. Look at how innocent she looks, all embarrassed and shit. Then she's wearing all while like a fucking virgin sacrifice or some shit."

(Y/N) giggled, but it was Mina's turn to flinch. She knew that Katsuki was just caught up in the moment but the way he eyes (y/n) so greedily made her slightly uncomfortable. Of course Mina oozed sex appeal. she was a perfect ten and she knew that. But, it was something about (y/n)'s ethereal features, delicate body and angelic attitude that had her second guessing herself. Talk about black girl magic.

(SN: Mina is black here, Mina will always be black in my fics, cause I know damn well soy sauce don't shake like that. It must be jelly. 🥵)

"Y-you look really pretty, Ashido" Midoriya mumbled, a fearsome blush covered his face and neck. He made no secret that he was checking her out, green eyes traced her curves, stopping ever so often to linger on a certain area. It looked like he wanted to devour her.

"She's fucking stunning, is what she is. Think you can handle a woman like that, nerd?" Bakugo smirked, looking up at his green haired bestie. "I can handle more than you think, Kacchan." Midoriya challenged, meeting the blonde's blown out gaze. They were both incredibly turned on, it's amazing that they weren't absolutely feral at this point.

"Babe" Bakugo called to MIna without looking away from Midoriya. " I know we already talked about this but are you sure? You too, (y/n)?" Midoriya looked up at the mention of his partner, "yes, puppy if you don't want this then we don't have to."

(Y/N) looked to Mina, "I'm fine if you are." Mina nodded with a wicked smile and turned her attention to Midoriya, "this is so exciting, Kats never lets me top. Do you prefer to be on your back or all fours?" Midoriya was stunned, "No. I uh- I'm not?-

Bakugo interrupted with a throaty chuckle and slapped a hand on his friend's shoulder, "Good luck with that brat." He rose from the bed and walked towards the girls, making sure to smack Mina's ass as she made her way to Midoriya.

"Comer here, sweetheart." He murmured, picking (y/n) up in one graceful swoop. The girl gasped but wrapped her limbs around him immediately. A large hand held her ass while the other rested right below her small breasts. "You look beautiful, you know that?" He whispered, voice softer than she's ever imagined, "Thank you, Bakugo." He hummed, running his thumb across her nipple causing a startled moan.

Bakugo used this opportunity to smash their lips together. Immediately overpowering her with his tongue. It was rough and messy; leaving them both breathless when he pulled away.

"I've always thought you were gorgeous...Since we were in high school," He murmured with her lip between his teeth, "Just imagining you and Mina under me while the nerd watched was enough to make me blow my load back at UA." He pressed closer against her, nuzzling into her neck and placing soft kisses while toying with her nipples. "Bakugo" she moaned, arching her back to get some friction against her aching bud. "Needy little thing, huh?" I knew it'd sound amazing hearing you say my name. Say it again, sweetheart."

*SMACK

"DEKU!"

They puled away slightly to glance at the bed where Midoriya had Mina, ass up with her face in the pillows. "That's fucking right. I'm in charge" he growled in her ear then proceeded to smack her ass repeatedly, "wow, you really are a little slut." He laughed, enjoying the sound of her moans. "Does Kacchan not punish you enough? Probably why your manners are so bad, huh?"

"Don't bring me into your shit, Deku!" He growled but there was no real bite in his words. "That brat is insatiable, she's gonna kill me one day" he smirked, enjoying the view of his bestie dominating his property.

"Let's see if I can help you out with that, yeah?" His deft fingers swiftly maneuvered the lacy panties down her thighs revealing a pint butt plug stuffed into her back hole.

"Oh fuck- He groaned, gaining a reaction from everyone in the room. Even Bakugo groaned hearing the "family friendly" pro hero curse. "See something you like?" Mina teased, wiggling her ass against him.

*SMACK

"Behave" he hissed, snatching the plug out and thrusting it back in, in one swift motion. Mina howled in pleasure as he fucked her puckering hole with the toy. "See hot good I can make you feel? Stop being a fucking bitch and take what I give you." Mina nodded, throwing her ass back against the green haired hero. "Yes, Deku-please fuck me!"

"Kacchan?" Midoriya called, waiting for his friend's approval. Bakugo scoffed, "You gonna keep my baby waiting, nerd? Especially with her asking that nicely? I just might have to fuck them both" he squeezed (y/n)'s ass for emphasis making her yelp.

"Watch it!" Midoriya snapped, "be gentle with her. She's delicate." He smiled softly and caught his lover's gaze, "are you okay, puppy? Is this too much ?"

(Y/N) swallowed, suddenly feeling self conscious with all the attention on her but she was still determined to finish what they had started. "I'm fine, Izu", she says and threads her hands through Bakugo's blonde strands making him smirk. "Yeah Izu, she's fine" he teased, "you just worry about satisfying my nympho while I take care of your sweet little girl.

His words sent a shiver down her spine and her arousal pooled between her legs. "You're dripping on me, (y/n)" he murmured, punctuating his words with a kiss. "Does that sound good? Want me to take care of you, sweetheart?"

She bit her lips and glanced over at Izuku who's anticipated her hesitation. His member was lined up at Mina's glistening entrance and he was thrusting the toy in her asshole. "It's okay, puppy. You can say it." He sank into Mina's wet heat and both men groaned simultaneously, 'Don't you want Kacchan to make you feel good? Be a good girl for him, k?"

(Y/N) nodded, turning her attention to Bakugo who eyed her greedily. "Please make me feel good, daddy". Bakugo groaned and kissed her again, this time slower and deeper.

"All you had to do was ask, Sweetheart".

***

Sweat clung to their bodies as they thrust into their bottoms. The women mewled and whined, barely cognizant in their fucked out state. That's what happens when you come 4 times, shit gets confusing.

"Look at these little tits. Fuck, Deku! She's so fucking small but she's taking. All. This. Dick." He growled, punctuating each word with a powerful thrust. "Daddy, daddy, p-please!" (Y/N) whined, but was cut off by Mina's mouth.

"Fuck, good job Mina. You're so smart. See you can be a good girl. All it takes is a dick in your asshole." Midoriya smacked her thighs each time he bottomed out, enjoying the way her ass jiggled against him. "K-Kacchan, she's so fucking good. So g-good for me."

"Fuck, Deku" Bakugo groaned, tearing his gaze away from the kissing bottoms to lock eyes with his friend. Could he even call him that anymore ? Not after this level of intimacy. The look Izuku gave him set his soul on fire. The way his mouth hung open and breath hitched when Bakugo called his name said that they were past friends. Greed consumed him. He wanted it all and he could tell that Midoriya was on the same page.

"Kiss me, nerd" He huffed, grabbing a handful of green hair and smashing their lips together. This was the breaking point for Izuku. His hips stuttered and he filled Mina to the brim with his seed.

"Oh. My. God. That's so hot." (Y/N) breathed against Mina's lips as Bakugo impaled her on his dick. He didn't stop fucking her while they kissed. No, he went harder, sending blinding shocks of pleasure straight to her gspot. The visual of his massive cock bulging from her stomach was enough to make her clench down and squirt all over the bed.

"Shit! She's a sq-squirter" Bakugo hissed breathlessly as he pulled away from the kiss, mind fuzzy with pleasure. "I didn't know" Izu murmured, gently pulling out of Mina and lowering his face to her oozing asshole. "Want you to squirt too" , he lapped up all his cum, circling the rim with tip of his tongue before sucking any excess out. Then he brought his mouth to her clit and flicked at the sensitive bundle until Mina was squirting, too.

"C'mere Deku, let me taste my baby" The two met in the middle. all tongue and teeth. Soft grunts and hair pulling as the girls watched mesmerized.

They pulled away breathless, Izuku's ears were red but he looked content, Bakugo wore a devilish smirk and wiped the saliva and cum from his lips with the back of his arm.

"What?" Izuku laughed, finally noticing their girlfriends' shocked expressions.

"I- (Y/N) started but closed her mouth, unsure of what to say or feel.

"You- you kissed!" Mina exclaimed, dumbfounded by this newest development.

"So what" Bakugo shrugged, swiping some of his cum from (y/n)'s cunt and pushing the finger into Izuku's mouth. Keeping his eyes locked with the blonde he sucked greedily making everyone take a shaky breath. He pulled off with a *pop* and gave a bright smile.

"It's not gay to kiss the homies !"

----------

#izuku midoria x reader #bakugou x izuku #mina x reader #mina x bakugo #reader x bakugou #bnha bakugo katsuki #izuku midoriya #bnha #smut #bnha smut #mina bnha #mina oshido #black reader

[writingwithcolor]

Tragedy Exploitation and Characters of Colour

hi! i've browsed your blog for a while now and it's been really helpful to me, so first off, thank you. i was wondering about something tho, i recently saw your response to a person explaining their story idea that revolved around two lovers, where one was cursed to kill the other and the other was always resurrected only for it to repeat, and i believe the characters were POC. in your response you seemed quite upset that such a plot was happening to POC characters specifically and it confused me because it sort of read as if you were mad that a bad thing was happening to a POC character in a story, which i genuinely didn't understand (i really don't want to sound rude, i'm being sincere), because it came off as advocating for only good and happy and nice things to be reserved for POC characters and if an author dared write something bad or traumatic happening to a POC character it's immediately 'poor narrative', and i personally don't agree with that take, because i feel like that reduces a POC character to just being POC instead of a person, which I feel like hurts POC rep in fiction, because being upset someone wrote something bad happening to a POC character makes it all about just that character being POC instead of just a regular person something bad has happened to in the story that just happens to be a person of color at the same time. my god this has gotten long, i got very interested in hearing more about this because i personally didn't quite understand and it sounded wrong to me, your original response. if you do reply to this, thank you, i hope i didn't sound rude, i do genuinely want to learn, because even tho i typed all this out i still feel like i'm wrong about this & missed the point somewhere

Disclaimer: please do not pile onto the ask about a Black woman murdered by her lover, as the asker has realized the issues with the ask. We are presently addressing the attitude of “why can’t bad things happen to PoC?” in this comment, with the name retracted, because it’s an attitude that crops up every once and awhile.

-

You have missed our extensive backlog of posts about double standards re: PoC and white characters, wherein we describe, at length, how we are uncomfortable that PoC characters get extra bad stuff that’s treated as “organic” because our history is full of suffering, when white characters often don’t get that same thing.

like White Authors and Topics to Avoid/Tread Carefully

and Writing About PoC Trials and Tribulations

We ask that people question why they decide to automatically make someone suffering a violent constant-death-loop be a person of colour, especially multiply marginalized (Black, woman, LGBTQ+). Because there are already too many stories of characters of colour (especially multiply marginalized) suffering needlessly and oftentimes worse than the white characters for the sake of a plot.

You completely misread the heart of the reply, which was “why are you forcing Black women to suffer the worst fate imaginable (murder) in one of the most emotionally heartbreaking way imaginable (at the hands of your lover) multiple times in order to “earn her happy ending”? this is tragedy exploitation and is making a mockery of trauma”

PoC already have enough stories about us traumatized by circumstance. And while we can suffer, narratively, part of systemic racism is only telling stories of PoC when we are suffering as the sole marker of the plot. Especially when characters of colour are suffering disproportionately to lighter skinned characters.

You also missed the part where Marika said that even if it were white characters, they would be uncomfortable because constantly pulling out murder as a curse is lazy writing.

All we ask is: why did the asker decide that a woman of colour must suffer to the point of repeated murder before she can be happy? Why does she have to forgive the person who did it to her? Because that is a logic born of passive racism that tells people: women of colour, especially darker skinned/Black women, can “handle anything”. And that is a lie.

~Mod Lesya

Echoing Lesya, I’m puzzled as to how you came to the conclusion that “If an author dared to write something bad or traumatic happening to a POC character, it’s immediately a poor narrative” when I explicitly said I thought this was cheap theatrics and tragedy exploitation even if both characters were white, particularly as the ask had given me no conception of the author’s motivation in using the curse as a dramatic device. In Japanese, we jokingly use the word 中二病 (Chuunibyo) or “8th grade disease” to describe edgelord phases for teens. This is a 中二病 plot device. It’s perfectly fine for niche angst addicts on ao3, but not something I would be able to take seriously in a more substantive work aimed at a larger audience. I think it is also telling that even the original asker has commented that they independent of our answer concluded this was a poor plot choice.

Finally, with respect to your question of the usage of negative tropes like the ones mentioned in this ask (Misogynoir and Bury Your Gays), I am concerned that you do not understand the motive for this blog. Our purpose is to provide instruction to those who wish to use diversity in their writing in an inclusive manner in ways that resonate with marginalized populations. We are not proposing a ban on tropes. They are tools, but like all tools, they have appropriate forms of use. Do you honestly think that many BIPOC individuals would be happy to read a story with this kind of tragedy exploitation? And how would you, as an author, factor in their impressions when writing your own works?

No one can stop a writer from pursuing the narratives they wish to pursue, but the opinions a writer is primarily concerned with says a lot about who a writer believes their work is for. Let us say I were to write a story with a gratuitous depiction of sexual assault purely for the shock value, despite never having experienced sexual assault myself? How might survivors of sexual assault regard both me and my work? Now imagine BIPOC individuals whose main experience with representation in media is seeing characters look like them die from the kinds of violence that are common for them to experience, and it should become clear that an author who adopts these approaches, at a bare minimum, is being exceptionally tactless. A writer who finds no issue with tragedy exploitation involving BIPOC characters is likely not a writer who cares about what the BIPOC members of their audience think, or, even worse, does not even factor BIPOC perspectives into their writing.

- Marika

#can I write about x #tragedy exploitation #misogynoir #creator responsibility #double standards #plot #characters #characters of color #racism

[thenewromancer]

What is Noir?

There is a certain type of feeling I always find comforting when I am lonely or depressed. The best thing about it is that it's not a happy escape, like a comedy or an adventure story. It is a dark escape. It gives you a taste of romance but smashes any pretense of "happily ever after."

This feeling is in music, recently by The Weeknd, but really any band that makes songs that sound like a doomed romance. The Cure comes to mind. Joy Division.

Most famously this feeling is in the films that I love. Many people think that it originated in film, but I know the truth. Like all great story ideas it originated as literature. But it's roots extend all the way back to the beginning of drama..

This feeling is beloved by the french, from whom it derives it's name. It means 'black'... Noir.

Origins of Noir

Noir is a story all of us have heard in our lives. A person we know has committed a crime and landed themselves in jail forever. We can imagine why. Not for reasons that the media dreams up, like being driven to the point of insanity. But for commonplace reasons, like love or to alleviate a desperate situation. That's noir..

Noir was derived from hardboiled detective fiction in the late 1920's and 30's. Many of the first Noir authors made their living being published in cheap pulp magazines. Detective fiction magazines to be exact, because Mystery was a popular genre at the time. But I honestly think this was just a means to an end. And if it was a different genre that was popular they may have wrote about different subjects. But detective fiction allowed some great authors to explore the nature of crime, morality and the darkside of human relationships.

However, I do not think that Hardboiled detective fiction and Noir are the same thing. Noir is a reversal of the Hardboiled detective genre. A creative leap that seems inevitable. This series of posts aims to point out just how creative the leap really was.

What is Hardboiled?

Hardboiled: an attitude derived from soldiers in World War 1. A world weary cynicism caused by the hopelessness of lost causes and corrupt institutions.

Noir: differs from the hardboiled attitude in that it is not cynical. It could be a cynical attitude, but it is strangely hopeful. Because the character has found love, and he has a scheme to fuck over the corrupt institution. So, in essence, Noir is more of an erotically charged desperation.

So, here is the set-up, the basic Hardboiled story, from which the Noir plot is derived from:

The Players

The Knight: The detective. In hardboiled fiction, the main character.

The King: The Kingpin. The lead gangster. His downfall is imminent.

The Queen: The femme fatale. The wife of the King. Her downfall is imminent as well.

The Pawns: Accomplices to the king. Thugs, killers and gangsters.

The Hardboiled Detective Plot

Hardboiled is a story you never hear in life. A white Knight takes on a powerful person or a corrupt power structure. His determination makes him win.. Their corruption does them in.. You never hear the story because it has been suppressed by the powerful and because the Knight seeks no fame

Hardboiled is classified with the mystery genre. But it differs from regular Detective fiction, because we are not looking through evidence to discover the identity of the criminal. Often we know who the criminals are, it is just a question of how the Knight will take them down.

The crime is usually murder. But that is just the tip of the iceberg. The murder is a glimpse into a corrupt institution that needs to be taken down. The gateway into the underworld is usually a woman..

The Femme Fatale

A moll, a gangster's girlfriend, a semi-trusted accomplice. She is strong, beautiful and duplicitous. She plays both sides. Sometimes she is secretly the villian.

However, she is not evil. We are meant to fall in love with her, even if we don't love the things she does.

Femme fatales have been played by every great actress in the hollywood golden era. Marilyn Monroe, Rita Hayworth, Lana Turner, Lauren Bacall.. The femme fatale is the star. Most of the interest for the viewer is the sexual tension between the Detective and The Femme Fatale.

The function of the femme fatale is to give the detective key information, and to provide distractions that lead the detective astray. A very dynamic character. Central to the plot.

How is Hardboiled Different than a Thriller?

Thriller: a story that keeps you on the "edge of your seat." Typically a mystery or spy story. The story turns on suspense, meaning the characters know more than the audience. Important information is revealed that changes the direction of the plot. For example, there is a killer hiding in the darkness. Neither the main character nor the audience knows when the killer is going to strike. Anticipation of the strike, that is suspense.

Thrillers are very similar to the Hardboiled genre (when they are detective mysteries). The main difference is that Hardboiled crime fiction doesn't employ suspense as it's principle tool of interest. Hardboiled stories use dramatic irony to hook the audience, meaning the audience knows more than the characters.

In Romeo and Juliet, we know that Juliet is only asleep, not dead. But Romeo thinks she is really dead, so he kills himself.. That is an example of dramatic irony.

The Other Difference

Both Thrillers and Hardboiled stories tend to end well for the protagonist. But a Thriller tends to give you hope for the world. Hardboiled stories don't give you the satisfaction. The bad guys die, but the world is just as corrupt as ever.

The Noir Plot

When a story becomes too familiar, a good author will innovate. The first writers to innovate become famous and influence the authors who come after. This is why it is important to master one genre before trying to create an original story. Every audience has expectations. We set up those expectations with the Title and the branding. Being a good writer means working within limitations but still finding creative ways to give the audience what they expect. That is art.

And this is how Noir came to be. Noir authors told the same story as Hardboiled. But instead of focusing on the detective, they focused on the criminal. This changed the plot from one of admiration of a hero, to the tragic downfall of a charismatic anti-hero.

In the next post I will teach you the genre conventions and roots of Noir, starting from the very first Noir in American literature: James M. Cain's "The Postman Always Rings Twice".

#future noir #noir #film noir #writeblr #writer #writers on tumblr #screenwriting #cyberpunk #cyber punk #a e s t h e t i c #writerslife

[dwellordream]

“Because informal camaraderie between the sexes was an unfamiliar phenomenon, figuring out how to relate to each other was a complicated matter for both men and women. As one young man noted in 1924, "Nowadays when a woman goes everywhere and does everything, it is very difficult for a man to figure out how to treat her." "How is a man to know how to treat a woman anymore?" asked another bewildered soul. Obviously, these and other young men were at a loss when it came to relating to women as friends and companions. Did female companionship mean, they wondered, that men had to be courteous and gentlemanly at all times? 

Would they have to refine their language and manners in order not to offend female sensibilities? Or should young women simply be treated as men would each other? Most often they found no clear answers to these questions, and they had a hard time imagining new ways of behaving. "No matter what I do," grumbled one young man, "I never seem to do the right [thing]." Young women seemed equally unsure about how to interact with the opposite sex. On the one hand, they longed for frank conversations and easy rapport. On the other, they did not need advice columnists and etiquette experts, or their mothers, to remind them that "nothing is as delicate as a woman's reputation."

As they well knew, simply seeming too anxious for male companionship or too careless in selecting one's company was sufficient to cast doubt on a woman's moral rectitude. Yet, showing too much reserve might mean missing out on having fun. Their concerns were therefore of a different kind than young men's. Was it really true, they wanted to know, that men found women who went out at night by themselves to be "cheap"? Did men approve of women who wore lipstick? And under which circumstances could a woman allow a young man to walk her home? "I don't want to be prudish, but I don't know what is appropriate," one nineteen-year-old woman wrote, summarizing the dilemma she and many other young women faced.

In public discourse, the uncertainty over new codes of behavior came to a head in discussions over the seemingly trivial issue of male chivalry. Throughout the 1920s, young men and women debated this matter with an astonishing passion, and for that reason alone it is worth examining. What were these discussions about? What caused them? What was it about this issue that triggered such intense feelings? And what does this tell us about the difficulties associated with establishing cross-gender camaraderie? On the surface, the lines of conflict were clear enough. Over and over again, young women complained about what they perceived as rudeness among men. "Why are Danish men so ill-mannered?" "Femme" wanted to know in 1923.

"Girlie" was convinced that "chivalry and courtesy disappeared along with the crinoline." Writing from Italy, another woman was sure that Scandinavian men would "die of embarrassment" if they saw the gallantry with which "even lowly dock workers on the Arno River treat a woman." Adding insult to injury, one of the few Langelinie girls to speak out in public claimed that her interest in the visiting sailors stemmed solely from the fact that the foreigners were "considerate," "gentlemanly," and "chivalrous" companions who did not try to take advantage of "a decent and well-behaved young girl" like herself.

"A Copenhagen Girl" agreed. Since "you can use a very strong magnifying glass and still not discover even the tiniest trace of chivalry" among Danish men, she didn't find it surprising that nice girls like herself preferred the company of men like "Pierre and Giovanni, Tom and Jack." In most cases, young men declared themselves guilty as charged, but, they argued, this was only because chivalry was an outdated form of conduct entirely incompatible with the kind of camaraderie women seemed to desire. "What is it that determines that a man must always be chivalrous toward a woman?" a self-described "nonattentive gentleman" thus asked.

Another young man who defiantly labeled himself "nongallant" wanted to know whether "a young woman has any right to be offended because I do not pick her up before a dance but ask her to meet me at a trolley stop?" "Mack and Jack" were equally annoyed by what they saw as unreasonable demands on the part of female companions. "We are two young men," they wrote to an advice columnist in 1923, "who would like to hear your opinion about the behavior of two young ladies. The other night after we had been out dancing together, the young ladies wanted us to escort them home, but we live at the opposite end of town and escorting them home would have taken more than an hour out of our night's sleep, so we refused. Now they don't want to see us again."

The unmistakable tone of anger, resentment, and indignation that runs through this discourse suggests that more than etiquette was at stake in the controversies over chivalry. When young people debated whether men ought to open doors, assist with overcoats, carry packages, offer cigarette lighters, give up their seats in trolley cars, and walk companions home, they were, of course, trying to determine what constituted proper behavior in an era when gender norms were being redefined. That in itself was fraught with difficulty, and the confusion they expressed was genuine. 

But because both men and women perceived chivalry as a source of power and control, their "conversations" are therefore best understood as part of a much larger struggle over the relative status of men and women in a changing cultural context. For that reason it became such an intensely contested issue. Certainly, women's insistence on male chivalry was not merely motivated by a desire to indulge in the pleasures that spring from a companion's service and attentiveness. In their eyes, chivalrous behavior indicated, among other things, a certain level of male regard. After all, it had in the past only been disreputable women who could not legitimately demand such treatment. 

Insufficient male chivalry was therefore seen, even among many self-proclaimed "modern" young women, as an insulting sign of disrespect. More importantly, young women also perceived chivalry as a sort of sexual safety mechanism. At the heart of the ideology of chivalry lay the notion that men were responsible for serving and protecting women. Therefore, as long as women could hold men to a code of behavior that emphasized courtesy and (sexual) self-control, their ability to protect themselves from physical and moral danger seemed all the greater. And if this potentially greater degree of safety came at the expense of what seemed more egalitarian companionship, that was a price worth paying for most women. 

Besides, despite their modernity, young women were not out to eradicate gender-differentiated forms of behavior. While they were eager to assert their independence from older patterns of social interaction and to develop new forms of camaraderie with men, they still insisted on their femininity and on having that femininity acknowledged by male companions. "It might well be," one women poignantly argued, "that women in this country have reached their goal in terms of equality with men, but that does not mean that they have stopped being women."

That sexual equality and continued male chivalry were demands not incongruous with each other was a claim many men found hard to accept. "We don't understand how young girls can demand to be equals and at the same time demand to be treated as ladies," two male friends explained. "Women have by now for many years sought equality with men," another man elaborated, "and it is therefore my infallible [sicl] opinion that the ladies must either be entirely independent in all matters and renounce gentlemanly gallantry, or they must relinquish their equality with men." With such comments, young men laid bare what was for them at the heart of this matter. 

Clearly, they expected women to reciprocate for the favors and attentions they received with a certain degree of modesty and deference. As Karen Dubinsky has pointed out, the flip side of chivalry and protection is power and control. When men no longer felt they had power and control over women, they were, as they repeatedly stressed, no longer willing to respect a code of conduct that endowed them with a specific set of duties and responsibilities. Underlying the controversies over the issue of chivalry were therefore much more profound conflicts, most of which derived from young men's resentment over losing a set of gendered privileges and an authority over women that older generations of men had been able to claim. 

Even though many young men were attracted, at least in principle, to the idea of having fun and enjoying themselves in the company of female peers, they were also deeply ambivalent about young women's entry into what had previously been male territory and their encroachment on what had traditionally been male prerogatives. As one newspaper columnist complained in 1921, "Women have forced their way through every door—into the labor market, into politics, and into entertainment. They are getting more and more rights—rights to this and rights to that—but what about us men? We don't seem to be getting any more rights."

Many young men also took offense at women's relative independence in public arenas. As long as young women had money of their own, they did not have to depend on male companions in order to partake in public entertainment. Although most men had greater earnings and more spending money than their female peers, even those women with the most limited funds were usually able to afford a movie ticket, the admission to an amusement park, or a cup of coffee in a restaurant, and unlike in the United States, for example, young Danish women typically paid their own way when they went out with male companions, at least as long as they were not engaged or going steady.

 "Of course, we paid for ourselves when we went out," insisted Stine Petersen. "Yes, naturally! Naturally, we paid for ourselves," exclaimed Netta Nielsen, seemingly surprised at the suggestion that men might pay for female companions. While hard on their pocket books, such financial self-reliance had several advantages for young women. First, it allowed them, as Michael Curtin has pointed out, to signal that "the relation between themselves and [male companions] were of a public and egalitarian nature, not romantic as between lovers." Perhaps more importantly, it released them from any obligation to male peers and from the moral suspicion that surrounded any woman who accepted gifts and treats from men who were relative strangers. 

Besides, paying one's own way also protected young women from ending up, as Nikoline Sorensen phrased it, in an "awkward position" where men "might expect things" in return for their generosity. But rather than appreciating the potential for egalitarian friendships that such practices produced, most young men resented the self-reliance of their female peers, perceiving it as a challenge to male initiative and a lessening of their power. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, much of young men's resentment grew from their sense that women were in fact not only becoming less dependent, but were also acquiring a whole new kind of power over men. 

"What are men to do? How can they protect themselves against these attractive, scantily dressed young girls? We are under their spell," a twenty-two-year old man complained in a statement that interwove two of the most common strands in male discourse on postwar gender relations. First, men of all classes and ages spoke of young women as increasingly bewitching and seductive. Whether it was their short skirts, deep necklines, freer body language, or seeming flirtatiousness that led men to this conclusion, they generally agreed that the new generation of women possessed an unprecedented degree of sexual allure. 

Second, they constantly complained that women were using their wiles, their charms and their bodies as unfair means to gain control over men, who were ill-equipped to withstand such an onslaught. "This is the last and final battle in the war between the sexes," one observer declared in 1924. "After suffrage and all the other rights women have obtained, they are now plotting their final assault. With their physical allure, they are striving to master men who are, after all, only men." In this light, young men's unwillingness to behave chivalrously begins to take on its deeper meaning. In a situation in which many young men believed that women were gaining the upper hand, they were less than eager to engage in behavior that smacked of servitude to women. 

In earlier generations, a man who fetched a woman's coat or carried her packages had discreetly underlined his own masculinity through a show of physical ability. By the 1920s, the very same gestures seemed to many young men simply to demonstrate service and subordination to a new generation of women who already possessed too much power over them. Quite understandably, they therefore resisted any involvement in such behavior. Although the debates over chivalry are revealing of the underlying conflicts that seriously circumscribed any effort to create more frank and egalitarian relationships between young men and young women, they may ultimately be read as fairly innocuous. 

After all, having to fetch one's own coat is at most an inconvenience, and while ungentlemanly behavior might offend a woman's sensibilities it hardly impairs her autonomy or her freedom of movement. But because (sexual) self-control was a central component of the ideology of chivalry, young men's increasing unwillingness to adhere to this long-standing code of conduct had more serious consequences. Predictably, although unfortunately, it led to an unprecedented level of physical and sexual danger for all women who ventured into public arena.”

- Birgitte Soland, “Beauties and Boyfriends, Bitches and Brutes.” in Becoming Modern: Young Women and the Reconstruction of Womanhood in the 1920s

#becoming modern #birgitte soland #history #1920s #gender

[laufire]

(CW for mentions of csa)

A lot of Commonly Accepted (Often Through Uncritical Repetition) Wisdom in fandom leaves me baffled, when not straight up ticked off, but one that's been on my mind lately, that never fails to bring a scrunched up expression to my face, is the idea that Bela Talbot's backstory was some last minute add-on to her character.

You might argue that the reveal was rushed since the writers caved in and killed her off against their original plan (or at the very least, earlier than). Or that using abuse is a trite way to raise sympathy for an antagonistic character. You could even say that some of the finer details might’ve not been set in stone until they sat down to write her exist, although that one is dubious. But I’m never really going to buy that Bela’s backstory hadn’t been already planned, likely in big part.

The reason why is Season Three Episode Six, “Red Sky At Morning”, Bela’s second episode, co-written by Eric Kripke himself. As all episodes with Bela were, may I add; which means he had a hand in crafting her story from the beginning, as creator, director, and writer.

There Dean, a character that has been shown as sharp and intuitive (although his success rate ain’t that great when it comes to Bela, admittedly xD), immediately pegs her as someone with Issues TM, asking “how did she get like this”. He even taunts her by referencing her father, showing off his talent to hit where it hurts by asking if he “didn’t give her enough hugs”, ‘cause he’s classy like that. This visibly affects Bela, changing her demeanor in their conversation, from more playful to defensive. Hell, I remember during my first watch in real time this moment, especially paired with the rest of the episode, was when I first thought it was possible she came from an abusive family.

Because, c’mon. This whole episode is about parricide. The monster of the week is a ghost who haunts those that “spilled their own family’s blood”. We get two other examples: a woman whose accidental car crash killed her cousin, and two brothers who killed their father for the inheritance. Clearly, the ghost doesn’t have a narrow criteria when it comes to means or culpability -which makes sense given his particular story: he was tried for treason and his brother, the captain of the ship, issued the sentence.

And just as we find out this information... Bela sees the ghost ship that foretells her death. This, paired with the insinuations about an unsavvory past and her discomfort at the mention of her father, aren’t a wealth of information, but they start to paint a picture. We now know for a fact that Bela caused the death of at least one relative (mom and dad); that she wouldn’t have needed to do it directly (she made a crossroads deal); and that she might’ve had a sympathetic motive (her father sexually abused her and her mother turned a blind eye).

That scene offers some more tidbits of information about her past that seem too in tune with 3x15 to be coincidental, and that absolutely break my heart: Bela’s “You wouldn’t understand. No one did.“ and “I’ll just do what I’ve always done. I’ll deal with it myself”. See, I always thought Bela must’ve told people, when she was a kid. That she reached out for help not just to her mother, but to everyone around her that she thought could’ve help: teachers, maybe even law enforcement; adults that should’ve being worthy of that trust and protected her. Except no one did (and the fact that her family seemed to be not only very rich but influential paints a very bleak picture that surely contributed to her cynic view of the world). So she took matters in her own hands, and sold her soul for ten years of relative safety and freedom from her abusers.

To tie it all up, her final scene in that episode offers some more moments that again, are very in line with her backstory. We see how she treats relationships as transactionals: she pays ten grand to the Winchesters for saving her life, like she paid with her soul. Dean, again, draws attention to her likely messed up past by calling her damaged, and she replies that “takes one to know one”. Terrible childhood, ammirite. The show wasn’t been subtle here: it’s telling us Bela has a terrible past, like the Winchesters do, but of a different kind that has resulted in a different kind of person. So yeah, I think all the facts were hinted at back in 3x06.

We could go even futher back and point out 3x03, Bela’s introduction. One of the very first things she says in the show, during her first face to face with Dean (a character that just condemned his soul to Hell), is “We’re all going to Hell, Dean. Might as well enjoy the ride”. Sure, it could be an incredibly fortuitous coincidence; as a writer, I’ve had those and they’re damn great. But it seems VERY lucky, and more likely to be a case of the kind premeditated, well-placed foreshadowing that Kripke excels at.

So, okay. I’ve established why I think Bela’s backstory wasn’t a spur of the moment decision. But why is there a notable narrative in fandom that it IS?

First thing first, I want to get something out of the way: you don’t have to like it even if it was planned ahead. I understand it’s a very thorny subject, and to make matters worse, it’s inherently tied to her death. You might even be fine with the what, but not with how it was dealt with (although personally, I appreciate that neither the abuse nor her death were shown onscreen. In fact, the worse violence we see Bela on the receiving end of in her run is Dean’s threats and manhandling, which seems like a very purposeful choice ngl. Even Gordon freaking Walker was gentler lmao).

But I do disagree with some extended fandom opinions on the topic, and I guess that’s what the post is about. For one, I don’t see how the show “condemned” or morally judged Bela in this scenario. If anything, they clearly wanted to make her sympathetic, AND they showed Dean as being in the wrong by robbing him of information. Dean’s opinion on Bela couldn’t count for shit, for once, because he didn’t have the full picture; because Bela had deemed him UNWORTHY of the full picture, and thus anything he had to say on her couldn’t be taken at face value (except this is Supernatural, so I guess this was a little too much to ask of some people?). I think saying that just because Bela died and went to Hell as a consequence of her deal, IN THE SAME SEASON the same happened to our co-lead, because the writers deemed her evil and irredeemable is simplistic at best, and the audience projecting their own feelings (or being unable to see past Dean’s) onto the writing.

All that said, to go back to the initial point of all of this xD: WHY does fandom seem to insist on viewing this narrative choice as some cheap last minute addition?

There might not be one explanation that fits all, but I have a few ideas. One is that, if this wasn’t planned for and hinted at from early on, some people might feel as if this “absolves” them of their previous (and disgustingly hateful and misoginistic) reactions to Bela. Others will see this as absolving Dean, and maybe even Sam to a lesser extent, for not helping her and for being callous towards her; if her tragic backstory was this artificial, rushed choice made by Those Writers, then Dean wasn’t responsible for reprehensible attitudes towards someone who deserved his compassion (and it can’t be denied that this fandom loves absolving Dean of responsibility lmao). And a lot people are probably only repeating what they've heard from others as the accepted narrative, especially those that didn't even watch all of s3 if at all (Castiel is my fave too, but seriously, s1-3 are worth it).

It’s like they’re creating this imaginary separation between Bela pre-reveal, and Bela post-reveal, to make the situation easier to themselves. See, Bela pre-reveal was this annoying bitch who inconvenienced and embarrassed our leads (not to mention dared have chemistry with them), and thus deserved to be punished for it; or, if we’re going with more modern fandom sensibilities, she can be made to fit into the shallow #GirlBoss mold, with a side of “Secretly A Lesbian And Therefore Not A Romantic Threat” flavour -the current preferred method to make controversial female characters more palatable.

The reveal throws a wrench into this narrative. “Bitch who deserves her comeuppance” is a hard sell when you’re talking about a character who survived csa. And a shallow #GirlBoss reading doesn’t work if you have to acknowledge that Bela was one of, if not the most tragic characters in the entire run of Supernatural.

She spent over half her life at the mercy of her abuser(s), hurt by those who should’ve loved her and protected her most. The rest of her life was extremely lonely, with seemingly only a cat as company, and a surface-level freedom that hid under the sentence that loomed over her head. She died without a single friend, or a simple show of kindness and compassion, without anyone bothering to fight for her. And then she ended up tortured for who knows how long until she became one of her torturers.

All of that is extremely difficult to digest. And when things are hard to swallow, people do as people do, and they try to simplify them. So, sure. Bela’s reveal wasn’t ever hinted at, it’s completely removed from her character and the person we met, and is not even worth trying to fit into the narrative. Sounds easy.

#talking to the void #my thoughts #spn thoughts #supernatural #bela talbot #bitter lau tag #fandom nonsense #spn 3x15 #spn 3x06 #spn s3

[yurimother]

LGBTQ Manga Review – Syrup: A Yuri Anthology Vol. 1

Shakaijin Yuri, stories featuring love between adult women who have left school, is a well-established corner in the Japanese Yuri market. Over the past few months, the scene started to pick up its full force in the West. English audiences are experiencing new Shakaijin series, both contemporary like Still Sick and older such as The Conditions of Paradise. For me, there are few works so prolific and intrinsic to the Shakaijin boom as Syrup. In Japanese, the subtitle reads Shakaijin Yuri Anthology. While the English release drops the subgenre's label, the content remains the same, an anthology dedicated to nothing but Yuri love stories featuring adult women from some of the Yuri industries best. However, Syrup's focus on mature and workplace stories more than piqued my interest. However, readers will likely be disappointed with this inconsistent and often forgettable anthology that is just as sour as sweet.

One of Syrup's main draws is its contributors. Some of the best in the Yuri world touched this manga, and even Western Yurijin will likely recognize a few of the names like Yukiko (Futaribeya), Itou Hachi (Kindred Spirits on the Roof), and of course Morinaga Milk (Girl Friends). It is always exciting to read a story from one of your favorites. Even I, who cares rather little for authorship, was happy to see Ohi Pikachi, who wrote the incredible Our Teachers are Dating, among the list. It also provides readers with a chance to familiarize themselves with unfamiliar creators like Amano Shuninta and Kurogane Ken, who grace the anthology with some of its best chapters.

Another benefit of having such a variety of contributors is the plethora of different art styles in the anthology. There is such a stark yet fun contrast between more mature or sensuous styles like Matsuzaki Natsumi and Ito Hachi's bubble moe characters. The manga spans almost every point between these two styles, and just flipping through the pages to look at the artwork can be a fun experience. Of course, some are more polished than others. Mochi_Au_Lait's simplistic and flat style stands as an unfortunate outlier among some other fabulous artists. However, their story, "The Cram School Teachers," is one of the funniest in the anthology. Not every story's aesthetics will suit all readers, but that is the point of a collection, to sample a wide array of talents. Fly's beautiful cover illustration wraps the fantastic art within, standing as a crown jewel of Yuri manga covers.

Unfortunately, the plot and characters are not nearly as enjoyable as the art. While a mixture of aesthetics can add to a work, different story styles often feel inconsistent. For this reason, I usually prefer collections of a single author's short stories, like Rouge Nagashiro's Eve and Eve and Morishima Akiko's The Conditions of Paradise. However, a unifying theme can often correct this issue. Sadly, a few too many of the stories seem to revel in the more "adult" allowances of adult characters and ironically created some of the most immature entries in the anthology.

Before diving too deep into the weeds of mediocrity, there are some chapters in Syrup worthy of highlight. Two of the best chapters, Shioya Teruko's "Promise" and Kurogane Kenn's "Rose Quartz" feature women in established relationships taking the next step in their relationship. Reading about these women celebrate their feelings for each other is wholesome, charming, and even sensual. The latter of the two stories is also one of the few to use adult content in a way that feels more mature. It clarifies the characters' love and attraction for each other, rather than just flashing a panel of exposed breasts for fanservice. It is great to see artists use their allowance to show a little more in profound ways while not letting it run away from them. It demonstrates admirable restraint and thoughtful writing that respects its characters.

Other interesting chapters include "Mama X Mom," which is less about the sexual relationship between two women and focuses on the character's emotional bonds in a unique situation. Ito Hachi's "First Grown-Up Love" perhaps lives up to the Syrup title the most, as it is an adorably sweet and fluffy tale of first love at adulthood. As one of the longer stories, it also has a bit more time for subtly and, thus, it includes some of the stronger and more interesting characters.

Sadly, most of the stories in Syrup are incredibly mediocre. Telling a compelling narrative with interesting characters in such a brief form, in some cases as short as six pages, is a daunting task that most chapters fail to overcome. They are utterly dull and forgetful, with characters designed with little more than maybe a job and the fact that they are interested in a woman in mind. They leave little impression, and even in the moment of reading, one finds themselves tired and wishing for the passage to end. A few tales show some modicum of potential, like Kodama Naoko's "Daily Smile," but they often end before they can get going.

A few dull chapters are acceptable, as tastes will vary, and many will enjoy some of the stories that left me utterly unenthused. However, where Syrup struggles are in its weak chapters. Some, like Yoshimura Kana's "Coward Queen," a confusing and offputting depiction of two women making a pornographic movie, and Matsuzaki Natsumi's "My Femme Fatale" revel far too much in displaying as much nudity as they can get away with before being labeled as porn. The former of these portray a lust for sadism that clashes with the rest of the primarily mundane anthology. It might even spoiler the next several chapters, as it is one of the first stories and leaves readers with immense displeasure.

There are some questionable attitudes towards boundaries and crossing lines, even outside the more salacious and exploitative stories. Depictions or descriptions of actions like staring at a woman's underwear or breasts, or awkwardly splurting out "I'm a virgin," are tossed out casually, often portrayed as romantic. Now, this manga is a work of fiction and can be enjoyed even with some more questionable aspects, as they usually are not deal breakers here. However, the dated attitudes feel like something out of an '80s comedy, not in a manga that, in all else, appears to at least attempt to hold an air of realism. This pervasive element at best makes an already struggling story worse, but it can add unpleasant notes to otherwise delightful offerings.

There is no better example of potentially compelling work squandered by its unsavory elements than Morinaga Milks "Working with an Angel." It starts pretty well, introducing readers to an entertainment agency manager with a forbidden otaku friendship with a model. However, instead of taking a more intelligent or realistic approach of the two trying to keep their growing relationship secret or a heroic, "consequences be damned," declaration of love, the story turns sleazy. The model wants to show her naked body off to the manager as the latter admits that she spies on the models while they change. Off-putting is the most generous review of this final chapter.

While Syrup: A Yuri Anthology has a few bright offerings of sweet and compelling relationship between adult women, it is incredibly bogged down by forgettable and mediocre stories. Few stories can present more than a weak premise and characters best described as "female" within their short page count. More objectionable, with a few notable exceptions, Syrup muddles its attempts to show how grown-up Yuri can by mistaking boobs and fanservice for maturity. Yes, Shakaijin stories, tales of adult women can be sexy. In fact, they should be more than willing to describe inelegance and lust; after all, for many people, that is what love is. Still, too often, Syrup forgets the heart, affection, and emotion, substituting them for cheap, uninspired story beats and characters. There are some chapters worth readers' time, but unless you are a hardcore fan of a contributor, this is an easy skip 

It is challenging to award ratings for Syrup, as each story's merits vary. Some are a comfortable 8 or 9 and others a measly 2 or 3. However, the majority of the book was unobjectionable yet poorly constructed fluff, as respected in the scores below.

Ratings: Story – 5 Characters – 3 Art – 8 LGBTQ – 6 Sexual Content – 8 Final – 5

Review copy provided by Seven Seas Entertainment

Purchase Syrup: A Yuri Anthology Vol. 1 digitally in print: https://amzn.to/39ObT5F

Legally purchasing manga helps support creators and publishers. YuriMother makes a small commission from sales at no additional cost to the consumer.

#yuri #manga #reviews #lgbt #lgbtq #lgbtq+ #queer #gay #romance #art #lesbian #lesbians #wlw #girls love #gl #syrup #sweet #comics #anthology #collection #literature #books #anime

[hanjizung]

𝕂𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣  𝕕𝕒𝕪  𝟙𝟘:  𝕤𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘.

Hyunjin x Reader.

Word count: 1.2k

♡ Warnings ♡: smut, roommates au, voyeurism, masturbation, squirting.

【ｐｒｅｖｉｏｕｓ　ｄａｙ　||　ｎｅｘｔ　ｄａｙ】

【Ｋｉｎｋｔｏｂｅｒ　ｍａｓｔｅｒｌｉｓｔ】

Hyunjin was a curious man, he wondered often why his roommate, you, had to wash your sheets so frequently. 

It became a usual sight for him to see your bedsheets hung to dry, always biting his tongue to stop himself asking you why and have his curiosity satisfied. After all, what his friend Minho said when he mentioned how you were an obsessive cleaner for washing your sheets a lot resonated in his head. 

'Curiosity killed the back, little Hyunjinnie. What would you do with the information of why Y/N washes her sheets a lot?' 

He knew he was right, but then again, Felix's comeback motivated him to ask you if you had a bladder problem that you were ashamed of. 

'Minho' s right, Hyunjin. Curiosity killed the cat, but did you know satisfaction brought it back? Don’t forget that cats have 9 lives.'

His friends were assholes. But this time, he let Felix be his voice of reason. 

Except that instead of asking you directly, he preferred to spend more time at home and catch you taking your sheets to the washing machine, that way he could ask  'did something happen to your sheets, Y/N?' without being too suspicious. 

It was going to be hard, as he was so used to being out dancing with his friends. He would have to find something to do at home to help him be distracted and patient. But he had to be able to do it, he needed an answer to why you had to wash your sheets that much. 

One day when he was in his room doing homework he heard you close your door, not even looking for him to tell him that you were home. No, that day you just went straight to your room. Could this be the day he solved the bedsheets mystery? 

Standing from his chair, he tiptoed until he was outside your door. His ears peaked when he heard a strange noise coming from your room. He got scared, could you possibly hurt yourself by accident? 

Alarmed, he opened the door slowly, stopping when he saw your form on the large bed. You were laying on your back completely naked, head thrown back, eyes closed and your legs spread, one of your hands in your sex, rubbing your clit and the other squeezing your boob, a choir of moans coming from you. 

Hyunjin froze right where he was. He knew you were a beautiful woman who probably had her own needs, but he never thought of you in a sexual way. To him, you were like a cute innocent girl who was shy in all the aspects of your life. 

But oh boy, was he wrong. 

Not only were you touching yourself, you were filming yourself. 

And it was fucking hot, the boner in Hyunjin's jeans couldn't lie. Your moans, your erected nipples, the hand working on your clit… it was a vision theft turned him on a lot. You were attractive, he wasn't blind, but being able to see you like this, eyes closed tightly, crying out and your body shaking, it was something else. An unknown physical attraction was born from the moment he caught on what you were doing. 

Stepping outside as quietly as he had opened the door, Hyunjin observed you fucking yourself with your fingers, your moans becoming louder and louder as your orgasm approached and the movements of your hand became faster. 

He paid attention to every reaction from your body, how you contracted when your other hand rubbed your sensitive clit and your incomprehensible words leaving your lips. 

A particularly louder moan that was more like a scream of pleasure got his attention, his eyes directing to your throbbing pussy from afar as he observed a liquid coming out of you. It took him by surprise, he couldn't believe his eyes, always thought it was a thing in cheap and trashy porn videos until this moment that he got to see it actually happen. 

You did the first time, body twitching as you let your orgasm wash over you, the satisfactory feeling of relief making you whimper, fingers rubbing your clit again and he saw another spurt of your juices leaving, the bedsheets under you being victim of a giant wet spot on them. 

Breathing heavily, you wiped your hand on the bed, closed your legs and took a towel, making your way to the only bathroom in the house, you could take your bedsheets to wash later. After all, Hyunjin isn't home at all, so there was no need to worry about it. 

He heard you turn on the shower, his mind imagining how the water would run through your bare body and he couldn't take it anymore. 

Half an hour later, you came out of the bathroom, realizing he was sitting on the couch and greeted him, continuing your walk to your room to get dressed and take your things to the washing machine. 

He saw you walking to the kitchen, sheets in hand, and when you were on your way back to your room he called for you. 

"Wanna watch a movie with me?" he asked. Surprised, you nodded and told him that he could choose one while you fixed your bed again. 

He clicked the first one in the catalogue, not caring about what it could be. All that was on his mind was you and how sexy your moans resonated in his head. He took a pillow and put it in his lap, hugging it so you wouldn't notice the annoying bulge he got from thinking of you. 

You came back, sitting close to him and placing your hand on his knee. He shivered, but didn't remove it from him and instead opted to watch the movie in silence. His head was drowning in thoughts about how to confront you about the whole 'you wash your sheets a lot to be considered normal' thing. 

"I know why you wash your sheets so often" his stupid ass blurted out loud. You looked at him, eyes wide open. 

"W-what was that, Hyunjin? I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right?" your voice came a little too high pitched, but who was to blame? If what he said was right then he knew that you were a squirter who sold videos of yourself. 

"I-I saw you…" he looked down, playing with the pillow on his lap as he talked. "I wanted to know why and… I discovered the reason. I saw how much you squirted and how you looked so pleasured… it was the best thing I've ever seen" you took in his words, listening carefully to his confession. 

"... Do you wanna learn how to make a girl squirt, Hyunjin?" you asked, placing your hand on top of his fidgeting ones. He looked up to you, a mysterious shine on his pretty eyes that made you feel tingly. 

"If you're the one that's going to show me how to do it, yes. Please be my teacher, Y/N" you stood up from the couch, waiting for him to do the same and follow you to your room. 

And when he finally did, your eyes noticed the prominent boner he tried to hide under the pillow, making you arch a brow for him. 

"Seems like we'll be having a long lesson, huh?" 

#skz smut #skz fanfic #stray kids smut #stray kids fanfic #hyunjin smut #skz hyunjin #skz hwang hyunjin #kinktober 2020 #han jizung's kinktober list #day 10

[herstarburststories]

The devil at your door

Kinktober day 3: Demon

Suptober day 3: Demonic

Pairing: Demon!Dean x reader

A/N: This one goes for @holylulusworld's 10k celebration, my trope was Lovers to Enemies. Congrats again, hon! And this is also my piece for @hardcoresupernatural 's Halloween challenge with the prompt: I'm not scared of you.

@deanmonandnegansbitch's asked: Deanmon x Reader, he realizes no one could tame the marks hunger like she did. And yet he lost her by sticking his dick in other women

Warnings: dirty talk, mentions of boob fucking, hints of dark sexual, angst if you squint, teasing

CATCH UP KINKTOBER: Day 1 / Day 2

Spending his whole life in imaginary chains had frustrated Dean Winchester more than he was aware of. He’d always done what his dad taught him; kept himself from what he wanted in order to be the good soldier — the hero — even if it was against his own desires. 

Dean saved the world once or twice and didn't get a thank you, a break long enough to relax or even visit the beach for the first time. No, hunters were never kids. Hunters never had time for fun. Hunters were made to be hunting. He always found himself fighting winless battles and ending up drowned in whiskey and self-pity.

Now it was all gone. His old persona never had time to be human, so losing that side of him wasn't a big deal. If anything, he felt better now. Whatever his green eyes wanted, Dean would go and get it.

No barbed ward could contain a demon, much less the Knight.

At first, it was funny. Messing around with Crowley, fucking some good, new pussies after tasting only yours, and causing destruction whenever he felt like it.

Then the thrill expired. Honestly, the Winchester pictured it would last longer. Crowley started bitching around like a whiny little man and the new girls no longer could satisfy him — that is, if they ever did. Dean was pretty sure he liked them so much because the cat and mouse play of finding a new toy, but at some point, the cat gets enough of the foreplay and wants to eat the prey. They were so boring in all their humanly forms: they didn't have his stamina, they didn’t know his sweet spots, and they didn’t enjoy all the mischievous things he wanted to do.

Only painting his knuckles with an aleatory idiot's blood could get a real smile out of him these days. Nonetheless, even throwing punches gets exhausting when they stop fighting back.

Where was the fun of being free?

It clicked him like one of the worst sounds of tortured souls screams; you. 

You used to be the wild in Dean's heart during hunter days. You knew all the bad things he wanted to do, and you moaned in pleasure through them. You knew his body and yours like religion and shamelessly worshipped them.

When he finds himself at your door after leaving a woman who just wanted some vanilla sex in a cheap motel, it shouldn't have been a surprise. At least, it's not in his uniquely demonic brand of rationality. As you open the door, the look on your face tells him you agree with that. 

Or so his deranged mind said.

You crossed your arms, the angle exposing your cleavage more as you leaned against the rose-colored door that he helped you paint months ago.

Dean used to think this little apple pie life was so savage, something out of his reach that he’d only get to touch in case of a miracle, like caressing the fire only to get a feel for the burn. Now he can't help but scrunch up his nose, disgusted by domestic, urban pleasures.

“What do you want, Dean?” You looked him up and down, a humorless smile on your face. “Got tired of fucking everyone with a pair of boobs?”

“I'm more interested in your boobs, sweetheart.” Dean isn't put off by your sarcasm, countering with the same flirty tone that used to get you riled up all the time.

Isn't the past such a beautiful memory?

“Go find someone your species, Winchester.” You rolled your eyes and pulled away, pushing the door closed before Dean's foot interrupted you.

He faked a pout. “Wow. That's racist, Y/N. This demon’s got feelings, you know?”

His childish attitude heats your system. Only Dean, demon or not, could push your buttons and get on your nerves in a matter of seconds. You pushed the pink door fully open with enough strength to make it slam against the wall with a loud crack. Dean doesn't look affected, though. You furiously glare at his lopsided grin.

“Do you also have a brain? I told you to leave. Get lost.”

“Come on, baby girl. I know you miss my cock. What about a night to remember?”

Believing he was the man you once loved was getting harder with every word he said. Your body seemed to recognize him easier, aching for him like some kind of spell. All you had after Dean Winchester left was a longing body and fury.

“Do you really think I'm gonna let you in my house for a quick fuck like I'm one of your one night stands?”

Dean appeared to be considering it for a moment, eyes focused on anything but you. His lips pursed before he glanced at you with a malicious beam. “Yes. You always said I was the best sex you ever had. Why not get a bit of it? You already know you won't regret that, sweetheart.”

You studied him, picturing what would bring a man who ran away back to what used to be his home. Dean had left as soon as he became a demon, the only trace of his existence being a note addressed to Sam and pieces of your heart. When you and Sammy finally found the eldest Winchester, he made was certain to make sure that you were aware of his very active sex life. He’d tacked on that he'd kill Sam and you both if you tried to save him.

You let him run like water after this. The Winchesters might have that wondrous codependency, but you didn't need something like that in your life. Especially not with a demonic cheater and murder.

Your eyes were too wide to ignore the warning signs now. Yet, that didn't answer why he was in your doorway. If he wanted to be saved, he'd go for Sam and call you from there. If he wanted to kill you, he wouldn't spend time talking about fond memories. He didn't look like a lost puppy looking for shelter either. So, what the fuck was this green-eyed devil doing here?

Quietude thickened while you noticed Dean not seeming to notice your silence, his eyes too busy observing your breasts. Your Dean Winchester was always a boob man, and he was looking like he'd fuck your titties on your porch for all your neighbors to see. It certainly wouldn't be yours and his first time with public sex. Still, that wasn't the point: he was here, hair longer than usual and cock clearly starting to awaken in his jeans…

Because he had missed you.

You chortled in dismay, unable to discern whether he was kidding or not despite the bulge in his pants, and that glimmer in his eyes already confirmed your suspicions. You knew him.

The realization almost cheered up your soul. Your reasoning stopped you from collecting hopes about that demoniac form of a man. Dean was here for carnal desire, not love. He had sex with other women while you spent sleepless nights crying into his old shirts. He broke you as the monster that he was — he deserved to suffer.

You didn't care if your heart would be a little more broken, or you pussy a bit needier after that.

“You missed fucking me, Dean? Missed my tight pussy squeezing your cock? Maybe my mouth on it? Or how you got it between my boobs? Did you miss how I taste?” You took a step closer to him, making Dean lift his glare to your face again. 

He wore a cocky smirk as he answered, “Not as much as you missed me.”

Dean was right. Your body cried for him, and so did your soul. Who fucking cares? He didn't before, and you would not now.

“Liar.” The word rolled letter by letter off of your tongue. “I can take care of myself, even call a friend to do that, but you came back just because you can't forget how eating my pussy like a fucking feast feels like. Can you, sweetheart?”

You used that stupid nickname that he often gave people. You were very aware that it would irritate him, as it was laced with the implication of another man putting his hands on you.

Dean quickly grabbed your waist tightly, pulling you closer to him. He groaned. It was that fucking sound he made when something truly made him furious, and you knew your panties were gone. His eyes flashed into darkness that replaced his glistening greens, and for some calamitous reason, that turned you on.

“You better not have let anyone fuck what's mine, Y/N. I'd rip his throat in front of you and fuck you right next to his body,” he spits out jealously. His posture radiated that usual, alpha-esque tenseness that tumbled you two into angry, possessive sex so many times before.

“So jealous. I loved to tease you only to get you rough on me. Throwing me against the wall, going so hard inside my pussy that the bed broke, holding me hard enough to leave marks. You wanted for my bruises too, right? How I'd scratch your back, bite your collarbone, ruin your neck for everyone to see you were mine, but I guess what you really liked about me was that I was as hungry for you as you were for me. I would’ve let you do anything to my body, and I did. Because I wasn’t scared of you, Dean, and I’m not scared of you now either.” The way your arms compulsively wrapped around his neck made you wonder if you really wanted to strangle him or pull him closer. You could smell his manly cologne mixed with sulfur. It shouldn't make you want him more. Your knees shouldn't be begging to kneel for him and suck his cock. Be stronger. “You could come in, throw my clothes away and fuck my boobs with your dick instead of your eyes. Hurt me good enough to make me ask for more. But you know what?”

“Mm?” Dean's reply came in a hum as you pressed your hips against his, causing his clothed cock to rub on your belly. It was a tiny bit of relief — finally. He missed this so much: he couldn't wait to slip into your tight pussy.

“You won't.” Your lips brushed against his before you pulled away. His hands left your body from his surprise at your words. A wry smirk was wrung from your lips despite your wet pussy. “You stuck your dick into other women as soon as you became… whatever this is.” You scoffed, pointing at him with a feigned disgust in your eyes that you knew your body disagreed with. “Go have fun with your hand, Dean.”

A light rose painted door was ultimately closed in his face.

Leave a comment and reblog. Feedback is magic! Check my day 1&2 of kinktober and my masterlist ♡

Dean's sweetheart: @akshi8278 (dean taglist open)

Hunters: @demonhunterbarbie  @bi-danvers0 @emilyshurley @desimarie12 (spn taglist open)

KINKTOBER TAGLIST: @psych0crybaby (NEW&OPEN)

WANNA BE TAGGED? SEND ME AN ASK OR DM.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #kinktober day 3 #Lulu’s 10k follower challenge #hardcoresupernaturalhalloweenchallenge #suptober20 #demon!dean #demon!dean x reader #supernatural #spn #dean winchester imagine #supernatural imagines #spn reader insert #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester imagines #dean x you #dean winchester smut #demon!dean smut #dean winchester x reader smut #spn x reader #spn imagines #supernatural imagine

[chuuyasnumber1simp]

Warm Touches Melt Cold Stares  Akutagawa x fem reader

A/N- because it’s me, and I love writing it, you better bet this gonna be hurt/comfort, and angsty at that. This what I write when I have no requests lol so get ready for the pain train. This is gonna be an ongoing fic btw.

This time, reader is going to have anxiety and bipolar depression, two things I can write well because I have them. If you want to see something else from me feel free to drop a request!

(Reader is 19)

Warnings: Mentions of Self Harm, Attempted Sexual Assault

Word Count: 2706

You were cold. 

But then again, you always were. 

Not towards people, not physically-  that which surprised people based on your ability. 

You hugged your arms closer to your body, feeling the telltale pinpricks of frost letting you know your ability activated. 

It was comforting, in a way. The coldness that surrounded your body, it was the only thing letting you know that you were here, and not still asleep, floating in the inky black of your dreams. You preferred the endless ocean of black to your current waking world, marred by emptiness and fear.       

You liked to pretend that the numbness that filled you somedays could merely be explained by being a result of your ability. Like your brain was slowly becoming frostbitten. On the days you didn’t even recognize yourself in the mirror, you often wondered why the temperature of your skin didn't match how you felt.    

Some days you woke up and felt as if something had melted the ice encasing your insides, your brain. That maybe, you would get better. Then, sometimes on the same day,    

You didn’t want to die, yet you couldn’t find  reason to continue this life that you lead. That was the reason you kept waking up, day after day, always reaching out to find maybe just a glimpse of purpose. You had believed your ability was a gift, when you were a child. A stupid, naïve child you were, to believe it was anything but a curse. That’s what you parents thought, when you manifested your ability. At first, all had gone well.  When you were little, you didn’t know that frost and ice can burn someone if it’s cold enough. 

You didn’t know that being too cold would cause hypothermia, and death. 

You were just a stupid, naïve child, who froze her parents to death, completely unaware of what she’d done. You didn’t know how or why, the memory's becoming more foggy with time. Your grandparents had taken you in after that, and they were kind. But even they could overcome your hesitance, your fear of being close enough to anyone to bring harm.

Prior to arriving in Yokohama, you had let your guard down, just for a moment. No one at work knew of your ability, you had kept it a secret for fear of peoples reactions. 

Another stupid mistake. 

You had a boyfriend, and you were happy. That was one of the longest times the coldness went away. 

But one day, you had gotten into an argument, over something stupid. You couldn’t even remember what now. He tried to leave, walk away from the argument, and in your anger, you reached out and grabbed his wrist. 

You’ll never forget the scream that ripped through the house. 

It was like your parents all over again. 

Around his wrist, there was a massive blister, red and swelling, about the size of your hand. He had fallen to to the ground, clutching his arm and screaming. 

So you ran. 

Ran out of his house, left your grandparents, left behind everything you knew. You took the bus as far away as you could, leaving you in Yokohama. 

You vowed to never use your ability again. At least, not on anyone else. You wondered if there had been a police investigation back in your hometown, or if anyone even tried to find you. 

You doubted it. 

So here you were, looking for an apartment in Yokohama, having arrived three days ago. 

You still had access to your bank account, and have been paying for a hotel room. It was cheap and crappy, but at least it was somewhere to sleep. People there didn’t ask why you wore a mask, and they didn’t ask why you had gloves on in spring. But it was, unfortunately for, where certain unsavory characters liked to be. 

You were trying to walk back to your hotel room, after a rather unfulfilling day, when a group of four men whistled and shouted as you walked by. As a woman, you were used to this. You ignored them and continued, but when you heard their footsteps after you, you walked a little faster, subconsciously allowing frost to cover your fingers. Your heart beat quickened as you walked past your room, hoping that someone would notice your current predicament. 

This was the downfall of everyone turning the other cheek. Situations like these were commonplace, and even the staff did not get involved. At this point, you were flat out running, almost tripping down the stairs in your haste to escape them. They followed after, relentless. 

You felt your heart sink as the stairs you had gone to had not lead to the lobby, but the laundry room and staff exit. 

The staff exit was locked, and the laundry room was empty. 

No one would come to your aid here. 

“Well well well, what do we have here. Someone’s a little feisty. But I think this going to have to be the end of the road for you,”

The men boxed you in against the wall the one speaking before trying to grab your arms. You squirmed and wiggled, trying your hardest to wrench yourself free from his grasp. Someone from the back  pressed a blade against your throat, instantly halting all motion. 

“That’s better pretty lady. Now hold still for me,”

You tried to scream, but the second you opened your mouth someone roughly shoved a wadded up shirt in it, muffling all noises. 

The man pinning your arms shoved his knee in between your legs, forcing them apart. On instinct, you let your ability -and fear- take over, and watched as the frost from your arms spread to his. He yelled and dropped his arms, giving you the moment to knock the knife from the other mans hand, and made a break for the stairs. 

“Not so fast,”

Someone kicked your ankle just as you had made it to the stairs, causing you to fall and slam your face into them. Despite the tears flowing down your cheeks and the blood that dripped from your nose, you attempted to crawl upwards, only to be yanked backwards and throw back to the wall. 

You lay there dazed, your vision swimming as the men surrounded you once more. You closed your eyes and felt a small, cold tear slide out of your eye, resigning yourself to your fate. 

“Excuse me gentlemen, but that’ll be enough now. Didn’t your parents ever teach you to respect women?”

You heard a voice from the staircase, and watched as a man with orange hair and a fedora descended the steps, a red aura glowing around him. 

“And who do you think you are?” the man who held the knife at you spoke. 

“Chuuya Nakahara, executive to the Port Mafia,”

The men seemed to flinch at his name, though you had no idea who he, or the Port Mafia were. 

“Listen, I don’t care if you run the Port Mafia, mind your own business,” 

“I really wish you hadn’t said that. Akutagawa, over here!”

Another man came down the stairs, covering his mouth with his hand. They both looked intimidating, and you curled in on yourself, as if that would do anything to protect yourself. 

“Rashomon,” 

When the man with the black jacket spoke, something black and red, almost like cloth, or elastic, pierced the man who spoke against Chuuya, and was flung across the room. After that, the rest of them scattered, obviously not willing to die at the hands of this cold ability user. 

Yanking the shirt out of your mouth, you crawled backwards, whimpering quietly as Chuuya approached you. Back pressed flat against the wall, you ice spread like wildfire, some of it even spreading across the carpet. Akutagawa’s eyes widened slightly with curiosity, and you subconsciously willed your ice to grow more, small icicles forming on your arms and the walls. Chuuya continued to advance on you, albeit more slowly than before, and your ice grew more in response, your breath materializing at the drop in temperature.

He stopped about five feet away from you, arms up in a show of good will. 

“Hey hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,”

“Would you like to come with us? I don’t believe you’d be that safe here, and we can help you with your ability,”

“How do I know you aren’t going to kill me? Or try to do what those guys did?”

“If we were going to do that, wouldn’t we have already done that?”

You internally thought he was right, but you were skeptical about following two random men. One of which just killed someone right in front you. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do I have any reason to trust you?”

Chuuya sighed. “Listen. I can leave you here to these guys, who’ll probably be back, or you can come with us and have an actually safe place to sleep. Your choice,”

Standing up on shaky legs, you looked at the other man. He stood still, and showed no emotion on his face. He looked almost annoyed, as if he was really going out of his way to save you. 

“I-i’ll go. But on one condition,”

Akutagawa turned to you, annoyance flashing in his eyes. “I don’t think you understand. We’re helping you. You are not in a position to negotiate right now,”

You swayed on your feet a bit before speaking, you assumed your body was not taking your ordeal and the below freezing temperatures your ability was producing.

“It’s not anything big. I j-just need someone to accompany me to my room so I can get my stuff. I don’t want to be alone,”

Part of you laughed at your words, mocking the irony of always making sure you never got close to anyone, even now, with your ice spreading quickly, and yet here you were, practically begging for someone to be with you, so you wouldn’t be alone.

Pathetic. Look at you, you were always so good at hurting people, so why have you failed now? Maybe the Chuuya and Akutagawa shouldn’t have come, and just let them men have they’re way with you. You would have deserved it. You—

“Sure. Akutagawa can go with you,”

Chuuya’s voice snapped you from your thoughts, and he gave you a warm smile that made you trust him a little more.

Akutagawa still looked mildly annoyed, but he seemed to hold a lot of respect for Chuuya, so you figured he would not do anything to you if he was under Chuuya’s orders.

The walk up to your room was silent, and uncomfortably so. Your ability was still going all over the place, so every time your foot touched the floor little shards of ice would stick up. Your body temperature had to be freezing by now, your skin covered in goosebumps. Your ability made the effects of freezing temperatures easier to withstand, but it did not make you immune to them. While a normal person could survive in freezing temperatures for 15 to 45 minutes, you could withstand them for about 30 minutes to 2 hours, depending on just how freezing the temperatures were. But, if the temperature of your ice dropped lower than freezing, the rate of your survival dropped drastically, to about 20-40 minutes.

Stress made it hard to control your ability, thus the reason you had burned your boyfriend and why you were struggling to control it now.

You tried to control your breathing, to stabilize your mental state somehow, but the more you attempted to the harder it gave to inhale oxygen.

You were sweating despite the cold, and at this point you sounded like you were dying with all the wheezing and coughing. Panic was setting in as you tried to gulp in air, but it wasn’t working.

You bit back a scream when a pale hand made contact with your shoulder, and you looked up to see a rather uncomfortable looking Akutagawa, who seemed to be trying to offer comfort during your panic attack.

The look on his face was almost comical, how uneasy he looked touching another human being. Finally, you did start to calm down, and managed to make it into your dingy room.

Akutagawa opted to stand outside the room, and having him there did make you feel safer.

You could still feel the ghost of fingers lingering on your body, and your shoved your clothes into your backpack with more vigor than before, hoping to get out of this place as fast as humanly possible. You frost had calmed down for the time being, allowing you to love more freely, no longer being constricted by the binds of cold.

You realized that you must have looked near homeless, a pair of black jeans with a rip starting on the knee, and an oversized grey sweatshirt you had owned since sixteen. The letters had long since faded, and you could see where you had patched it back up time after time, but it was the warmest and most comfortable thing you owned.

You stepped out of the room, greeting Akutagawa with a nod. Sometime when you were changing, Chuuya had shown up, and he was explaining something to Akutagawa in a hushed tone. He greeted you with a dip of his hat when you closed the door, reminding you of a gentleman from an older era.

The feeling of your gloves back on your hands was comforting, though you still hung back slightly, always making sure there was a couple feet’s worth of distance between you and anyone else.

The lobby clerk practically kept out of his seat when he saw Akutagawa and Chuuya, and everyone waiting parted like the red sea, allowing the three of you to walk through with ease.

There was a sleek black car that you spotted immediately, it looked very out of place amongst every other car in the parking lot. Chuuya didn’t seem like the kind of person to be inconspicuous.

You felt awkward about climbing into the immaculately clean car with your dirty clothes. You had at least showered, although rather quickly, since for some reason the hot water didn’t work. 

You sat in the backseat alone, Akutagawa driving and Chuuya sitting in the passenger seat. 

The car was silent, and the tension was palpable. You still had no idea what the Port Mafia was besides the obvious, that they were a mafia. What they did, and how they could help you with your ability was what you didn’t understand. Why would they help you? It’s not like you had any money, and you absolutely no battle training whatsoever. It’s not like you had held a gun before either. You had some practice with knives, but that was so long ago you didn’t think you could recall how to hold a knife properly. This was the main reason for not completely trusting these men, because people who didn’t have use or purpose were disposed of. 

Not willing to push their patience, you didn’t question anything, and simply allowed them to drive you to wherever they were going. They could be kidnapping you, and it would probably be your fault. 

What am I even doing here? Following two random dudes i don’t know, to the MAFIA where they’re going to make me do GOD KNOWS what. I could be raped, murdered, or tortured! I was just almost raped for god’s sake, and the first thing i do is go with strangers? This is literally EXACTLY what grandpa told me not to do. I’m stupid, stupid, I’m going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere, oh god why do i have to be so stupid--

“Hey Y/N? we’re here,”

It was only then did you see Chuuya waving a hand in front of your face, and you flushed slightly hoping you hadn’t been sitting like that for too long. 

A very tall building stood before you, smack in the middle of Yokohama. You guessed that since it was so prominent, people would never believe that it was the headquarters for the Port Mafia. Or, the Port Mafia just didn’t care. 

Akutagawa beaconed you over, and you swallowed thickly, unsure of what would happen when you entered this building. 

A/N: Heyoo!! im really proud of this, im sorry of Akutagawa seemed a bit ooc, i tried hard to establish his feelings and personality without writing him off as a tsundere, or making him a cold jerk. Ah, the woes of writing. 

Anyway, sorry i posted this instead of the newest chapter for the Chuuya fic. I can’t get past one scene for it, I've legit re-wrote it like seven times. So, to get over my writers block, i decided to finally publish this! The moodboard and first chapter have been in my drafts for awhile, so i decided to finally post them. Hope ya’ll like it!

#akutagawa x reader #akutagawa #akutagawa ryuunosuke #akutagawa ryuunosuke x reader #bsd #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader

[seeds-and-sins]

That One Woman

Pairing: Pagan Min / Reader

Rating: T (Strong language, violence, sexual undertones)

Description: Pagan Min saves you from the resistance, and you end up becoming his assistant, among other things...

    Day one was like a roller coaster for you. You distinctly remember sipping from a cup of coffee, calmly meditating to yourself, thankful to be alive; when Pagan barged into the dining room and started making demands. The first demands had almost everything to do with what you were wearing...

"Oh Darling, you need to get out of those rags immediately. I don't need my assistant looking like trash. Have you ever heard of perfume? Yes? You need it." He insisted you soak in the bath for a bit, get your hair done, nails painted, you had never felt so feminine before in your life. Of course he arranged everything, had his best designer working on your wardrobe in the meantime. Your king's kindness had no limits it seemed. All the while, he paraded you around and lectured you on taking better care of yourself, "treating yourself" as he worded it. While before you never really had the money to do so, he made every effort to ensure that you knew that whatever you wanted was given to you immediately. After the work was done and you had left your quarters feeling ever so nourished and tender, he put you to work immediately. 

"I need you to schedule a meeting with Paul for three this afternoon..." You followed closely behind him in stride, scribbling his words onto a tiny notepad he had procured for you earlier. "Make sure the kitchen cooks his favorite; steak and mushrooms, grilled onions, that special sauce-I don't fucking know what-with a side of mashed potatoes, broccoli, and biscuits..." You were already out of breath, he was a fast walker. As he spoke it was almost like he had taken you around the entirety of the mansion that was his home, before finally entering his bedroom, where his designer waited patiently for his daily fitting. "Oh, and try everything before it leaves, last time they overcooked the broccoli, and I was not pleased." You gulped, never having ever tasted for someone before, never having ever done anything like this before. In fact, you probably were the most under qualified person for this job and yet he picked you. Why?

"Yes, Sir." He made a noise of acknowledgement as his designer tugged on the sleeves of a bright yellow suit jacket over Pagan's outstretched arms.

"Also, I almost forgot, do check in with Yuma about the security issue we've been having in the west. She promised me a direct report by noon and its already ten, I do not see what's taking her so long."

"Yes, Sir." You waited another moment as he critiqued his appearance in the long sided mirror, posing, cocking his head from side to side, testing the look. You were wondering if he was going to say anything else, and when he didn't, you took that as your sign to leave and complete the tasks he had assigned to you.

"Oh, and dear?" You glanced over your shoulder curiously, he snorted. "Could you also find me a new designer..." His eyes then focused harshly down onto the poor man who had created the suit jacket. Pagan angrily started to rip the thing off, the mustard fabric floating down to the ground as the stitches were yanked out. "I am trying to look like a king, not a fucking banana!"

"Y-Yes, Sir." You stuttered out, exiting the room as swiftly as you could to avoid Pagan's wrath. 

You wondered if the same wrath would ever be afforded to you. However, as time went on, as you soon became accustomed to his temper, his demands, the routines of his nation, he never quite yelled at you. Ever. One time you had made a mistake, the whole time wondering if he would at least make your death quick. At the very most, he sent you off with a light tap on the wrist and a warning, knowing you wouldn't be stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. Granted the mistake had everything to do with something as simple as how he liked his coffee, but he had killed people for far less. 

   In fact, what was once a stressful job at first, became plain fun. In the beginning, you didn't really have much of a choice but to become Pagan's assistant, but now you sat across from him, handling all of his important agenda, of your own free will. Not to mention, the gifts, he would surprise you with them almost every other day. You were practically spoiled under his supervision, sometimes even being allowed to sleep in if you had done your job well enough the day before. You didn't know why people hated your king, he was perfect in every way, you would worship the ground he walked upon if he allowed you to. Perhaps you were biased in the sense that if it hadn't been for him, your rags to riches fantasy never would have come true. 

   You had your own room, all brand new clothes, new shoes, all the food you could ever ask for, an entire library that he had dedicated to your hobby of reading, and an office that was the same size as your old shanty. Of course, with all the pearl earrings, luxurious bed spreads, the wonderful view, room service, security at every corner, why would you ever want to bite the hand that fed you? Of course, you would die for Pagan Min, because surely he had given you such a great life in comparison to your previous one, you'd gladly give your life for him. 

   And sometimes you wondered, if that was your only purpose, to make sure his affairs were in order and to make sure his food wasn't poisoned. It made sense, your undying loyalty didn't come cheap it seemed and you hadn't even realized it. These thoughts, these wonders, stemmed from the confusion that began this whole mess. Why did he pick you? A young nobody, he could have easily let you die that day. You were always too afraid to ask him the question though. You didn't want to sound ungrateful in your curiosity. You would sit across the expanse of mahogany wood as he shuffled through important papers and made signatures. Every so often sliding them across the table so you could organize them into the appropriate file.

  It was hard no to stare at him, admire everything that was Min. That fluffy blonde patch of hair that sat on his head, how the strands flickered out in front of his reading glasses. The curve of the collar on his button up, how it lead down to reveal those few undone buttons at the top of his long sleeved shirt. His sleeves rolled up, taut to the crease of his arm, slender fingers sliding between slabs of thin white paper. Every now and again, those fingers would reach up to catch the tip of his tongue, and she would find herself licking her lips with desire, imagining that tongue on her own fingers. 

"Darling?" 

"Yes, Sir?"

"Do you have that paperwork on that shipment from Rook Islands by any chance?" You steadily weeded through the files, carefully removing the proper papers. You stood to step around the table and carry them to him. He didn't lift his head as he held his hand out, accepting the papers in his grasp. You moved to go back to your seat before he stopped you with the continuation of his words. "Volker sent me a letter again, the annoying twat, something about a mistake with the merchandise. You know anything about this?" He finally met your gaze, those glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose as he considered you. You searched your mind for an answer, truly wondering if you had made a mistake, or perhaps you had missed one of Volker's mistakes. You shook your head, twiddling with your thumbs out in front of you. 

"Not that I know of, Sir." 

"Hmmm," He crowned his fingers against his lips, sitting back in his seat, elbows on the armrest. "Well, you might as well have a look for yourself, might jog your memory."

"Of course, Sir." He gestured for you to come to him, sliding his chair back to give you room. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he waved for you keep going.

"You can take a seat, if you will." You felt your breath hitch as you lowered your bottom down onto Pagan's lap. Your whole body engulfed in his warmth as he scooted forward and his arms snaked around your waist to bring forth the paper work again. His chin rested on your shoulder, the embrace extremely close, his strong cologne floating into your nostrils. His finger pointed at the discussed shipment receipts and the letter from Volker. You tried to focus on the words as you skimmed over them in your mind, but Pagan's close proximity to you and the very noticeable lump pressing against your backside was all the more distracting. 

"U-Um..." You cleared your throat, finding yourself leaning back into his chest. He shifted his legs further apart and you couldn't hide the gasp as the hard lump was a lot more accentuated against the curve of your ass in this suddenly all too short pencil skirt.

"Yes, darling?" He whispered huskily into your ear, your entire body feeling overwhelmed by everything Pagan.

"I think everything is in order, Sir." You finally were able to form a coherent sentence surprised at yourself for being capable of doing so. 

"I agree..." You inhaled sharply, his lips barely grazed the spot below your ear drum, along your throat. "I believe you deserve a reward for your hard work, right, my dear?" Yes, a reward, please. You wanted to beg on your knees, beg him for it all. The one thing he never gave you, never gifted you, praised you with. He chuckled, hands suddenly came to your waist and he scooted the chair back again. He forced you to stand with him and then he was gently turning you to face him. "I am sure you must be confused..." And you were, being Pagan's assistant meant that you knew almost everything about his life. One of those things was his overactive sexual exploits, people, men and women alike, were constantly going in and out of his room. "I swing for both teams, Darling, and I have been swinging for you for quite some time." While one hand resided on your waist still, caressing up and down over the fabric of your clothes, the other was now propped on the edge of the table and he came closer. "You must understand, this doesn't have to define our relationship if we don't want it to, but the tension is suffocating. I would like to just finally have my cake and eat it too..." His eyes centered expectantly on you, for a response, when he added. "All of it."

"B-But, S-Sir, I just don't understand." 

"Ask your questions, but my patience is thinning, and..." He almost growled the words that followed, eyes scanning you from head to toe as he pressed his crotch to yours and you gasped. "I might not be able to contain myself much longer."

"Why, me?" You didn't think you could do it, but you did. And this whole journey with Pagan has been a game of figuring out what you could do. Your confidence had surpassed the highest summit in the world, you felt like you could jump into a volcano and still come to tell the tale, like you could fly into space and catch the nearest star. It was all because of Pagan, you owed so much to the man, and all he ever did was give to you.

"You must be joking?" He giggled deeply, like there was some inside joke that you couldn't ever know, but he was going to tell you the joke anyways. "Darling, few know there was only ever one woman for me..." He cupped your cheek, and the other came to sink into the strands of your hair. "Until I met you that is."

Return to Prompts

#pagan min #pagan min x reader #farcry 3 #farcry 4 #prompts list

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone- Chapter 12

Title: In the Quiet

Warnings: very brief mention of sexual abuse

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @tragiclyhip​

He wakes to the press of her warm body against his and the smell of her hair. A mixture of coconut and honey; an inexpensive shampoo that she’s been using for more than a decade and he never tires of. It’s the scent of home; the reminder of the place where he’s the happiest and feels the most comfortable and secure. Where he can be himself without judgment; not looked down upon for his weaker moments or when the darker days of battling his own mind have him feeling scared and vulnerable. For years he’d tucked that side of himself away; using booze and pain meds as a way to mask the pain and escape the demons and the monsters of the past. He’d become emotionally absent; refusing to make connections with anyone out of the fear of becoming too close and getting too attached, only to lose them. And he’d convinced himself that he was unable to love or be loved; years of torment at the hands of his father and the horrible decision he’d made while his child was dying condemning him. It seems like a lifetime ago now; a whole other existence entirely. In the last twelve and half years he’s learned to love again; wholly and unconditionally and so profoundly it is physically painful at times. And he’s allowed himself to be loved in return; blessed with a woman that knows his deepest and darkest secrets and sees past all his faults. Who forgives his mistakes and always gives him another chance, even when he knows he’s not deserving of it. And seven children that he’s had a hand in creating; incredible little human beings that adore and trust him without hesitation.

It’s a life unlike anything he ever thought possible. When both the enormity of his horrible decision regarding his son and his profound grief had set in, he’d sought comfort in the bottle and the unpredictability of a dangerous and bloody career. Relegating himself to a solitary and miserable existence; refusing to allow anyone to get too close and using women for nothing more than sexual gratification. Convincing himself that he didn’t deserve anything beyond that; a warm body on a lonely night and that beaten and battered shack in the outback with its rusted tin roof. Knowing if he wasn’t lucky enough to catch that fatal bullet while on a job, he’d more than likely die there on the dusty floor; drinking himself to death or OD'ing on a mixture of painkillers and cheap whiskey. There were days he prayed for it; an end to the demons that had been tormenting him since the moment he’d gotten the call in Afghanistan that his only child had passed away.

Part of him had died the moment Austin had; all the experiences he’d hoped they’d share, all the dreams he had about what his son would achieve and who he’d become suddenly coming to an abrupt end. Logically, they’d ceased to exist months before. When the specialists had said that despite their best efforts with both chemotherapy and radiation, the cancer had returned and was just far too aggressive and advanced; palliative care and pain management the only remaining options. But while his wife had been devastated and immediately began planning for the inevitable, he’d clung to that faint hope that the medical professionals were wrong; some miracle would occur and Austin would beat the odds. Reality soon began to set in, and it was then that Tyler had discovered just how weak and vulnerable he really was; turning to alcohol to numb the pain, spendings hours and sometimes days away from home because he couldn’t bear seeing his son suffer and his wife run herself ragged and fall deeper and deeper in the pit of despair and grief.

He hadn’t been able to handle it; unable to ‘man up’ and be who and what both of them had so desperately needed. Despite the ongoing issues in their marriage and her long and sordid history of cheating -and the rumours that the kid wasn’t even his to begin with- she had deserved so much better. And he had longed to give her that; a shoulder to cry on and someone to help with the burdens of caring for a terminally ill child. But he’d chickened out. His own grief and fears getting the better of him; unable to handle the realization that he was a total failure. So he ran. Volunteering to head overseas instead of staying behind and stepping up. Leaving his wife to handle everything on her own and his son to wonder what he’d ever done to deserve being abandoned.

It doesn’t hurt as much as now. Not just the trauma of seeing your child suffer and waste away, but the guilt and the regret his poor decision had brought about. It’s taken years of therapy to get as far as he has; moments of profound anguish as every single one of the skeletons in his closet came tumbling out. It took reliving the initial pain to kick start the healing; periods of immense grief for the child he’d lost followed by periods of extreme self loathing and time spent in the deepest and darkest bits of despair and desperation. But it HAD helped; the guilt and regret lessening, the hatred for himself losing some of its power. It will always linger just under the surface; the sting of the decision he’d made, how he sees himself as a monster not just because of it, but because of the things he’s had to do while on the job. Killing had never been about satisfaction or enjoyment. It had always been a means to an end; his chances of survival hinging on whether he could be quicker to pull the trigger or if he could outwit, outsmart, and out strength his opponents. And the only times he had gotten some pleasure out of it -other than just recently in Laos and Cambodia- had been five years ago. When he’d brutally and bloodily taken the lives of two of Mahajan’s men in an elevator in Mumbai, and when he’d had no chance but to eliminate that threat that had drugged and attacked him first. It had been personal then; threats made against his wife and his children. And taking the lives of those who would have delighted in torturing and murdering his family HAD given him a sense of satisfaction.

The demons of the past don’t carry as much weight now. Their power significantly decreased. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t moments when self hate and disgust DON’T return. When his mood is dropping and he’s more prone to returning to the pain and the regret of the past. It doesn’t happen often; medication and therapy helping to keep those moments to a minimum. But they do make an appearance. Self loathing making a comeback; reminding him of all the things he’s said and done that DO make him a monster and telling him that he doesn’t deserve the life he has now. That he’s committed way too many heinous acts to ever be truly forgiven. Absolution would never come his way; he's too far gone for THAT. In the same way guys like him aren’t allowed to love and be loved in return. And that’s when the fear kicks in; the concern that his life is way too good to be true and everything that is beautiful and perfect in it will be taken away to teach him a lesson. His protectiveness stems from it. The fear and worry profound; driving him to hold on to what he has even tighter than usual. On those days it all becomes too much to bear; a tightness in his chest and an ache that reaches to his very soul.

Some of that returns now; the fear that tugs at his chest and gnaws at his stomach. It had started last night; decorating the tree with the kids and coming across the ornament that Millie had made for Austin years ago. It’s always bittersweet; remembering what he’d lost while reminding himself of everything he has now. Had things gone differently and Austin never gotten sick, life would have been dramatically altered. His marriage somehow managing to be salvaged despite her inability to stay faithful, or at the very least being able to co-parent peacefully and amicably. He would have stayed in the military; grief and regret and the feelings of failure never turning him towards alcohol and pain meds to numb the pain and effectively ending what could have been a great career in special forces. Had he stayed with SASR and kept on the straight and narrow, mercenary work would have never even been on his radar. And that’s when things become complicated and troublesome. Even if his marriage HAD still fallen apart, there would have been no chance of ever meeting Esme. It WAS the job that led him to her; years as a hired gun somehow culmination with him coming face to face with who would turn out to be the love of his life. He had always thought he’d loved Sarah; she’d been his high school sweetheart and his first of many things. And it wasn’t until he was thirty-five that his eyes had been opened to just how wrong he’d actually been. Simply by chance meeting someone that would -even twelve and a half years later- take his breath away. Who would see past his jagged edges and the amount of baggage weighing him down and take a chance on him; looking past the mess he’d made of his life and patiently tearing down all the walls he’d build up around his heart. Who still looks at him as if he’s the most incredible man on earth; loving him with everything she has and everything she is and possessing an extraordinary amount of blind faith and trust.

She IS love. Everything that is beautiful and perfect about it. Never given up on him or them. Had Austin NOT died, he never would have found her and would have never known real love in its purest and most unconditional of forms. And his kids wouldn’t exist; seven incredible little human beings that he’d had a hand in creating. And even if he could go back in time and change things, he wouldn’t. He would choose to bear the pain of Austin’s death and the punishment that came with the horrible choice that he made. In the same way he’d accept the Dhaka job a million times over; taking a million bullets to the neck if it meant he’d be rewarded with what he has now.

*****

She lies with her back to him and her head resting on his arm. It had long ago fallen asleep; pins and needles stretching all the way from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers. They’d decided to bed down in the sunroom; pushing the love seat and the couch together to form a ‘nest’ and then fetching old comforters and pillows from the downstairs linen closet. Sometime in the early morning hours, she’d moved closer to him; briefly waking from her slumber long enough to move from her stomach to her side and then snuggling tightly into him. It’s a common occurrence if she has a bad dream. A desire for closeness; needing the feel of his much larger and bulkier frame against hers, quickly comforted by the warmth that radiates from it. His own eyes had never opened, body moving instinctively as he slid one arm between her head and the pillow while the other wrapped around her waist; drawing her even tighter against him, palm flat against her stomach and his face buried in her hair.

In the years he’d spent between his first marriage falling apart and meeting Esme, he’d gotten used to sleeping alone; enjoying the space and the freedom that came with having the entire bed to himself. In Dhaka, he’d been more than prepared to sleep on the floor until tempers flared; a heated argument erupting, fuelled by both sexual frustration AND tension, and his worry and fears surrounding what he was actually feeling towards her. It had taken some getting used to; having a body in bed with him throughout the night and waking up with them still there in the morning. But the adjustment had come quick, and by the third night he’d found himself actually enjoying the way she’d move closer to him; loving the feel of her skin against his and the brush of her hair and that soft, beautiful scent that lingered in it. Now he struggles to find rest without her. Used to the sound of her breathing and the weight of slender frame against his and the little noises she makes in her sleep; the soft sighs and the occasional murmur and giggles and the moments she starts to carry on very detailed conversations. All those little things that make her, her. And that he misses horribly when he’s away from home.

She rolls over to face him, eyes remaining closed as she issues a long, soft sigh and her hand comes to rest on his hip. The tips of her fingers dip below the waistband off his sweats; thumb repeatedly brushing against the slice of skin between the top of his pants and the hem of his t-shirt. For several minutes he watches as she sleeps. Eyes taking in every inch of her face; smiling and marvelling at the thought of how he’d not only somehow managed to both find her, but have her fall in love with him. She’s beautiful; the freckles splashed across and down the bridge of her nose, the long, dark eyelashes that skim the tops of her cheeks, the curve of her lips and the smooth line of her chin. It’s in those quiet moments where he only sees the damage done to her; the handful of small scars left behind from Mark’s fists and whatever ‘weapon’ he could get his hands on; electrical cords, wire hangers, heavy work boots and porcelain mugs and plates. There’s more. So much more. Disturbing ways that her ex husband had come up with to torture her both physically AND mentally.

There’d been other abuse as well; moments she’d been forced into sex itself or terrified into performing acts. And while it’s all equally vile and disturbing, THAT bothers him more than anything else. The fact that someone could violate and betray her in such a disgusting way. Someone that was supposed to love her; who’d taken vows to honor her and cherish her and care for her. And when she finally confessed the true extent of the abuse, the full story had sickened him; horrified and enraged at the thought of anyone touching her...the love of his life...in such a way. And it’s amazing. The fact that she’d not only managed to survive the abuse with her spirit and sanity intact, but that she’d been so willing and able to trust him. Giving everything of herself from that very first night in Dhaka; placing both her body and her heart in his hands and having all the faith in the world that he wouldn’t destroy them.

He places a palm over her ear; fingers splayed against her dark tresses and his thumb tracing the faint scar that cuts through the middle of her right eyebrow and travels up into her hairline. And when his hand moves to the back of her head and his lips find her brow, she gives another sigh; long and content, warm breath wafting against his skin. A soft smile curving her lips as her eyes flutter open and meet his.

“Sleeping beauty awakes,” he greets, and combs his hand through her hair, allowing the silky strands to slip slowly through his fingers. Lips pressing against her brow, followed by the bridge of her nose.

The smile broadens and those dark eyes sparkle. “Morning.”

“Morning. You good?”

“For the most part. You alright?”

“I’m perfect. It actually turned out to be a lot more comfortable than I thought it would be. You sleep okay?”

Esme shrugs. “I’ve had better.”

“You got up pretty early. Bad dream?”

She nods.

“You want to tell me about it or…?”

“Not really. It’s not something I want to relive.”

“Was it about me?”

“And Ovi. And me.”

“So a Dhaka dream?”

“Unfortunately. The first time there. And I haven’t had a dream about that in a long time. I was kind of hoping I’d never have one again, but....”

“Like Doctor Klein said, it’s never going to go away completely. It DID happen. We can’t pretend it never did.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to dream about it. It was bad enough living it. Do I really have to go through it all over again? While I’m asleep? It’s been twelve and a half years. Since it happened. And I haven’t had a dream about it in at least three. Now all a sudden it’s starting up again? What the hell is that about?”

“Me going away probably brought up some bad shit. And you’ve been stressed. That’ll do it.”

“I’m always stressed at Christmas. I always work myself up. Over stupid shit.”

“Doesn’t help that your mum sent that stuff from the kids and she’s been calling five times a day.”

“She knows what she’s doing, you know. This is a ploy. To fuck with me. She doesn’t bother for years and then all of a sudden decides to play the role of the perfect, doting grandmother? How long has she spent purposefully ignoring our kids? Treating them like second class citizens? Playing favourites? She pretty much stopped keeping track after Declan. I’m surprised she even remembered we had three more after him.”

“I’m kind of surprised she even remembered ANY of their names.”

“She’s not doing it for them. It’s not because she loves them and wants to spoil them. Her love is conditional. It always has been. And she knew getting in contact would bother me. That it would get under my skin and I’d dwell on it and I’d eventually cave and get in contact with her. Isn’t it enough that I sent a text message thanking her? Or that I’ll have the kids make thank you cards and send them to her? Do I REALLY have to talk to her?”

“Normally I’d say just ignore her and I’d remind you that you don’t owe her or anyone else in your family anything, but she’s only to keep calling. She’s only going to step it up and get worse. And seeing as we’d like to enjoy Christmas and have a nice peaceful holiday…”

“Maybe I should let my phone die and we’ll just use yours. Chances are she won’t message you.”

“The perks of being at the top of her most hated list, I guess. Why don’t you just block her?”

“Because then she WILL get a hold of you. And that won’t end well. You’re due for losing your shit on someone. That hasn’t happened in a while.”

“Not like she wouldn’t deserve it.”

“I’ll just keep ignoring her. Maybe she’ll get the picture and just give up.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just talk to her and let her say what she has to say? Let her run her mouth and hang up on her. Then block her. Boom. Done.”

“I don’t want to hear her shit though. I’m already not in a good place. Mentally, speaking. Why let her make it worse? That’s just asking for trouble. And I really do not want to spend my Christmas doped up on Valium or drunk off my ass. Maybe you could message her. From my phone. Pretend you’re me. Telling her off.”

“I’m pretty sure she’ll know it’s me. But I’ll take one fo the team. She already hates me and wishes I was dead. Can’t get any worse than THAT.”

“Who gives a fuck what she says. Isn’t that what you always say? Fuck what my family says? Let’s NOT talk about them.”

******

She wriggles closer to him; the fabric of her plaid shirt pressed against his chest and her cheek resting on his pillow. A hand sliding under his tee and over his ribs and around to his back; fingertips repeatedly grazing up and down his spine. And he lays a palm on the back of her head and presses his lip to her temple; allowing them to linger there for several seconds before resting the side of his nose against hers. Neither speak as time ticks on. Eyes closed and warm breath tickling skin. The tips of his fingers burrowed in her hair and gently massaging her scalp as hers continue their exploration of his back; travelling over the various and tracing the outline of the tattoo that sits between his shoulders. It’s when she reaches the scar left behind from Nathan’s attack that he pulls back to look at her, finding those dark, soulful eyes staring up at him.

“Does it hurt?”

Tyler shakes his head. “Not this morning.” Some days there’s discomfort there. More a tightness than an actual ache; damage done to the nerve sometimes causing loss of sensation into his hip and down the back of his leg. Other times it feels as if the wound is freshly acquired; a burning and throbbing that reminds him of the moment Nathan had stuck his fingers into the bullet hole to cause more pain and inflict greater damage.

“It’s been okay? For the most part?”

“More good days than bad days. Sometimes it feels like there’s something stuck in there; moving around and pressing against shit.”

“There’s no actual chance of that, right? That they left something in there? I mean, they showed me the bullet. They got it all out. Or at least it looked like it did. Do you think something could have been left behind? A small fragment? Do you think…?”

“I think you need to stop worrying. It’s been five years. Almost six.”

“Even after twelve years, I don’t think you fully comprehend that I CAN’T stop worrying. It’s who I am. I worry about the people I love. And I love you a bit more than everyone esle, so…”

“A bit more, huh?”

She grins and presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Just a bit. You know what would be nice? If we could stay here all day. Right here. Cuddled up just like this.”

“It would be,” he agrees, and slides his forearm between her shoulder and the cushions; hand coming to rest on her upper arm, thumb repeatedly brushing against smooth skin. “But..”

“No,” Esme protests, and nuzzles her face into his neck; head under his chin and her nose pressed against his Adam’s Apple. “No ‘buts’. I don’t want to hear any ‘buts’.”

“As much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news, we DO have kids. Who very shortly are going to discover we’re not upstairs and come looking for us.”

“Let them fend for themselves. We deserve a break. A mommy and daddy break.”

“Few more months, babe. And then two weeks. Just us.”

“In Santorini,” she reminds him.

“Wherever you want to go, that’s where we’ll go.”

“Still doesn’t mean I WANT to move anytime soon. I’d still rather lie here with you all day. Preferably with less clothes on.”

“I was hoping for totally naked, myself.”

“Me too. Just lie, totally naked, and make love. All day?”

“All day?”

She pulls back to look at him; a grin playing on her lips and her eyes sparkling playfully. “What? You don’t think you have it in you anymore?”

“I was more worried about you no longer being able to handle that kind of thing.”

“Oh don’t you worry about me. You know how resilient and tenacious I am. And how I’m fully committed when I’m really into something.’

“I’ve seen all of that first hand. I could handle it. I’d need water and food breaks, but I’d be game.”

Placing her elbow on the cushion below, she props the side of her head in her upturned palm, fingers of the other hand tracing the tattoo that decorates the left side of his neck. “Remember our little apartment? Outside of Sydney?”

“I do. I remember it very well.”

“When you finally got out of the rehab place and were finally able to live there full time? Instead of just weekends home? We had A LOT of those days in bed. Enjoying each other as much as we wanted. Rarely wearing clothes even when we DID leave the room.”

“The good old days, you mean?”

“We had some really good times in that little apartment. It was kind of weird though, don’t you think? Living together and having a baby while still in the process of really getting to know one another? It was strange. How we tackled things. Wasn’t exactly a normal way of going about it.”

“I figured we didn’t start out normal, so why bother going that way?”

“There was definitely nothing conventional about how we met. It’ll make a great story one day. For one of our kids to tell on our fiftieth anniversary.”

“Only thirty eight more years to go. Think you can handle it?”

“I think I’ll be okay. Do you think YOU can?”

“I’m pretty sure that if we could survive the past twelve years...especially the last five...that there's nothing we CAN'T get past.”

“Listen to you all sappy first thing in the morning,” she teases, and hooks a finger around the chain that dangles from his neck and pulls him into a kiss. “By the way, your daughter and I had a very interesting conversation yesterday. While you were out with the rest of the spawn.”

Sighing heavily, he presses a final kiss to her forehead and then rolls onto his back; hands pushing through his hair before clasping them together at the nape of his neck. “If it’s about periods or boys, I do NOT want to hear it.”

“I’ll go easy on you; I think I’ve tortured you enough for the time being. I still say you need to be prepared. Just in case…”

“And I’ll let you do what you need to do to get me prepared. I have faith in you. That you won’t throw me to the wolves.”

“I would never.” She rolls onto her stomach and props herself up on both elbows. “And this isn’t about Millie herself. Just something she’s concerned about.”

“And you promise it’s not about her period or boys?”

“I promise. It actually surprised me. And I thought with having a mercenary husband and after birthing four boys, that there was nothing that could possibly surprise me anymore.”

“Is she okay? Millie?”

“She’s fine. She’s Millie. There’s nothing wrong with her. Like I said, it isn’t really about her. It’s about something she’s worried about. And to be honest, I’m kind of worried about it too. A lot worried, actually.”

“You’re starting to worry ME now.”

“It’s about Alannah. And her home life.”

“About how badly it sucks?”

“Pretty much. I mean, you’ve seen it first hand. You’ve been in that home. You’ve talked to her parents. You know what they’re like.”

“If you mean emotionally absent and full of shit, yeah, I’ve seen it. Those people are fucked up, babe. I don’t know how you can have that much money and have nothing all at the same time. I don’t get it; how people can be that soulless and empty. And that's saying something when it comes from a guy that kills people for a living.”

“Normally this is where I give you a stern talking to about how that’s not all you do, but I’ll let it slide. For now. You’ve been in that home. A handful of times. You’ve talked to them. On the outside, everything looks great. They drive luxury cars, they wear designer clothes, her mother is practically dripping in expensive jewelry everytime I see her. I mean, they send her to a really expensive private school. They put on a pretty good show, you have to admit.”

“It’s what they want people to see. They want everyone to think everything is perfect. That they have a great life. Trust me, there’s nothing great about it. Not for the kid, anyway. And I grew up with someone with no soul or moral compass. That house? Worse vibes than the one I was raised in.”

“Which is saying a lot. You lived a shitty life. You’d recognize the warning signs. You were THAT kid.”

“So were you. You didn’t get your ass handed to you on a daily basis, but the mental stuff is just as bad. If not worse sometimes.”

“So we BOTH know how horrible it is. Growing up where we’re not wanted. And I know my mom always put on a big show for everyone. Acted like life was amazing and that she was the perfect mother. Behind closed doors? Mommy fucking dearest. Both of us deserved so much better growing up And so does Alannah.”

“I agree. She does. So where do we come into this? What’s Millie worried about?”

“It’s not just Millie that’s worried. I am too. I know how bad a crappy upbringing can fuck someone up. I’m a mess. And most of it leads right back to my mom. I’m the first to admit that I’m pretty fucked up. That I’ve got some long term issues I do battle with every day. Because of her. In the same way you have your own things; related to your dad.”

“Okay…”

“I don’t want that happening to her. I don’t want her turning into me. I don’t want her ending up with a guy like Mark because she has zero self worth and doesn’t think she deserves better. I don’t want her being forty years old and married to a second guy -an amazing guy, for the record- and completely unable to fully appreciate him because of some shit experience. I don’t want her turning out like this. I don’t want her spending her life hating herself and thinking she’s garbage because that’s all she was told she was. I don’t want some other guy ending up like you; loving someone so wholly and completely yet having to right another man’s wrong. That’s not fair. To you. Or to whatever guy she ends up with.”

“Babe, you…”

“Don’t try and deny it, okay. Don’t try and play it down. I know what I’m like. I know how bad I can get. You’ve spent the last twelve years having to prove you’re not him. And that isn’t fair. And I’m sorry. For ever making you feel like you’re not good enough or that you’re somehow like him. Because you’re not. You are so far from being anything like him. I’ve never meant to hurt you. And if I knew how to stop being this way…”

“Esme…” He lays a hand on the back of her neck and lifts his head to kiss her. “...stop. I love you. I get it. Why you are the way you are. In the same way you get why I’m the way I am. And you know what? We’re both fucked up. But somehow it works. WE work.”

“I just don’t want Alannah ending up like this. She’s still so young. There’s time to stop it. Before it happens.”

“How? You’re not her mother. What are you going to do? Go over there and over advice? Teach some parenting classes? Because that will go over REALLY well.”

“I’m hardly the person who should be teaching parenting classes. I’m not exactly perfect myself.”

“Your kids think you are. I think you are.”

“You think the sun shines out of my ass and that I poop glitter and fart rainbows. You’re hardly a good judge. But…” she leans in and presses a kiss to his lips. “...I love you for always wanting to stroke my ego. For always looking at me like butterflies fly out of my butt.”

“Your ass is nice, but it’s not THAT nice. And this stuff with Alannah. What can we do about it? She already spends more time here than at her own place. What more do you want?”

“Well she obviously likes being here. You’ve seen her at her own house. She doesn’t smile, she barely talks, hardly eats. Doesn’t even make eye contact with people. It’s like she’s nothing but a shell. And then she comes here and she’s completely different. She’s smiling and she’s laughing and she’s so loveable and sweet. And helpful. She’s a good kid. A good kid that deserves so much better.”

“You’re still not telling me what you think we can do about it. And we’re not moving here, so don’t even bring that up. We’ve talked about that. Numerous times. This isn’t the place for us. Not on a permanent basis:”

“I know. And to be honest, I wouldn’t want to live here full time. I love where we are. It’s private and it’s quiet and it’s beautiful. That’s home. No other place can even come close to that. It’s nice to visit here, but living? Definitely not a good idea. Especially for you. And Tanner. You guys need the quiet and the calm.”

“So what DO you want to do? You say you want to help the kid. How do we help her?”

“Millie brought something up. An idea. And it’s not totally horrible.”

“And that is…”

“She asked if we can bring Alannah back with us. To Australia.”

“As in permanently or…?”

“Temporarily. I think. For now. I don’t know; we didn’t really get that deep into it. She suggested it and I told her that I’d talk to you. So, here I am. Talking to you.”

“We can’t just take the kid. We can’t just toss her on a plane and take her home with us. There’s this thing called kidnapping, in case you didn’t realize.”

“And I told Millie that. That we can’t just take her with us. She DOES have a family. A shitty one, but a family nonetheless. We’d have to go through a lot of steps. Just like we did with Ovi. That was a lot of work. Getting everything in order so he could go with us to Colorado. I mean, we were in Mumbai for a month while the lawyers figured everything out.”

“It was a lot of red tape. And Australia’s a lot more strict than the States. About who they let in. And we’d have to get her signed up for school. She can’t just hang around the house. We both work and the kid has to learn. It’s not like we’d just be bringing her for an extended vacation.”

“But it CAN be done. I mean, I was allowed to stay in Australia.”

“Yeah, because we were getting married and we were having a baby. Two perfectly good reasons to let you stay. We bring some random kid home with us…”

“We’d have to call the lawyer. He’d be able to advise us. On how to handle everything. He’d probably be able to handle all the paperwork. And we’re not talking about adopting her. We became Ovi’s legal guardians. That’s a whole other ballgame. We’d just be taking her on an adventure. Let her experience something new. Give her a real family. People that love her and siblings to play with and drive her crazy.”

“And then what? We just send her back home a few months? Just ship her right back to the bullshit here? That makes NO sense.”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead. I just thought for the time being, we could help her out. Give her time away from her shitty life. And if in the end she really loves it and wants to stay, then we think about guardianship.”

“You’re talking about taking on another kid. That’ll make eight.”

“Two days ago, you wanted me to get my tubes patched up so we could have an eighth,” Esme points out.

“Yeah, one of our own. A baby. That we make. Together. Not someone else’s kid.”

“But that isn’t going to happen. We agreed on this. After the twins. That seven was enough.”

“But you’re okay with taking on Alannah? Just not with having our own baby.”

“I can’t do it again. I just can’t. I love you. More than I ever thought I could love someone. But I am babied out. And this is a kid that needs our help. You're always the first person that WANTS to help everyone.”

“Usually when I’m helping people, I’m getting sent somewhere to kill someone. Not taking in their kids.”

“I will admit, it’s not a fool proof plan. Or much of a plan at all. And I do have my own concerns.”

He reaches out and pushes a hand through her hair; allowing the dark tresses to slip between his fingers and then looping strands over her ears. “Which are?”

“I worry about us. Me and you. Our plates are full. We have seven kids we’re raising. And we’re doing a damn good job, you have to admit. We make a really good team.”

“Yeah, we do. We always have. Right from day one.”

“But we’re also taking time to nurture us. Our relationship. That’s important. How many times has it been drilled into us? At therapy? That we need to step away sometimes and make the effort to connect and stay close and keep our bond the way it is. We’ve had to work on that. A lot. We’ve both had to step up to make sure we didn’t fall apart. To make sure we remember that we’re not just two people raising kids together. And I don’t want to lose that. Those moments with you.”

“I don’t want to lose that either. It’s a big deal to me. You know that. Keeping things together. Keeping US together.”

“And you’ve been amazing. At putting in the time and the effort. And it’s gone so well. We are so much stronger than we were five years ago. By A LOT. You know how cheesy it would always sound? When you’d hear people talking about loving someone more and more every day? I thought it was so stupid. That there was no way that was true. And in these last five years? I’ve realized how wrong I was. Because I DO love you more every day. And I’m scared something will come along and wreck that.”

“But? I know there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“But I can’t help but worry that we’re letting Alannah down. That we’re just leaving her to suffer and grow up to be just as messed up as us. We have a chance to help her. And I don’t think my conscience will let me just walk away and leave her here. Not without at least trying to help.”

Tyler nods slowly as he considers her words; absentmindedly twirling a strand of her hair around his index finger.

“You don’t think I’m selfish do you? That I want to help? Even thought I’m scared of fucking us up?”

“Actually, I think you’re selfless. Not selfish. If you’re willing to risk something to help this kid....”

“I don’t want to risk anything. That’s the problem. I want to help, but I don't want to jeopardize us. That’s the last thing I want. Because we have come so far and we are so much better now and we’re so much stronger. I do not want this to be a case of a hundred steps forward and a thousand steps back.”

“That won’t happen,” he assures her. “I won’t let that happen. We just keep doing things the way we are. We make each other a priority. Like we've been doing for five years now. Taking on Alannah is not going to change that. If she was a baby or a toddler we were bringing aboard, I’d say no way in hell. Because that would be a lot of work and yeah, things would fuck up. Between us.”

“So what can we do? To help her. You want to, right? Help her?”

“I do. But…”

“I KNEW that was coming.”

“...it’s not just as easy as taking her back with us. I wish it was. But it is NOT that simple. And you know that. From the experience with Ovi.”

“I do. I DO know that. And I told Millie as much. That we had to jump through a lot of hoops to be able to bring him with us to Colorado.”

“And I don’t mind putting in the work and calling the lawyer and putting this out there to him. But it’s only going to work if her parents are on board. And honestly, I don’t know how the fuck we’d go about that. Talking to them.”

“You talked to Mahajan. About Ovi. You went to the prison in Mumbai and spoke to him.”

“That was an entirely different situation. He knew he couldn’t provide a proper home for his kid. He knew he couldn’t keep him safe. He didn’t really have a choice, and he knew that. But I can’t just go walking into Alannah’s house and tell her parents I want to take her to Australia. I can’t just say ‘you’re shit parents, give me your kid’. They’ll tell me to fuck off and most likely call the cops.”

“I guess that wouldn’t be the perfect way to approach the subject. But we could. Talk to them. Rationally. And calmly.”

“And they could turn around and tell us both fuck off and then forbid their kid from coming over here. Which means we break Alannah’s heart AND our daughter’s.”

Sighing heavily, Esme places her forehead against his chest and groans dramatically. “Why does this have to be so hard?”

“We need to figure out how to approach this. Without stirring up the hornet’s nest. And we can’t just make a decision like this overnight. We need time to talk about this. REALLY talk about it. Because this is a huge deal. This isn’t just bringing the kid for a vacation.”

“But we will? Talk more about it?”

“Can we get past Christmas first? Because I would really like to get through this holiday with what’s left of my sanity somewhat intact.”

“Maybe after New Years Eve. Then we can sit down and really talk it out. Pros and cons. The whole nine yards. We don’t need to rush into this. There’s a lot of time before we head back home. And if we DO decide to take her and her parents agree, we’ll need to give the lawyer some time to work on getting past the red tape.”

“I’m not promising anything, Me. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I want to do this and I think we should. I’m not going to lie to you. I don’t know if it’s a good idea. But I WILL think about it. And talk about.”

“That’s all I want,” she says, and presses a kiss to his cheek and then the corner of his mouth before placing her head upon his chest.

“You know…” he runs a palm down the length of her hair, then rests it on the small of her back. “...I don’t know what kind of hoodoo voodoo black magic you got going on, but I seem to get talked into the most fucked up shit.”

Laughing, she places her chin on his chest and looks up at him. “It’s the eyes. They get you every time.”

“And the ass. And the things you let me do to it.”

“We are NOT having that particular conversation. That’s just a no from me. We can go there, but we don’t need to discuss it. And speaking of going places, today’s the day.”

“Your little shopping trip with Desi. You ARE going to spoil yourself, yeah? No buying anything for me or the kids. We don’t need shit. This is all about you. So go crazy. Buy a whole fucking store if you want. I do NOT care.”

“Any requests? Something you’d like me to buy? Something you’d like to see me in?”

“Not really. I prefer you out of clothes, not actually IN them. But maybe something sexy?”

“Sexy as in a dress to wear for a night on the town or…?”

“Sexy as in only for my eyes to see.”

She grins. “You mean bedroom sexy.”

“Exactly.”

“I thought you didn’t care about the packaging? I thought you only cared about what’s underneath?”

“I don’t usually care. But, I do have plans. For New Years Eve. After Ovi’s wedding.”

“Really?” Her eyes sparkle mischievously. “What kind of plans?”

“It’s a surprise. But I think something sexy would fit right in.”

“Is it mommy and daddy ONLY plans?”

“Yes. Just us. No kids anywhere near us. No interruptions.”

“You want to have wild and crazy sex all night. The kind of wild and crazy sex that we can’t have with kids in the noise. The noisy kind of wild and crazy sex.”

“That would be nice, yeah. I would love to have some wild and crazy noisy sexy with my wife.”

“In that case…” she slides further up the couch and pushes a hand through his hair, speaking between soft pecks that she places on his hips. “...I will buy something very, very, VERY sexy. Just for you.”

“You spoil me.”

“You deserve it. You’re a good man, Tyler Rake. You’re a keeper.”

“And speaking of spoiling…” Curling an arm around her waist, he unceremoniously dumps her onto the mounds of bunched up pillows and comforters and then sits back on his heels. A grin playing at the corners of his mouth as his palms travel along the backs of her calves; fingertips grazing against the skin of her inner thighs before applying gentle pressure in silent encouragement for her to open them. “...it’s my turn.”

#Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake fan fiction #Extraction fan fiction