#goddamnit at least HE acknowledges it...

[gunpowdercarousel]

Me: Alright, Emperor, prove you know me.

Emperor: You slept with the Drow, Minthara.

Me: Wait-

Emperor: You pleased her.

Me: WAIT-

Emperor: You still have feelings for her.

Me: OKAY OKAY I GET IT I-

Emperor: You quicksave before every conversation with her because you-

Me: NONONO SHUDDUP SHUDDUP SHUDDUP MINTHARA DON'T LISTEN TO HIM HE LIES

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #bg3 memes #minthara #based on real game dialogue #where emperor just spills the tea in front of the whole party #so thanks for that my guy #I was expecting something like 'oh you stole the idol of sylvanus' #but naw #he's just like YOU FUKT THAT GIRL OVER THERE #goddamnit at least HE acknowledges it...

[katz-chow]

hey 😏

MY TURN TO REQUEST 😈

how do you think Ghost would feel about his s/o who hates being touched but only allows him to touch them??? 😋😊

touchy feelies

warnings: gn! reader, combat medic! reader, gn!reader, pinning, a bit of mental exhaustion & guilt, self hair pulling

simon flinches if he’s caught off guard on base when someone gives him a friendly tap. even if it’s just soap who ends up giving him a friendly tap. he knows why that is, he just refuses to acknowledge it.

so when it comes to you, precious you, he gets it. he sees the way you side eye someone when they put a hand on your shoulder and how you shrug it off. he sees the way you avoid hugs like the plague. he sees you give weak smiles in exchange for pats on the back. he sees it all, he sees you.

the first time that you let him touch you, you both were skittish as can be. it was a simple fist bump but he knows it meant a lot to you. it was symbolic even. you initiated it, and thank god because simon would never push any boundaries, he wouldn't want it himself. it was simple really; a mission done well, you both staying alive with no major injuries, it was pretty ideal. as you both were about to land on the air-evac, you turn to him, a grin on your lips, "good to be alive sometimes huh?"

simon stared at you and your fist raised up a bit, he gulped but goddamnit, he couldn't resist it. he bumped his fist into yours and that alone made the both of you giggle on the inside like a crushing schoolgirl.

soap stared in utter confusion.

the next time you let him touch you was in the medical bay. you weren't broken, physically at least, but having to be on your feet all day with the weight of all those lives you couldn't save made you sick. it usually doesn't make itself known, today was just not a good day. simon was on his way to hit the showers when he walked past the open door, seeing you hunched over a crash cart, your head in your hands. the grip on your hair tightened and you looked just about to pull it all out.

he couldn't control his feet but soon he found himself backtracking and knocking on the door to get your attention. his body was attracted to you, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. he was hesitant when you looked up at him, awaiting what he had to say. soon he was a mere two steps besides you. you stood up a bit straighter, head lifted and eyes focused on him.

his hand found your back, lighting touching your camis. "you're doing good, kid"

you don't know why but you didn't hate his touch, it was a good warmth. you stared at him. you tried to breathe it all in, and soon you found yourself breathing him in, a hug that you actually wanted for once. physical touch was new to the both of you, it was awkward, arms loosely around each other, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

the next morning he saw you just about barked at someone trying to throw an arm around your shoulders for a picture. he laughed to himself, a bubbly feeling in his chest.

#cod mw2 #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #cod #modern warfare 2 #fanfic #cod ghost #katzwrites #ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #ghost x soap #ghost x you #ghost x male reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x gn reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon riley ghost #simon riley call of duty #simon ghost x you #call of duty modern warfare

[gremlingottoosilly]

Cabin in the woods (yan!slasher!Konig x fem!Reader x yan!slasher!Horangi) part 3

Little birdie got caught. Konig is simply too excited to let you go. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 AO3

TW for the chapter: Light blood and gore, dead bodies, mentions of drugs, spanking, kidnapping

— Those fucking bastards killed Karen! Don’t you care?! 

Shouting at your friends was never your forte, but you expected that it would come out at some point in your unwilling journey, You never knew it would because of the psycho killers on the loose, wanting nothing more but to make a nice set of decorations from your bones and eat your liver. 

You try to scream some senses into Chad’s tough skull but, just like his name suggests, this is a useless endeavor and you would be far better off running for your life, abandoning your friends, and hoping that killers would be satisfied without your sacrifice. But, you’re too nice. But, you have a bleeding heart and a death wish – and you feel guilty over not feeling guilty that Karen is dead. This is a new, overwhelming feeling for you, the one that almost revamps your whole essence. There are changes occurring, and you would rather die than acknowledge those changes. 

— Listen to me, goddamnit! We’re all going to die! 

You must be looking horrible – mouth covered in blood like you just ate a bunch of raw meat, smelling of dirt and fresh guts, hands shaking and your face resembling the horror mixed with anger – even Marty is surprised to see the resident mouse behave like this. God, even you are surprised to see just how horrified you look, screaming at them in the hope of saving at least someone. 

Marty drops a hand over your shoulders, pulling you to the side. You try to resist, but his clanky figure is surprisingly grippy and strong – you are being pulled to the nearest tree branches, just out of the range of the group. You spend the previous few hours trying to find them and yell some senses into their heads – and the only thing that they advised is that you should stop drinking for today and that stealing pills from Marty’s stash isn’t very nice even if he kinda doesn’t care where his junk goes. Still, you are fucking trembling. 

Marty pushes you to the tree, whispering in your ear – you feel his hot, deranged breath on the side of your face, making you wince. Even compared to the killer’s smell of sweat and blood, they still were nicer to be around than Stale-Beer-And-Cheap-Weed-Breath Marty. 

— Hey. Heeeeey, doll, what was happening back there? 

— Karen is…

— Nah-nah-nah, this is where you should shut up, yeah? Karen isn’t dead. I mean, I’m glad you think she is, it means my prank is fucking awesome. 

Prank? Her fucking head was chopped off and then tossed over to the nearest creek when the shorter killer decided that he wants you to perform a blowjob on his knife, making sure that you are licking all the blood away. You don’t think that there are ways to fake this – and if there are, then your friends and their hired goons are no better than actual killer psychos anyway and you’d still want out. 

— I saw her! 

— Sure you did, hon. Listen, I’m really glad you were the first to notice and everything, but keep it down for now, yeah? I have this sick mask and I was actually planning to prank the group later at night, but if you found it first…

— Prank?! There are two actual killers on the loose, this is the worst time to do pranks! — God, you’re annoying. This is why I fucking asked Jenny not to invite you. There are no killers, alright? Karen agreed to partake in the prank, so she is hiding somewhere in the forest until I’d pull out that sick knife and fucking scare everyone shitless. You were probably hallucinating from booze. 

— I saw her severed head!

— Sure you did. Listen – you can help me, yeah? Just rile everyone up a little, then you will come back and say that…hmmmm…that Marty was taken! Everyone panicking, screaming, crying, and then I show up with this big-ass knife and…

You never heard the last of his amazing, perfect, simply brilliant idea – because before he could finish it, his head was impaled with…oh, no. No-no-no, you can’t do this anymore, not so soon after Karen is dead, not when you are still shaking and can barely think straight not when you are far away from others because Marty fucking led you to another secured place just to get his stupid head impaled with a fucking crossbow bolt – something that you only saw in video games or historical dramas. 

This was completely silent – the quiet music of the bolt flying through the air, a small grunt that escaped Marty’s lips before he fell to the ground beneath your feet. You didn’t even manage to see from what direction this thing came from, too disoriented to observe the world around you properly. You feel the adrenaline running up again, probably breaking the record for you in the whole year – you jump from the body on the ground, tears dwelling in your eyes. You can’t do it, you can’t do it, you won’t do it, you were never a fighter, the freeze-fight-flight instinct always coming up to curling down in a small ball and sucking on your thumb. 

Some people are simply not built for survival – this is a natural order, something that Darwin was talking about. Soft, weak humans are meant to die, meant to be the food for stronger predators, for monsters dwelling in the shadows. Some creatures are never meant to exist – fleshy cute creatures, the ones that melt at the slightest touch, someone like you – when your first answer to a threat is to roll on your back and show your belly to a mountain lion, you just knew that evolution never meant for you to live past the crib. And yet, civilisation allowed you to survive. To thrive even, before you were put in this fucking forest. 

You run before everything else can kick in – at least some of your instincts are working properly, adrenaline running through your veins as you are leaving Marty behind, not even bothering to check if he is still breathing or not. The man was never thinking with his head – not the upper one anyway – but you doubt that he would survive a bolt shot perfectly between his eyes, separating his brain in two perfect halves. Like a fucking apple. 

You ran 

 ‏‏‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎   ‎‎      ‎    and you ran ‏‏‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎  ‏‏‎ ‎ ‏‏‎  ‏‏‎  ‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎  ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎  ‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎ ‎      and you ran some more

And you ran right into his chest. 

Wall of muscles, no less – you aren’t even sure if this is a human’s body, too sturdy and hard and perfect to belong to something less of a Roman statue. You feel tears running down your face, panic not even bothering to settle in – you know you would be dead in the next few moments, brain tragically easy saying goodbye to being intact. A pathetic sob escapes your throat as you are caught for the second time in this night – lady luck might be smiling upon you the first time, but you doubt you can be her favorite for long. 

— I thought the rule of escaping was to run away from danger. 

This is the tall killer – low voice, secured by the mask, making it almost unrecognizable. You shake as a big, glowed hand goes on your back, laying there heavily. Even more pathetic sounds are produced from your lips, and you are almost ready to beg him for a quick, painless death – his hand is big enough to cover your head and you don’t want to think of the implications that he might crush your skull with just his fingers. 

König listens to your sobs, doing nothing but keeping a firm hand on your back, securing you in place. You sob and whine and tremble in his hold – and he was never more hard in his life. What an adorable, pathetic little creature you are. Helpless in his hold – even squirrels can fight, scratching and biting. You were sobbing in his hold like the perfect kleine prey you are, and he could almost pretend this was a hug. 

— Tshhh, Hase, don’t cry. I won’t be able to let you go if you’d proceed with those sweet noises, ja? 

His revelation only makes you squirm more. You finally try to get out of his bear-like hug – only to realize that all of your little movements and struggles fit perfectly with the enormous, pulsating bulge in his pants that can probably be considered a murder weapon on its own and shouldn’t be concealed since this is an obvious threat to…ah, on second thought, running around from a serial killer who has his monstrous dick hanging out would be worse. Much, much worse. 

— Let me go! 

You squirm one of your hands, punching his chest. Feels like punching a marble statue – the only thing you are hurting is your own hands. You try to resolve to a different form, jerking up your knee to land a blow on his crotch. 

He fucking moans. 

— Never knew you were such a fighter, Schatz. But I warned you, aren’t I? 

You don’t understand what he is talking about before he suddenly lifts you in his hands, dropping you on his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. You are crying, trying to get away, [unching him with your legs and your hands, all the adrenaline in your veins working solely for the purpose of inflicting as much pain on this enormous figure as possible. 

You tug on this weird hood he is wearing – if you are going to die, at least you would die exhausting all possible options, not feeling like you gave up without a fight. This is still a journey of self-respect and deep insight searches for the mysteriously hidden backbone of your body – maybe, yoga classes would be more effective and less dangerous but, unfortunately, you’re not a rich white housewife in her thirties, so not like you have money for a guru who would spend hours trying to convince your ovaries to stop dying on the inside. 

— Let! 

You punch him on the back, a multitude of well-served punches right into his back. He laughs, spreading his shoulders, cocking his chest forward like you were giving him a massage. With a groan, you made a very deliberate punch right in the middle of his back – and he moans from satisfaction, probably releasing some pent-up tension that he got from killing grandmas and destroying hotels. 

— Me! 

You tried to kick him in the chest, your legs working overtime as you cosplayed a rabid rabbit – only for him to laugh even more, his arm securing you holstered across his shoulder like your punches meant nothing. They probably didn’t – he is literally still holding a fucking crossbow in his other hand, managing to secure it on his side while moving towards…you only assume it to be a murder cabin because of course those freaks would have a murder cabin, why the hell not – probably with some cool classy furniture made out of bones. 

— Go! You finally manage to secure hold on the edge of his hood, yanking it upwards in hopes of actually revealing who the fuck is he – a dirty businessman who doesn’t like those damn kids and their dog to ruin his plans for burning down the forest to create a shopping mall? A nice old man who showed you the road when you were lost, but he is actually on a spree to get revenge on all young people for killing his pet chicken in 1997? One of those creepy guys at the corner store who was weirdly obsessive over you, talked like a serial killer, and was constantly and also came in pair with the guy whose height and manner perfectly resembled a pair of killers that are after you now? 

Probably the grandpa. 

You yank the mask up and…

Ah. 

Of course, he is wearing a freaking balaclava. The only thing that you managed to see were his eyes – blue, icy, pretty, filled with anger as he pulled the hood down, concealing his features again, without you even managing to take a closer look. You gulp loudly, preparing to die. 

He smacks your ass with a power that would be enough to break a bone – your only saving grace is that the flesh of your butt provided some cushion, instead leaving a nasty bruise and inability to sit for at least a few days. That is if you would even survive long enough to have problems sitting on your backside. You won’t have such problems if you’re dead, right? 

— Quiet, Schatz. I already breaking the rule for taking you too early. 

— Br…breaking a rule? Do you have a freaking hunting pact? 

— I promised Tiger that we’d let you roam around a little. Make things interesting. 

Ah, yes, because letting you go the first time was such a brilliant idea on their behalf. The only reasons you didn’t go straight to the police is because A) You don’t speak rural Austrian German, B) Your phone can’t connect to anything, and C) You don’t even know in what part of the forest you are. Also because you’re scared that the police are going to turn out treacherous people, just like in horror movies, and that it would fucking destroy your trust. 

— I can roam around. I can roam around just fucking perfect, ass…

Another loud smack on your ass makes you feel like a misbehaving kitten. He grips your ass through your jeans and you whimper a little bit, starting to cry again as his hand goes straight for the bottom, gripping your cunt through the tough layer of denim. You thank every god you know for making you wear ugly, but protective and thick jeans. Every time his hand goes to cup your most intimate parts, the fabric of your jeans protects it – you don’t even feel too violated when he pushes his fingers even more, desperately trying to get a reaction out of you. 

— Language, Hase. Don’t make me discipline you, ja? — Fuck you! — Very gut then. That’s what you will do very soon.

Oh, but the rough material grinding over your delicate, thin panties and the sensitivity of your cunt really makes you feel…something. You won’t want to admit it, he smells like blood and sweat(still better than Marty, but you shut down that thought before it was born because fuck the new abortion laws), and he spanks your ass only to grope your pussy right after – and he also has masterful fingers that are working at the hem of your jeans, making the fabric press even more against the sensitive skin and…

You try to think of something – anything. 

Dead bodies, dead bodies, a lot of dead bodies, and there are some dead puppies too and everything is gross and smelly and…ah, it’s not working. 

König touches your lower parts with a wide grin under his hood – you’re fucking perfect, a nice addition to their house. You bite when he needs a little fight and you shut up when he touches you – perfect birdie, adorable birdie, Horangi will probably be bitching about spoiling the fun since you’d be stuck with them without a proper chase like he wanted, but the tiger would come around once he’d emptied himself on your warm body just once. 

You squirm under his touch, moan and cry and tremble and he can’t stop imagining you in millions of different positions. Stuck in the basement of their house, on your knees like a good girl you are, maybe with some branding or a collar – it’s more of a Horangi’s thing, even though König hopes he won’t have to break you too much until you’d call him daddy – pushing you to their shared bed, making sure that you’re nice and stuck in some open positions, allowing them to take you without much repercussions. 

— Let me go. 

— Nein. 

— Please? 

— I like your begging, Spatz. 

— It means you’d let me go? 

— Nein. You will tell your little friends, and then you will run to the police, ruining our fun. You are not going anywhere. 

— But, um…your culprit will be mad, no? 

As cunning as you can, you’re trying to seal the seeds of destruction among them. You’re trying your damn best not to act too charming or too fake, just so he won’t fall in love with you for real and would try murder-suicide you, but also with enough charisma checks so you’d actually convince him. 

But, it’s not really working – maybe, you aren’t as good at spreading havoc as you thought you were. 

— He’d live. We would get to hold you in your house, little one. It’s enough to make him understand my reasons. 

It’s definitely enough to make you want to puke. He is fast, not even bothering to check on the body of your friend as he goes past it – he just marks it with something that resembles a piece of torn fabric and pushes some leaves and sticks on the body, probably signalling to his friend to come and get rid of the body – and then he changed your position a little bit, securing a hand on your ass he goes deeper into the forest. 

You’re trying to remember the location, maybe counting the trees and every bush that seems like a good mark – but you, a city girl raised on a cocktail of Google Maps and a constant internet connection, have already grown tired of trying to remember everything. Every tree is the fucking same, every turn feels like the one before and, at some point, you were sure that he is actually going in circles to make you understand the location even less. Your blurry vision obstructs the goal even more – you cried so much, it feels like your very eyes gave out. With a sigh of defeat, you metaphorically roll over to your back and present your belly to the predators. 

After a hike that felt like hours, but was probably like 10 minutes long – this guy has long legs and the determination of a dog dragging a really cool stick home and, before you know it, you’re standing in front of a…house. Nice house. Expensive house, a big house, something less of a mansion, but more of a shed that you thought he was going to live in because he is literally a serial killer. 

Even serial killers made good property investments in the respective years – and you were too busy with useless stuff, like learning how to walk or trying not to choke yourself on a piece of carrot. 

— Welcome home, Schatz. 

He gently lets you down from his shoulder, allowing you to take a closer look at your surroundings. Normal living room – literally nothing weird. Maybe a bit too much hunting trophies, maybe a lot of guns lying around, some overly manly decorations, and very questionable art pieces but if you’d see that house advertised on the property website, you wouldn’t even consider it too weird. You were expecting…something. Blood on the walls, furniture made out of human flesh and skin, a devilish feast for imps and every like them…

You saw nothing as König punched the back of your head, putting you to sleep. 

You fucking hate forest trips. 

#cod #call of duty #cod x reader #cod x you #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig mw2 #reader insert #yandere cod #yandere x reader #horangi x you #horangi x reader #horangi x könig #kim horangi hong jin #horangi #modern warfare 2 #mw2 #yandere imagines #yandere #male yandere #slashers #horror

[readingcoco]

Painted Red 🖤

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (f)

Words: 5487

Ao3 Link

Summary: Arthur revisits Rhodes Parlour House, hoping to get information about the Braithwaite gold from working girl Ettie. He leaves with more questions than answers and a gift he wasn't expecting.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, sex work, period typical attitudes, strangers to lovers, medium honour Arthur Morgan, angst, emotional smut.

Chapter Two - The Whore

[Chapter 1]

Arthur.

The air in Lemoyne is cloying. Sticky and thick like Molasses. He hates it here, hates waking up wet with sweat, bitten to an inch of his life by the mosquitos that swarm the lake behind his tent.  He’s never been this far south and would gladly leave soon as convenient, except for Dutch’s insistence that gold lies somewhere between the warring Gray and Braithwaite families. He’s less convinced but far from him to try to question Dutch once his mind is set on something. 

A high-pitched buzz by his left ear is met with the thwack of his open palm. Gotcha.

Something else is gnawing away at him, too, besides the mosquitos. A stirring in him, he thought, all but laid to rest after Mary, after— the kind that makes itself known only when he’s here, lying alone in his tent, staring up at the ceiling. 

Want. 

Fuck. He wants her so bad. Ettie, that working girl, up in Rhodes. With her daring eyes and smart mouth — her hands on him, days ago, in the parlour house. Bold as anything. God, if the very thought of her didn’t make a beeline straight down to his cock. He don't like it, don’t like it at all — what she does to him, how she makes him feel. Unarmed. Weak even. But also lighter.

He is appalled to admit he’s considered taking himself in hand more than once now to the thought of her breasts, her smile, the way she looked at him, full of doe-eyed devilment. He’s like some hapless kid. Should be ashamed. 

He’s not been with a whore since his 20s. There was that one Dutch paid for when he turned 17, a string of them after Mary ended things the first time around. Abigail? Once. The last time he lay with a woman was when he and Mary briefly came back together before she married. What was that 94… 95? Would he even remember what to do? Would he be able to last? As a whore she ought not to care, especially if he’s paying for the privilege. But he wants to please her. Wants to fill her smart mouth with sounds of pleasure. Watch those daring, teasing eyes roll back in her head as she comes undone for him. 

He’s stroking himself now. Her imagined sighs. His name on her lips—

Arthurrr—

“—ARTHUR!”

Dutch shouts him from outside his tent. Inescapable like the soupy Lemoyne air. Goddamnit, he hates it here. 

*

“Best I can stoop to is twenty.”

Arthur nods, weighing the expensive-looking silver bracelet loosely in his palm before handing it over. Hosea was better at knowing the worth of fine things, but the fence was on his way back to camp, and it didn’t make sense to make two trips. Still, twenty dollars wasn’t bad for an afternoon playing errand boy to two star-crossed lovers. Not quite the gold Dutch was hoping for, but something at least.

“Deputy.” The man flashes him a knowing wink, touching the brim of his hat. He winces before stiffly nodding back—damn badge. 

He won’t feel too bad about it; the Braithwaite girl, Penelope, had seemed more than content with just the letter, and neither family looked short on finary, as ill-gotten as it was. No, no harm done. 

The sun is at its hottest, leaving him half-blind as it beams punishingly up from the road ahead. Sweat pours from his brow, and he can barely see where he’s going when he finds himself steering Branwen right up the hill towards Rhodes rather than carrying on straight in the direction of camp. 

Only the stench of the butcher’s meat left out too long in the midday heat is enough to break him from his trance and acknowledge where he is. As though Branwen had been steering herself, with him merely passenger. 

Too late to turn around now, he concedes. Might as well carry on heading where he’s heading. 

He takes a long glug from his waterskin before dismounting. Hitching Branwen to the shadiest post of the parlour and making sure she has her fill from the water trough provided—a few extra sugar cubes for good measure. 

“Won’t be long, girl.” 

The heat was just as hard on the horses. 

He assures himself he’s here for reconnaissance— nothing more. If anyone’s likely to have information on the Grays and Braithwaites, it’s her. Probably had enough of them to pick something up the gang could find useful, what with her knack for seeing the stuff folk didn’t want seen. 

The twenty dollars burns a hole in his pocket. 

Ettie had seemed willing the last time, hadn’t she? Not put off or disgusted by him that he could make out. Maybe the badge had its uses, after all. 

Hell, maybe if he slept with her, got it out of his system, he could get on with the job at hand and stop all this silly early morning pining.

*

The parlour house is sleepy as he enters, too late for the lunchtime trade, too early for the field workers to have downed tools and made their way into town. His eyes skirt sheepishly across the bar. 

He’d found himself coming here quite a bit since the gang moved south, not just to avoid Pearson’s cooking but because it was one of the few places that offered solace from the outside sun, the thick leafy green curtains keeping out the worst of the rays. I was nicer than most places he tended to frequent, the white-clothed tables suggesting a level of expected cleanliness from its clientele. And though he’d made sure to kick the mud from his boots before entering, he now chose to stand on the hardwood rather than risk marking the floral rugs that lined the rest of the room.

He can’t see her. Not even sure she's started working yet. And though a couple of girls at the bar make him double-take, none of them are Ettie. 

He’s just about ready to skulk out, feeling old and feckless, when he hears her. Laughter carrying brightly from behind him, awakening the entire place from its slumber. He’d forgotten how alive she was. The rough sketch he’d drawn of her the night he’d got back to camp had barely captured her likeness, let alone her charm. 

She is sat in one of the wooden booths, perched on the lap of a stout-looking man, happy and light, head thrown back, though he’s certain the man at her seat did little to merit such pleasant sounds. 

He stalls for a moment, watching her work and is reminded of Hosea’s ability to tell a person exactly what they want to hear in order to rob them blind — except he isn’t sure who would be robbing who in the current circumstance. 

The stout man’s hand paws lecherously at Ettie’s waist, bouncing her on his knee as he ogles up at her. Surely, no amount could be worth the touch of a man like that. Is that how he had looked, too? Leering and pathetic? Sucked in by talk of sketching and paints. She had read him like a book, and he’d allowed it — a fool to think her interest was in anything other than the dollars in his pocket. 

Well, if money is all it will take to get her pretty face out of his waking thoughts, so be it.

“Miss White?” 

Ettie shifts to face him mid-conversation and grins impishly as though expecting his arrival.

“Hello, stranger.” 

But as he opens his mouth to respond, the words of solicitation stick in his throat, and he realises how unpracticed he is at this whole buisness. The man beneath her glares back, warning him off what’s his. Arthur swallows dryly, raising an arm to rest awkwardly on the booth’s divider, the other hooking into the buckle of his belt. 

“I believe— Last time I was here you—”

Ettie raises an eyebrow, choosing to watch him flounder rather than step to his salvation. 

So she’s toying with him. He sees how it is. Hadn’t acted quick enough the first time around and had her plucked from his side by the drunkard Leigh Gray. Now if he wants her, she’s expecting him to do the same to the dolt under her. He grits his jaw. The glint of his badge catches his eye, and he tries a different tack.

“I’ve heard word there’ve been dangerous men spotted in the area.”

Ettie scans the empty bar and looks back at him plainly.

“Everything seems fine from where I’m sittin’, Deputy.” She puts a playful hand on the stout man’s knee. “Wouldn’t you say so Ernest?” The man nods, wrapping his arm ever tighter around Ettie’s waist. 

“Would you just—I’d like it if—” He can feel his cheeks starting to burn as he avoids meeting her eye and instead looks over his shoulder towards the central staircase. He speaks low, “Last time I was in, you asked to show me your work— but we was interrupted.”

A twinkle of recognition from Ettie. “Oh? You still interested?”

“Yes.” He sniffs. It’s out there now. Can’t take it back. 

She silently weighs up some mental calculation before placing a palm on Ernest’s chest. “I’m sorry, Darlin’. Would you mind terribly if you bought me a drink some other time? The Deputy and I have a prior arrangement.” 

He almost sympathises as he watches the man’s face shift from confusion to disappointment, but before it has a chance to twist into anger, Ettie kisses Ernest squarely on the mouth. “Wait right here. I’ve got someone who’ll know how to make it up to you.” She leaves with a wink and no room for protest, springing up and scurrying across to the bar. 

Arthur regards Ernest with an awkward salute, unsure what to say given the circumstances. At least when he robbed men at gunpoint, there was no pretence of polite conversation. 

It’s Ernest who is first to break their silence, “She’s a wily one, Deputy. Not as perky as some of the younger girls, but makes up for it with experience.” He slaps Arthur’s arm in a fashion far too familiar. It makes his skin crawl. “Clean, too.” 

“They’ll be cleanin' you off this floor if you speak about the Lady like that again. We understood?” He’d done his best not to raise his voice, Dutch’s instructions of keeping a low profile never far from his mind, but the man is still white as a sheet as Ettie arrives back at the booth. With her is a lofty-looking girl with ashy blonde hair, who regards Arthur with an amused up and down as she passes. She doesn’t bother to say hello, instead making a beeline straight to Ernest’s side. 

“A birdy told me you were in need of company since yours is being so rudely snatched away,” she says pointedly. 

Although Ettie rolls her eyes, it’s obvious she’s in on the bit. 

“Ernest, Ida’s going to take good care of you while I take the Deputy upstairs. Don’t have too much fun without me now.”

*

The walk up to Ettie’s room is long enough for the dread to start to kick in. He can feel his heart pumping in his throat and remembers why he stopped all this nonsense years ago, but then the warmth of her touch meets the small of his back, and she smiles at him gently from under her lashes.

 “I’ve been wantin' to get you away from prying eyes,” she says quietly, for his ears alone. “Here’s my room, first on the left.” 

As the door closes behind them, he can finally allow his shoulders to relax as he is greeted by the smell of lavender and something sweet he can’t quite place—chamomile, maybe? Her room is small, with sunny yellow walls and surfaces laden with bric-à-brac, the type which collects only once a space has been lived in for some time. Things that would be prone to getting lost or damaged travelling from pillar to post as he did, things he wanted to pick over and admire. 

A painting hung to his right catches his eye: a handsome-looking dark bay drinking from what looks like Flat Iron Lake. He moves towards it to inspect it up close.

“You wanna leave your gun by the door, Deputy?” Ettie says softly.

He looks down. Of course. And undoes his gun belt, wrapping it around itself before setting it on the side, along with his hat. He stands before her, disarmed, not quite sure what to make of the curious way she watches him or where to rest his twitching fingers without the cool metal of his buckle to anchor to. He folds his arms.

“That’s Burdock, my baby. I take him out ridin’ whenever I can.” Ettie says, gesturing to the painting that caught his attention. 

“You painted this?” 

She grins, sticking up her nose with pride. “I did!” Her lack of reticence surprising. 

“S’good.” 

He’d never been much of a smooth talker when it came to women. Even when first courting Mary it had taken months to build up to asking her for a kiss. But this wasn’t courting, and he’d do best to remember that. 

“As flattered as I am, I know you didn’t come up here just to look at my art.”

“Can a man not appreciate a paintin’?”

“They can,” she says, slinking up to him and running a trail of fire across his chest. Pressing herself flush against him. Her hair smells like rose water — not mud, or sweat, or blood. And it disturbs him to think that the last time he felt the heat from another’s body so close, his hands were wrapped around their neck. The tip of her nose aligns with his collarbone, and he could rest his chin on her crown if he felt bold. “But it would be an awful expensive trip just to look at a picture.” 

She steps back slowly to look at him, her absence leaving him cold. For a moment he fears she’s sensed the danger he’s sure he radiates — realising a beat too late, the expected next step of their dance. 

“How much do I owe you?” he says, flusteredly reaching into his satchel. 

“Five dollars. Anything ‘French’ is an additional two — Though considering I’m due payment from our little sweepstakes, I’d be happy to waive the fee for that on this occasion.” 

He’d almost forgotten about the bet placed on his head and wondered how often the women discussed what went on behind closed doors, how he would fair in comparison. He cringes at the thought and tries to push it to the back of his mind. 

“I ain’t expectin’ special treatment, don’t worry.”

He hands over five dollars, and with the money on the dresser, Ettie retakes her position. The plainness of the transaction and the affection it now entitled him to feeling implausible. 

“Relax a little,” her voice comes out like a breath, encouraging him to breathe deeply in time with her. “It’s okay. We’re gonna have fun.” She guides him over to the bed before stepping back to remove her shirtwaist and skirt, each button revealing new skin he now had permission to touch. 

As he stands there watching, something about the ungraceful practicality of her undressing fascinates him, how in contrast it felt to the choreographed movements of the rest of her performance. He wonders if this is her more natural state, all furrowed brows and uncoordinated limbs, and if so, what it took for her to keep up appearances. 

When down to her corset and underthings, Ettie faces the mirror to unpin the hair fixed neatly atop her head. He is silent as it falls like water, spilling over the ridge of her shoulders and pooling loosely at the base of her spine. 

“Your turn now.” She says, and he hardly has time to react before her nimble fingers are working open the buttons of his shirt. 

From this angle, he can see how the sun has caught the high points of her face, leaving behind a sprinkle of freckles lightly masked by powder. The slope of her neck is decorated by loose curls and a small silver locket that bobs up and down above her— He dares not gaze lower. Only as she begins to work at his fly does his sluggish brain arrive at the moment in hand.

“You ain’t taking this off?” His voice comes out hoarser than he expects, and for the first time, Ettie looks a little startled, stepping back to look at him hesitantly. He hadn’t meant to scare her.

“I wasn’t planning on. My draws are split, and this unties. Look—” She pulls the ribbon at her shoulder. And he hates that it’s Ernest’s words that colour his view as the loosened cotton strap of her chemise falls away to expose a pretty breast, pushed up by the boning of her corset. Was the man blind? “It’s a little cumbersome to get on and off.” He aches to see her fully, to touch the skin still hidden from view, but he won’t push. 

Her hand dips back into his open fly, sliding between a gap in his union suit. He lets out a wince to feel the pads of her fingers making contact with the base of his dick. “That feel good?” she goads. His whole body gone rigid. Barely able to summon words. Nodding sharply in response, as she begins to ease him out. 

The pace in which she palms him feels foreign compared to his hand's efficient strokes, but she is responsive to each breath, learning him with every shudder and tense of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, he allows himself to get lost in the sensation of her experienced hands. Rare he is permitted such selfish pleasure. Rare anyone did anything for him without expectation of its return tenfold. And yet— The lopsidedness of the arrangement suddenly feels too much to bear. He needs to touch her, needs to make her feel as good as she’s making him. 

As her speed quickens, he moves a cautious hand to her breast, cradling her delicately before lightly skimming his thumb across her nipple. Testing. Her rhythm falters slightly, and he is rewarded with a small whimper that escapes half-bitten through her lips. That’s it. He circles the pebbled skin, harder this time, and delights to feel her swell under his touch. Confidence growing, he dips his head lower to taste her. She moans again, but this time unrestrained, head lolling back as he sucks. 

“Arthurrr—”

Her strokes hasten, and he needs to hear her keen for him again. Needs to touch her. He reaches down between them, between her legs, trying to find the source of her heat amongst rumpled cotton, but then she is pulling away. Stepping back. Straightening up. 

“Hey, this is about you. Don’t worry about me, okay.” She says.

“But—” 

“Shhhh, trust me,” Ettie whispers calmly and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. He worries that he has done something wrong, hurt her in some way he didn’t intend, too forceful, too coarse. But like she can read his mind—

“Stay put, I ain’t goin' nowhere.”

She’s good at that, he thinks, toeing the line between gentle and firm. Never going as far to bruise a man’s ego but not coming across as a pushover either. Had she always been that way, or had she learnt how to soothe a man, just as he’d learnt how to intimidate them? Through necessity. What was her natural temperament? What was his? 

Ettie walks over to the dresser and grabs a small glass jar, scooping out a little of the contents before returning to the bed. 

“You wanna get a little more comfortable?” She says, eyeing his half-open union suit and the jeans around his ankles with amusement. What a sight he must look. But if she was going to remain in her underthings, shouldn’t he? It didn’t seem proper to be exposed when she was not. He kicks off his jeans but leaves his Union suit open, but on. 

“What’s that?” He nods to the creamy concoction cupped in her hand.

“Just a little somethin’ for my comfort.” That playful look again. “You are quite… sizable. I wanna make sure I’m ready for you.”

His cheeks darken, her lack of arousal confirming his worst fears.

“Maybe if you let me touch you, you might enjoy it more.”

Her sigh is affectionate. “Who said I wasn’t enjoying myself? Anyone ever told you you worry too much?”

They face each other at the precipice of the bed. His toes curling whilst she slicks up his length with the salve in what feels like one continuous gliding motion, till he is rock hard and panting before her. She shifts herself to bend over the bed, guiding him behind her with a hand on his hip. She arches her back to rest with her forearms on the mattress. 

“You ready to show me what you can do, Deputy?”

“Arthur. Please.” He manages to huff out, unable to look away from the way she is presented so brazenly for him.

Ettie gives him a wry grin over her shoulder. “Arthur, I want you to show me what you’ve been dreamin’ on since we first met.” And he wants to show her, too. 

Swallowing thickly, he carves a hand between the slit of her draws, spreading them open to finally expose the supple flesh of her backside. The sight alone has his dick twitching in anticipation, helpless to prevent the full handful of her ass he takes in his grasp. 

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” He croaks.

“Might have heard it mentioned.” 

He runs a shaky hand through his hair, steadying his breath, before aligning himself with her entrance. He is mindful not to push into her too quickly, and though the salve helps some, he hears her breath hitch in her chest as she takes him, inch by inch.

“Too much?” He asks, trying to mask his trepidation, but he is answered by an enthusiastic grind of her hips, which sheaths him fully inside. He stops breathing for a moment, caught by the clutch of her cunt. Senses all but lost to the sensation of her heat. His lids grow heavy, but the sight of his cock buried to the hilt has him straining to keep them open. Hypnotised by the way she encases him. 

He gently rocks himself backwards and then forward, shallow at first and then deeper, slowly increasing his pace with each slap of their hips.

“Ettie-”

“That feel good, Arthur?” So good. So good. And he wishes he could look into those teasing eyes as she spears herself back onto him. At first, matching his tempo and then provoking him to speed up, take her faster, harder. 

He won’t last much longer at this rate. And tries to bat away the sinking feeling that that might be something she wants. For this to be over quickly. She’s making all the right noises, but then again, he walked into this room with a badge on his chest, so honesty was hardly something he felt entitled to. 

He wants her closer, craving the reassurance only her face could bring. He arches down over her, carefully hooking an arm around her chest, drawing her up into him, until she kneels upright on the bed with him holding her weight from behind, bodies remaining locked. 

“This ok?” He huffs.

“Mhmmm” She nods back hazily.

From this position, he can see her better, the rise and fall of her chest, the growing flush that has spread from her cheeks down her neck, the way her eyes shutter when he reaches for her breast, his other seeking out her heat from below. She hums a little then, a sound so pure it answers all suspicions about the authenticity of those proceeding it. God how he wants to watch her come around him, if only he can last long enough to get her there. 

His fingers slip between her folds, spreading her open as he continues to fuck up into her, the slick of her cunt undeniably her own making now. Ettie’s back arches wildly as he begins to rub a tight ring around her clit, and she lets out a noise halfway between a shriek and a moan like she is surprised by the pleasure. But when he tries to continue, she is grasping his wrist, pulling it away from her core and bringing it up to her mouth to suck hard on his fingers. The debauched way she looks at him then almost sends him over the edge. 

“Come for me, Arthur.”

God, his name sounds like honey on her lips. 

“Just like that—”

 Surely she’s not inferring what he thinks she is? But he is near losing himself in the thought alone.

“So close—” She coos, “Just let go, fill me—” 

Fuck. Fuck—

He drags his erupting cock out of her just in time as he spills violently onto her ass and then the floor, staggering backwards, trying to catch his breath.

“Jesus! Jesus. I nearly— I’m sorry.” He babbles, feeling boorish and out of control. 

“Hey there. I know. I said you could.” She says, turning around to run her fingers through his ruffled hair. He looks back at her, confused, still out of breath. 

“Ain’t you worried about—” he stops, trying to find the correct phrasing but becoming aware of the fond, almost patronising look on Ettie’s face. 

“I ain’t worried, no.” She smiles gently, “Wouldn’t be much good at my job if I didn’t take precautions.” 

He nods sheepishly, though still not entirely at ease, before sitting back down at the edge of the bed, sighing deeply, struggling to enjoy the last twitches of his high. 

When his breath returns to normal, he grabs his jeans from the foot of the bed, trying not to cringe at the mess he’s made of her and her floor.  

“Don’t feel like you have to rush on account of me,” Ettie says, making her way to a small porcelain jug and basin in the corner of the room. She dampens a washcloth and wipes away all trace of his spend still marking her skin. 

“Want me to clean you up?” She approaches him cautiously.

“I’m alright.” He says. 

She raises a silent eyebrow. 

“I mean, I can manage for myself.” 

She nods and hands him over the rag. He’s not sure how to feel as he tidies himself up, but he's aware of her eyes on him, watching, trying to figure him out. Knowing he’s been read before she even opens her mouth. 

“When did you last lay with a woman, Deputy?” 

He pauses. That bluntness that throws his head through a loop. Dangerous. And he doesn’t know how to answer—what she’s wanting to hear— that it was likely five years since he’d been touched like that? That he’d touched someone else? Was she looking for an explanation for his rustiness or an apology? 

“Was it obvious?” he asks, unable to fully meet her gaze. 

“Well, you ain’t got a ring and—” She hesitates momentarily. “I shouldn’t say it,” The apples of her cheeks start to ripen uncontrollably until she breaks into laughter. “You fuck like you’ve somethin’ to prove.” 

He might be inclined to take such a comment to heart if it wasn’t for the pleasure he took in seeing her so genuinely amused, and before he knows it, he’s chuckling too.

“I just didn’t want it to be awful for you.” 

Ettie nudges him with her heel. “You paid me to make you feel good. So as long as you had fun, I did too.” 

She lights a cigarette and offers him one from her case: silver, engraved with the initials A.B. in an ornate filigree. He accepts and allows her to light the smoke from the tip of her own. He still doesn’t quite know how to make conversation but is relieved to have something to occupy his hands. 

“Still wanna see my paints?” She asks after a few moments quiet.

“That’s why I’m up here, ain’t it?” He says wryly. She scoffs before darting across the room, opening draws, rooting through cupboards, pulling things out left and right—a tornado, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake. 

When she returns, her arms are laden with supplies, and she settles down next to him cross-legged on the bed, spreading out her wares between them. She opens a battered-looking sketchbook and smooths out the page.

“See,” she says, stroking the paper and encouraging him to do the same. “Just like the paper in your journal—Oh, wait a second.” 

She stands abruptly before dashing off again, this time to the water jug. Her back turned, Arthur flicks through the pages and is rapt by a flurry of faces looking back at him. A few he recognises as girls from the parlour, but there are others too: an elderly woman in a bright feathered hat, a rakish-looking man in spectacles, a little girl with pigtails holding a ragdoll, each of them living and breathing on the page like she had rendered their very souls. 

“You snoopin’?” Ettie tuts in mock disapproval, though she doesn’t seem bothered by the intrusion. “And after all the grief you gave me for looking at your art.”

Art. 

Arthur had never thought about his sketches in that way before. Sure, he sometimes felt pride if he managed to capture something or someone’s likeness in a way that felt true, but he’d never had any training to consider what he did art. Not like the pretty pictures spread out in front of him now. These felt so full of life he swore he wouldn’t be surprised to see one of them moving.

“These are good,” he says as she settles beside him, her thigh resting lightly against his. 

She rolls her eyes, then nudges his arm. “Get your journal out— Don’t worry, I don’t wanna look at any of the drawings— Well, I do, but I’m not going to force you. Just want to show you something.” 

He relents and gets his journal from his satchel, handing it over suspiciously, realising only after it’s in her hands how reckless he’s being, and for what? He hadn’t asked her about the blood feud between Grays and Braithwaits, nothing about the gold. The only information gleaned was that his dick still worked, and even that had only served him.

Keeping to her word, Ettie opens the book to an untouched page and submerges her paintbrush into the jug, tapping off the excess water and swirling the tip into a square of dried paint. Her hand hovers over the blank page before gliding the brush across the paper in a flourish of crimson, blooming as it settled, like petals opening at dawn. 

“Here, you try.” 

She dips the brush back into the jug to clean it off before holding it out towards Arthur. Following her direction, he scrubs the brush into a dark green pan and brings his hand to the paper. His line comes out fainter than hers and less fluid, the brush strokes looking scratchy as he reaches the edge of the page. 

“Not enough paint. Got to get it saturated.” She smiles. “But look,” she flicks over the page, “it hasn’t gone through.” She starts to explain about wetting the paper before applying the paint, working in layers, letting stuff dry, getting more and more animated, that he starts to laugh. 

“You have to start adding colour to your work. I could—” She stops. “You planin’ on seein’ me again?” The question is abrupt, as though she realises she is getting ahead of herself and needs to square off the basics first. 

He hadn’t considered that this would be more than a one-time occurrence but he’d be lying if he didn’t acknowledge the sense of relief that had spread throughout his body and mind in the past half hour. More settled than he’d been in months, maybe even years. Perhaps next time he could get some information out of her. Perhaps next time he could prove himself a less selfish lover.

“I’d like to if you’ll have me.”

“Marvellous! Here—” She thrusts a small wooden box into his hands.

“What’s—?”

***

“A watercolour set for travelling. Not amazing quality but perfect for a beginner or someone on the move.” She gives him a wry smile “You can borrow it and show me how you get on next time you see me.” 

She’s a whirlwind, and even as he’s riding Branwen back into camp he still feels bowled over. Not sure how he’s agreed to as much as he has, or if he’s being played, or if he cares to stop it.

Tag list: @redwritr, @twola, @ultraporcelainpig, @cassietrn & @milesology

If you would like to be added/removed from the tag list, just let me know! x

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x fem!reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x oc #rdr fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #painted red

[crash-and-cure]

Every Minute, Every Hour (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: You were out. You were out goddamnit. How was he here?

A/N: Soooo.... It’s been awhile. Writer’s block is an absolute son of a bitch. So this is based on an idea I had and requested to @venus-haze a couple months ago and which I almost completely forgot about until I got this request and I decided two birds and all that. I also acknowledge that there was another similar request made a while back, to the person who requested it don’t worry, I do have plans for it. 

Warnings: Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, jealous, and delusional behavior. Dubious Consent in regards to coersion being involved. Loss of virginity. Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), oral sex (f.recieving), female mastubation, slight dumbification, and implied anal play. Brief depictions of choking. Touch-starvation. Mentions of Pregnancy. Referenced cheating on Elvis' part. Self-loathing. Stockholm Syndrome(?) Probably more that I am blanking on. Period-typical homophobia and closeted characters depicted. Please do not interact if you are under 18. 

Word Count: 19.8K

Masterlist

----------

You look like an angel (look like an angel)

Walk like an angel (walk like an angel)

Talk like an angel

But I got wise

You’re the devi-

It takes you longer than you would have liked to reach the radio and turn it off. And it’s only as you reach it do you realize how odd it looks from the outside when you see a customer looking at you funny. 

“Not much of a fan,” you say with an admittedly pathetic smile on your face. 

“I can see that,” he replies with an awkward smile, before going back to browsing the books. 

You bashfully turn the radio back on and quickly try to turn the knob to anything even remotely comprehensible, but it’s just your luck that this is the only station you get decent reception on in the store. With no other choice but to simply grin and bear it you put the volume on low and return to reading your book. 

You do keep an eye on your final customer of the evening, and hope he hurries up so you can finally close up for the day. Susan had been complaining about a migraine since lunch and Gina was caring for her upstairs and so it was on you to close up the shop on your own today. 

You feel embarrassed to have been seen that way but that all falls away when you hear the shop bell ring, only to be immediately followed by tiny rapid footsteps and an excited little “mama!” and you grab onto the counter before your little two and a half foot terror can knock out from behind you. Which ends up being the right call as you feel her head butt your knees and locking her arms around them nearly knocking you down.  

“Mama! Mama!” she squealed, practically vibrating, she was so excited to see you. 

“Rosie! Rosie!” you say, equally as happy to see her though you do a far better job at reining it in. She takes your hands in hers as you crouch down to look at her, and take stock. Her hair is askew with the ribbons you had tied in place this morning holding on for dear life in her beautiful curls, her face is smudgy with what you’re hoping is chocolate, and one of her socks is just gone, but both shoes are in place so you can only imagine how your little hellion managed that. Overall this is the best condition Rosie has returned to you in, after a long day with Jenny.

“Mama, Aunty Jenny took me to the Candy store!” she says, showing off the candy bracelets on her tiny wrists. 

“Really,” you say, shooting a look at your friend for giving her so much sugar before bed. The woman in question has the courtesy to at least look a little guilty about it, before giving a small laugh. 

“Mm-hmm. And we saw Danny at the playground and we-we saw Uncle Lee’s friends, and then we listened to a lotta music, and we saw a movie about a wizard and there was no one else in the whole room, and then-then…” she rapidly rambles on but you pepper her face in kisses before she can pass out from the lack of oxygen. She giggles uncontrollably and tries to squirm out of your grip, but you gotta get in one good raspberry on her cheek before you let her go.

“Alright, why don’t you go upstairs and help Aunty Gina finish up dinner,” you tell her with a smile on your face. Her “help” in the kitchen is typically watching and holding spoons and spatulas on a step stool, but she’s at an age where she believes the whole dish would fall apart without her important contribution to it, so she goes rushing to the stairs. 

But she quickly comes running back while taking the uneaten bracelet off of her wrist. “Danny said to give this to you for your birthday,” she declares. Ever since meeting Jenny’s nephew she’s seemed to hang on to every word of his, and though you’ve never met the boy he seems to be a good kid, always polite and saying hello through your daughter, but has, as you've heard, an extreme affinity towards spinning a few too many fantastical stories. But your daughter is far too young to see him as anything but a friend so you doubt you have anything to worry about as of right now. 

She’s always so eager to tell you about everything, and you’re just as eager to listen. Your folks never wanted to hear anything from you, and you pray that your attentiveness will pay off one day when she is never afraid to come to you with your troubles. Maybe if you had that with your mother you wouldn’t be where you were.

“Well tell him I said thank you,” you say, as you pull it on your wrist, placing a small kiss on her forehead before she books it back to the stairs behind the counter. As you stand back up, to your surprise you find the customer now at the counter with a good stack of books. 

“Sorry to bother Miss…ummm…” the customer says nervously. 

“Love,” you clarify for him. “Y/N Love.”

He gives a shy smile at that, “Well Miss Love, I’m ‘bout ready to check out so…” he says gesturing to his tower of books. 

“Of course,” you answer and you begin to ring him up. He’s got quite a few so at least he makes the extra time staying down here somewhat worth it. 

“Whatcha readin’ there,” he asks you, pointing to the open book you’ve left to your side. You show him your copy of We have always lived in the castle. “I-is it any good?”

“I would say so,” you answer. Though that ending did hit a little too close to home, you think to yourself. 

“So umm, d-do you like to read?” he asks hesitantly as he quietly adds a copy of the book to his pile. 

“I’d be in the wrong business if I didn’t,” you joke, and he laughs a little too hard. “How ‘bout you?” you ask, wanting to not have an awkward silence, as you’re not even halfway through the stack. 

“Yeah, I-I love reading though I don’t got a lotta time for it these days,” he says with a guilty smile on his face. 

“Why’s that?” you ask, since it seems to be the only way this conversation could go. 

“I-I just started my residency at Charity Hospital,” he says bashfully rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m Sam by the way,” apparently realizing that he hadn’t made the proper introductions. 

“Y/N,” you say, giving him a small nod and a smile. “And congratulations on your residency,” you're almost done with the final few books, but you may or may not be taking your time to finish them up, wanting to prolong the conversation you’re having for a bit. 

“Thank you, and I- well, umm… I couldn’t help but overhear your daughter, but umm… Happy Birthday,” he says ducking his head, a bit embarrassed at his own admission. 

“Oh, thank you,” you say, your face heating up slightly that he had heard. 

“Your Husband’s a lucky man,” he says, though he does steal a quick glance at you, no doubt trying to gauge your reaction.

So this is what it’s about, you think to yourself. “I’m actually not…” you trail off, and hope that he gets the message. 

“Oh, I’m glad to hear that,” he stated before his eyes widened as he realized what he just said. “I-I mean not glad like I’m happy that you-you’re not married, bu-but glad li-like I’m relieved that I hav-haven’t been trying to build up the courage to talk to a cute girl for the past few weeks only to find out she’s married already.” he blathers on and you can’t help but laugh. 

Your heart does flutter a bit at his confession. Everything about this feels like it should be perfect. Unfortunately for the both of you, you finally get a good look at his icy blue eyes that are a little too familiar for comfort, and it feels like your throat closes up. 

You can feel your stomach churning (and not just from the baby that fills it) and cold regret for not buying an extra pair of socks as you sit at the Greyhound terminal in Nashville, your feet starting practically turning into ice blocks. That cold November morning you had made a show of telling everybody you were gonna make a quick trip down to the shops for some eggs, now you’re almost a full state away praying that the bus gets here soon, jumping every time a set of headlights passes by and you're just barely keeping dry underneath the metal canopy. 

But for as cold as you are physically, your chest starts to heat up at the prospect that you’re so close to freedom from an even colder gaze. When the bus does get there you hardly sleep a wink afraid to let your guard down even now. You know how well he could sabotage your plans if he was so inclined, from small things like spoiling the surprise party you had planned for him to the major of ruining your chances to get into another school. 

You know he’s half a world away yet that still does little knowing what the most loyal of his are willing to do for him. It’s not until you finally make it to the train station in Atlanta that’ll take you down to New Orleans that you finally give in to your heavy eyelids, willing to trust strangers with your safety, aware they can’t hurt you any worse than those you know have done. 

You shake your head as you’re brought back to the present, and you hear him say something, “I’m sorry what?” you covertly wiggle your toes as you try to ground yourself and get sensation back in them as though you were just getting them out of the cold.

“I was just sayin’ there’s this club down on Bourbon that I been meanin’ to check out since movin’ down here, and I was hopin’ a local such as yourself could show me ‘round these parts,” he says, a nervous but hopeful smile on his lips. 

For a moment you can almost imagine saying yes to him, how he would take you out on the town, how he would kiss you, how he would throw your daughter up in the air. How maybe you could be happy with him.

But like a looming black cloud, in spite of the lowered volume, you hear what the new station is now playing, clear as a bell.

Oh please come to my arms and say you'll love me forever

For with the dawn, you'll be gone 

It’s almost as though He’s following you, serving as a constant reminder of what you did, and that you’re never allowed to imagine being with another man. You wordlessly turn off the radio before you’re forced to listen anymore. “Uhh, I-I’m sorry, I-I really don’t go out much,” you say, trying to shut this down as gently as you could. 

“Oh-uhh, that’s fine I umm,” he says, pivoting hard. “I’m more of a movie guy myself, I hear he’s got a new one out, and we can go and watch anything but that,” he gives a small laugh pointing to the radio, but quickly drops it upon seeing your grim expression. 

Without knowing it Sam just shut the coffin on any potential happenings between the two of you. “I’m sorry, it’s late and I gotta close up for the night,” you say softly, and he’s smart enough to take the hint. 

“O-of course,” he says looking down at the books he has in his hands. “But can you promise you’ll think about it?” he asks as he reaches the door to look back at you. 

Even before you open your mouth, you already know that your next words are going to make you lose a customer forever. “There’s nothing to think about,” you say, trying to feign apathy. Harsh as your words may be, you know this is far kinder to him in the long run as opposed to getting more involved with you. 

You watch him leave the store with a sagging shoulders and a long face, before you feel a hand meet violently with the back of your head, and you swivel around to see Jenny with an exasperated look on her face. “So a handsome, single, doctor who loves to read, and doesn’t mind that you already got a kid, asks you out and you say…” she trails off, seeming to only get more offended with every dreamy quality he had. 

“Don’tchu get like that Jenny,” you defend yourself, as you stomp to the door in order to flip the sign to closed and lock up for the night. “I’ve got a daughter to worry about and I don’t have time for a boyfriend right now.”

“Well newsflash Y/N,” she argues, “Rosie needs a daddy.”

You feel your hackles rising at that statement. “No she doesn’t,” you state firmly, not wanting to raise your voice, because you know better than anyone how easy it is to be overheard.

She deflates a little at your obvious fury at this line of questioning, before letting out a long tired sigh. “It’s just that… when we were at the park today… she asked me why she didn’t have one. And she… she just kept pressing,” she says obviously ashamed that she hurt you, but wanting to get across her reasoning. “What am I supposed to say to that? Especially when you won’t tell nobody what happened. I only got her to drop it when I took her to the candy shop.”

You feel guilty for snapping at your friend. Jenny Hodge had been an absolute godsend since you met her almost a year ago, when she and her new husband, Lee, had moved down from Alabama. Her arrival had coincided when Rosie started becoming aggressively mobile and insisted that running was the only way to get around anymore. And because she felt she needed practice with being a Mama before she had one of her own, she insisted on being your one and only babysitter, in exchange for free books every so often. 

The story around the block is that you are were the young widow who “tragically” lost her husband in an accident before he ever had the chance to meet your beautiful daughter, and with no one in the world left to turn to, you ended up on your “spinster” aunt and her “good friend” Susan’s doorstep. And Jenny, since hearing your story, has by far been your most fervent supporter outside of this house, with her support primarily coming in two flavors: 1) helping you with your daughter so she isn’t so cooped up in the store while you work and 2) trying to set you up with any moderately successful man.

“Y/N,” she says softly. “I get that it’s hard to get back out there, but you need to think about the bigger picture, because it’s only a matter of time before she starts asking you.”

You know she’s right, and that’s the worst part about it. Your little Rosie Love is a stubborn one, not to mention smart, always has been. Didn’t want to walk because she wanted to run. Hated her diaper so much she learned how to unpin it when she was barely a year old. Wanted to try to feed herself when she first took to solid food, and would snatch the spoon out of your hand when she could. She’s broken out of every play pen she’s ever been in. Hell, she was almost two weeks overdue, and the doctors were forced to induce you, she didn’t want to come out until she was good and ready.

She, like someone else you knew, is capable of throwing a wrench into any plan you make. For as endearing as it can be, it is all the more frustrating knowing exactly where she gets it from. 

With a long defeated sigh, you concede to her point and thank her for both her input and for being a good friend this past year. And maybe someday you’ll be ready to find another husband.

She has a wide cheshire-cat like grin as you say that, “And I’mma ‘bout to be a better one,” she practically sings. “Lee’s friend is in town, and I think you two would hit it off.” 

“And I think we wouldn’t,” you state, putting books back where they belong. 

“C’mon Y/N, I thought we were past this,” she whines.

“I did say someday, not today,” you emphasize.

“Y/N, your birthday’s comin’ up soon, and it ain’t like you’re gettin’ any younger. Besides Lee and I are already trying for a baby, so I ain’t gonna be so available much longer neither,” she says in a soft voice holding your hands in hers. “And you need to find someone you can rely on too, it’s not like you wanna end up like your Aunt Gina”

You say nothing not wanting to say anything incriminating about the relationship between your Aunts, as for all that you trust Jenny, you don’t trust her enough with somebody else’s secrets. 

“Just promise me you'll think about it at least,” she pleads, hands clasped over your own. 

What is it about people that, not trusting you when you answer the first time, and thinking given enough time you’ll come around? 

Yet you're no better as you let out a long tired sigh, before ultimately agreeing, if only to get her off your back. Or so you tell yourself. 

She tells you a bit about the man she has in mind for you, or more accurately she keeps insisting how perfect the two of you would be together.  In her mind it’ll be love at first sight, how he’ll love and accept Rosie as his own immediately, how she guarantees that you’ll be married within a year and be trying to give Rosie a little brother or sister. You have to bodily shove her out the door by that point lest she get into any more specifics in her attempt to sway you. 

Jenny’s a little older than you, but she is very much a romantic at heart, you suppose, though that’s the benefit of things going right in your life. 

But your story went wrong. 

“Why you in such a hurry to get out girl?” your accomplice would ask as he handed you the money (He had made it a point of order that you were never to handle any) the day before your escape. 

“There’s someone else,” you say simply, because it’s true and if they were to ever betray your trust this would be worse on them than on you. 

You got away with quite a bit back in the day like getting out of trouble for making out in a dark empty classroom by claiming to have been caught by surprise by your monthlies and now you couldn’t bear the thought of being seen like this. Or when you got hired by the library for the summer after you approached the front desk and claimed to be the new hire ready for her first day of training and nobody really bothered to check in with anybody else. Even that one time when you confidently strolled backstage at a music hall He had wanted to perform all to sneak them in through the back door and convinced just enough people that his band was meant to perform that night.

Your ability to make up stories on the fly and map things out in your head had led you to believe that you would make for a pretty good mystery writer. You had even tried to go to school to be one, though you told everyone it was to be a teacher, a far more respectable and womanly job.

Well not everyone.

He certainly knew. 

Knew about your talent for planning and story-telling, and was practically always in awe to see it in action. But this recognition came at the expense that he was aware of your tricks and he always knew how to throw you off just enough to make any plans you made go belly up. Whether it was something relatively small like figuring out you were planning a surprise party to the major… like when you tried to end things the first time around.

He called you almost every night when he was on tour, and you had done your best to relay all that was going on back in Memphis. And in spite of his insistence that he wants to hear about it, you suspect that he wasn’t being truthful. He especially seemed disgruntled when you made any mention of doing anything with anyone else. Your friends, his friends, even your own family weren’t safe from his ire.  

When He was here you would do everything together, yet now that you tell him about all that you’d been doing, there is a slight but noticeable edge when he speaks to you over the phone. Everytime you mention how you went to the movie theater or you went to the record store or the bookshop, it was almost always met with a solemn “we used to do that together.” 

You would have gone with him, had your parents let you, and He knows that so you don’t understand why he’s so sore about the fact that you’re not simply sitting on your hands back home waiting for him to return. 

So in an effort to spare his feelings you asked him about the things he was doing, you even go out of your way to say how happy you were when he was telling you about all of the fun things he had done on the road. You’re happy to hear it all and you thought 

You miss him just as fiercely but you don’t want it to stop you from living. 

But when you got your acceptance letter, you saw the writing on the wall. You both were going in different directions: you were going to be studying, were barely going to be home and his star just kept growing and growing each day taking him further out and making him harder to reach. You know you wanted this and you begin to suspect you may want it more than you want to stay with him, if staying with him meant being alone all the same. 

This was only confirmed in the weeks leading up to Prom when you couldn’t get a straight answer out of him of whether or not He would be able to make it. It was on you to practically plan everything down to what he would wear, while his whole contribution was to show up- maybe?

Whether He did show up or not that night, you thought the result would be the same with you officially breaking things off between you two. But you still held out hope that at least if he did come you would have one last good memory. 

And to your relief He does make it, but he’s a little off the whole night. Not in the sense that his mind is elsewhere, more like he’s trying to commit everything about the night into memory, and looking at you with sad eyes when he thinks you’re not looking. 

It all comes to a head when you’re parked outside of your house, and you’re sitting in a loaded silence with him at the wheel. He’s gripping onto that thing for dear life and you’re wondering if maybe you should save it, but you think you know yourself well enough to know that if you don’t say it now, you won't say it ever. 

So as he’s opening his mouth to say something, you cut him off with his name. 

“...I-I got accepted to Southwestern,” you blurted out to him and He looked so confused at your admission, but you push through. “I start in the fall, so I’m not gonna be home much anymore, and with y-you being on the road so much, I think it best that we-”

“Marry me,” he blurts out, panic etched across his face.

Your jaw is left practically on the floor as that was the last thing you ever expected out of his mouth. 

You would later find out that he went to Prom with the same intention as you did but it was in that moment that he realized you weren’t going to wait for him to come back did he want to lock you down. But you didn’t see that in the moment. 

What you saw at the time was the declaration that he was just as committed as you were, and so overwhelmed by the love you still felt for him at the time, you had no choice but to give an emphatic yes to him. 

“We’re gonna figure this out baby,” He promises with a kiss. 

That was the first time you tried to leave him.

“-Danny’s a real good singer Aunty. He told me he lives in Neverland and one day he would take me and-and he told me this is the only place in the whole word that they sell peanut butter cups,” you would hear as you made your way up the stairs connecting to the apartment above the store. You look into the small kitchen where you see your little girl sitting on the counter talking her aunt’s ear off idly dangling her little feet while holding a spatula you're not entirely sure is necessary. Gina looks over to you and gives you a playfully exasperated look, and you simply shrug your shoulders before moving into the small kitchen to pepper your little one's face in kisses. 

“Alright sticky missy,” you announce, blowing a raspberry on her cheek and swiping the utensil out of her hand as she trills in delight. “You go wash up for dinner now, ya’ hear, and go wake up Aunty, I think she’ll feel alot better seeing you.”

“Ok Mama,” she says. She is utterly fearless as she slides herself to get off of the counter, and lands on her feet below. You can’t help the swell of pride that bubbles up in your chest seeing it, how brave your little girl is. You hope that you can take it as a sign that you’re doing ok at this motherhood thing. 

Gina likes to say that you were just as bold at that age with the confidence of someone so sure they can take on the world, and in quieter moments she’ll lament how you lost that in you. You would be offended if you didn’t already know when exactly you lost it. 

She had always been your favorite Aunt until you were about twelve and and your father would coldly tell you she died and was in hell now. Rather than a funeral, the family got together to destroy her things and swear to never speak of her again. 

That didn’t stop her from visiting you one last time and telling you she was moving down to New Orleans with her friend Susan. She would take you to your favorite bookstore one last time in Memphis and promised that if you ever needed a place to stay, to not even hesitate to come, because she knew better than anyone what your family would do to girls who stepped out of line. 

For years the only evidence that she was even alive was the annual birthday and Christmas gift you would get from her all under the guise of Nancy Drew books stamped with the name of a bookstore all the way in New Orleans. You cherished them and it’s one of the few things you took after your parents kicked you out. 

You only wished you had taken the offer when your father had kicked you out and you were forced to rely on someone else. 

“So I hear you broke another heart,” Gina idly says as she starts scooping some rice onto a plate.

You let out a long sigh, “When did Jenny find the time to tell you?” You’re more amazed than annoyed considering she didn’t leave your sight once down stairs. 

“Jenny?” she says, raising a brow. “No Sue told me earlier how Lou from King’s Cafe ‘s been askin’ after you.”

Lou who always had extra beignets to give away when you took Rosie for a walk in the mornings. He recently asked if you had ever been on the Algiers ferry, and how beautiful it looked at night.

…You’ve been taking a different route to the playground since then. 

“Is my love life just everybody’s business,” you ask frustrated that you weren’t even given a five minute break from this. 

“In this house: yes,” she states, a grin on her face. 

“Gina if this is about me movin’ out, you can talk to me, I’m a big girl,” you insist, trying to deflect and not have to think about it anymore. 

“Sweetheart,” she says solemnly, placing a hand on your cheek. I may not be your mama, but I do think that you need to think about what’s best for Rosie,” she insists as she puts place mats down on the table. 

Gina’s a little closer to the situation than Jenny, as she had asked no questions as to why you all of a sudden needed a place to stay far from your parents with nary a husband or boyfriend in sight to take responsibility for the baby growing within you. She had also been the one to help spread the tragic young widow narrative, and for as much of a gossip she can be, you know she’s a steel trap for secrets that matter. 

“What does me getting, or not getting, a boyfriend have to do with Rosie?”

“A boyfriend? Nothing,” she dismisses. “A husband on the other hand…”she says with a smile.

“Don’tchu come talkin’ to me ‘bout gettin’ a husband,” you say, handing her another plate of food. 

She laughs at that, “It’s not just about you gettin’ a husband, it’s about Rosie gettin’ a father,” she insists amused at your mulishness. 

“Not you too,” you mourn what you thought was going to be a quiet evening. 

“I’m just sayin’ that every child deserves two parents,” putting the lid back on the pot. 

“She’s got three mama’s,” you counter.

“No,” she says waving the wooden spoon in front of your face. “She’s got one mama and two grandmas that spoil her rotten behind your back.” You open your mouth to protest, until she quickly follows up with, “Oh speak of the devil herself,” as you see your little troublemaker dragging Susan by the hand to the table, whom you had to bully into taking a rest to somewhat alleviate the migraine she had been having for most of the day.

Your daughter can talk for hours if left unchecked and you're eager to hear all of it as she bounces from subject to subject at the dinner table. You had always felt somewhat guilty intruding on their space, but Gina insists nothing of the sort and Susan jokes that the two of them are getting the full kid/grandkid experience through you and Rosie, since the traditional way ain’t for them.

Between bites she regaled the three of you with all that she did today which included seeing a dog, the playground being shiny, spinning around so fast on the merry-go-round she almost went into space, made friends with some of the ducks, saw another dog, Danny gave her his popcorn, got a lot of candy from the candy shop, and gave some jelly beans to the last dog she saw today, but only the green ones she doesn’t like, and then feeling bad about it and giving it some of the red ones to even it out.

She doesn’t mention anything to you about asking Jenny about why she doesn't have a daddy, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the first break you’ve had all day. Some may say you indulge her too much, but all three grown women at this table know exactly how it feels to have their thoughts and feelings ignored, and you all had come to the mutual understanding that Rosie would never have to feel this way in this house.

“Mama, I forgot to tell you,” Rosie states after she shoveled the last of her food into her mouth. “Barbie got a new job today!” she delights as she thrusts the doll in your face. 

“Really?” you say trying to match even a quarter of her excitement. “Is she mmm… a firefighter?”

“No!” she squeals, delighted in the game you play with her. 

Making a big show of putting a finger to your temple and closing one eye, apparently deep in thought, you ask, “Is she a… detective?” 

“No that was yesterday!” she’s practically buzzing to tell you, but holds it in to keep this game going.

“Oh!” you say, pretending to have a lightbulb moment. “She’s a wizard!” You know your daughter well enough, so you’re reasonably confident in your guess knowing that Jenny took her to see that Disney movie today. 

“No,” she laughs, “She’s an actress, but she also sings in all her movies.”

“O-oh,” you say, genuinely caught off guard by that. “Why’s that?” It’s certainly not an unusual thing for a little girl to declare, but for your daughter it most definitely was. When she declared what Barbie was going to be it was always influenced by something she saw that day. Sometimes she was a baker, sometimes a ballerina, even one memorable time a bus driver, but this is a first. Even when she has seen movies with actors in it she didn’t quite understand the concept that those aren’t their real jobs on screen, and she would pick that, which is why you guessed wizard.

“Because Danny does that,” she declares, as she starts to make Barbie dance on the dinner table.

And then it made sense, your daughter’s friend, Danny, who according to Jenny, has a penchant for making up stories. To your daughter the boy’s been a cowboy, a soldier, he’s as strong as superman, can play any instrument, and now apparently is a famous actor. 

You give an amused huff, “I see Danny’s at it again,” you state, as you take her plate. It’s a literal miracle that Jenny’s impromptu trip to the candy store didn’t spoil her appetite, and but you don’t know how much of an appetite she’ll have for dessert so you decide to just split a slice of King cake with her. 

“At what mama?” she asks as Gina wipes some of her food off her face. 

“He’s telling stories again,” you say as you bring Gina and Susan their dessert plates. 

“No he’s not,” she states, furrowing her brow, and you can’t help but quirk a smile at how stressed she looks as you sit down. “I saw it myself.” 

“I’m sure you did, but Honey, it's just… sometimes boys have a habit of telling… tall tales,” you suppose that’s the nice way of putting it. It’s a fine line you walk with her, wanting to have her believe in herself most of all, but also wanting her to not believe everything she’s told, especially by boys. You’re the textbook example of what happens to supposedly smart girls who get in too deep with charming boys.

“But it’s true mama,” she insists, raising her voice a bit. 

“Sweetheart, I think he means, he wants to be that when he grows up,” you try to gently justify, as you subtly try to nudge the fork closer to her. 

“No mama, I saw it,” she asserts, getting progressively more upset defending her friend. “He is a famous actor and he was singing and dancing at the theater.”

“And I’m sure he’s gonna be a big star one day when he’s all grown up,” you try to assuage how worked up she’s getting. “But I don’t think he’s one right now.” 

“No mama!” she yells at the top of her lungs, angry tears streaming down her face. “You’re a liar!” You feel your stomach drop to the floor and she herself looks shocked at what she just said. She proceeds to cry even harder before turning tail and running straight into the room you share with her and slamming the door as hard as she could. 

When you were far enough away, and somewhat comfortable in your new environment in Your Aunties home, the first thing you did was read nearly every book about motherhood you could find. You were determined to do this right as you had made the unilateral decision for your baby to only have one parent. So you decided as a means of making up for it you would be all the parent she would need. 

Doubt creeps into the back of your throat that you made the wrong decision and that you in fact were not enough on your own and that she never would have done that if He were around. 

“You want me to go talk to her?” Gina would ask after hearing your door slam shut. 

As bad as you want to say yes from the exhausting day you’ve had so far, you’re not about to foist your duties as a mother off onto her right now. She understands but you don’t miss the pointed look she gives to Sue, as she walks away to clean up dinner, and you bury your hand in your face hoping if you wish hard enough this day will finally come to a close. 

“I remember the first time I yelled at my mama,” Sue off-handedly says after a few minutes. “Always too scared that that wretched woman would beat me black and blue if I was ever less than perfect,” she takes a sip of her tea. “And she did just that when I got fed up with all her teasing about me getting a boyfriend.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“What I’m gettin’ at is… I was never comfortable enough with my own mother to be angry with her.”

“Am I bad at this?” 

“You’re still new at this Hon,” she reassures you. “There's a big difference.”

Despite the fact that Gina was the one related to you by blood, Sue’s the only one in the world who even has an inkling as to what exactly you left behind. And that is only because she was a front row spectator to it.

You had managed to get permission to leave the hotel room for a few hours while He was on set that day. He had brought you down from Memphis, not wanting you so far out of reach and yet you were still pretty much kept confined. You had long since exhausted the books you had brought for the trip, and you were practically itching to get out. 

Books were your only escape from this place. Where you could vicariously solve a mystery or meet royalty or stop a war or any other number of exciting things in your head. But inevitably you close the book and the story ends and your back in this fucking hotel room. 

You realize by getting more books you're just masking a symptom rather than actually treating the illness. You couldn’t take it anymore and had begged Him to at least let you go to a bookstore to keep you occupied, because by that point you were willing to pay the price for it. 

Sue had been the only one in the store the day but you hadn’t really taken notice of her, your eyes had been darting around everywhere trying to find Gina. Sonny was in there as well, as you were only able to bargain your way to being in here and picking out the books, but not enough to be able to enter the store alone. Sonny had been the one to pull the short straw and had been put on Y/N duty today. Usually that consisted of sitting in the hotel and making sure you didn’t go anywhere while also completely ignoring you.

Everybody knows the story of the last guy that paid a little too much attention to you. You still couldn’t look at raw ground beef without crying.

Outside of the occasional gathering you don’t really interact with anybody out of the immediate vicinity of home. It’s funny how He can put you in a room filled to the brim with his people yet make you feel so alone at the same time. It would be amazing if it didn’t make you feel so awful at the same time. 

It’s a terrible thing He does, but it’s made all the worse that so many people can see what he’s doing keeping you prisoner and isolated and yet no one will ever dare breach it 

If anything they actually help him as they all report to him practically what you did that day, do their best to talk you out of leaving the room, and even when you do insist on going off on your own, the men are quick to remind you that He won’t like it one bit. They won’t physically stop you, (they know the worst thing they can do is put their hands on you) but you know that’s where their “help” begins and ends. 

At one point you even tried to play ball and asked for His permission last time you were in LA and you had wanted to go to the Griffith Observatory. You had asked in advance, agreed to only being there for two hours, and even gave in to being essentially chaperoned from a distance. Initially He had agreed to the terms and You thought you had done good and maybe you were finally coming to somewhat of a middle ground with him. 

But in the days leading up to the trip He would ask for favors in return. They all just happened to be things you had refused to do for him up until that point. When you refused He would at first seemingly accept your answer, and then He would idly remind you of your upcoming trip before asking you again. You weren’t stupid enough to miss the connection and so you did what you thought you had to do for just the slightest taste of freedom.

Who are you kidding?

You practically begged and did tricks for Him like a dog for just the slightest bit of slack on your leash. 

You could barely move the morning of the trip both physically and emotionally drained from what he had you do the night before, but you still persevered if only to make all that you went through worth it.

It wasn’t worth it. 

Everything you saw that day was completely soured by what you had to do to get there. Every step felt like agony, and you had to make a conscious effort to not walk funny. And before you knew it the two hours were up and Red was telling you it was time to leave. 

You don’t know what’s worse, the punishments or the favors. 

You had to go the favor route today as otherwise he would have simply sent for someone to get you whatever books they could find, rather than letting you pick. You already know you’re going to get it when he finds out you went to a different bookstore than initially planned. You thought you could at the very least make it worth it by seeing one familiar face, but even fate denied you that as Gina was nowhere to be seen. 

It was cold enough to justify wearing something to cover up most of the bruises, but that didn’t mean they were all hidden. You wouldn’t know it at the time but your skittishness coupled with the bruises struck a chord with Susan before you fully checked out of the store.

“I’m sorry if this sounds like an odd question but ummm…” you say, glancing around, making sure that Sonny was too far to hear. “Does Gina work here?”

Sue immediately tenses up, and you curse your caginess, as you reassure her that you’re Gina’s niece, Y/N. She seems to relax hearing that so at least she knows that you try to maintain a good relationship, sporadic your letters may be. 

“What happened there honey?” she asks, gesturing to your wrist that has a ring of bruises on it, which you quickly move to hide. You internally curse yourself for your sloppiness. He doesn’t mean to hurt you but he tends to lose himself and be a little rougher especially when he’s worried about something else. 

He’s been a little rougher for a few months now.

“Oh-ummm,” you steal a glance at Sonny, who was making his way to the counter. “Yes I am ready to check out.” Gesturing to the three towers of books you’ve managed to accumulate.

This doesn’t go unnoticed by Sue nor does she miss Sonny's statement of remembering the rules as to what you’re allowed to get, if her disapproving look is anything to go by. He’s fine with you reading but doesn’t like you reading books that will put “ideas” in your head. 

You don’t exactly know what that means as the standards seem to change depending on His mood and it’s always a gamble as to what he will or won’t allow you to have. You fear the day He grows the same hatred for fictional men that he has for any man within your vicinity. 

You're genuinely sad when it comes time to pay, (Well Sonny pays, He doesn’t like the idea of you handling money), and then Susan does something you could never have anticipated in a million years as Sonny grabs one stack and goes to put it in the car. 

You wished it had been anybody but Sonny that day. His last girlfriend, whom he swore he was gonna make Mrs. Sonny West, had made the mistake of trying to befriend you outside of gatherings. She stopped by the house frequently just to visit and even invited you out to the salon. 

And it was your mistake to believe you could have a friend that he would finally approve of. Friend or family, He eventually found something to disapprove of for everybody close to you previously. You thought that because she was already nominally part of the group, it would be fine to go.  

He made it clear by the time you got home that it wasn’t. 

You never saw her again after that and Sonny’s resented you ever since. You can hardly blame him, it’s easier to point the finger at you for not anticipating the unspoken rules, as opposed to the man who signs his checks and makes the rules. 

You know that even the slightest toe out of line will be reported back to Him in the worst light. So you had to be on your best behavior. 

“Y’know I highly recommend this book,” Sue says, sliding the book she had been reading at the counter to you. 

Wide Sargasso Sea, the cover reads.

“Oh thank you but I already paid,” you say, almost afraid of this conversation. “And besides I already have enough books.”

“Sweetheart you can never have too many,” she insists and without looking opens it up to the first page where you see a little handwritten note. She closes it up before you can see what it says and slyly slots it in the middle of a stack. 

Later on when you feel sufficiently safe enough to look at it you nearly burst into tears.

In case you need help

feel free to call

(xxx-xxxx)

Such a small thing really, but it’s the most human connection you’ve had with anyone else but Him in a long time. 

You spend the next hour or two committing that string of numbers to memory before you proceed to rip out that page, shred it, and flush the remnants down the toilet. 

Even when you were burning the number into your brain, you never thought you would have ever had the guts to use it. Back when you thought you could accept what looked to be your fate. 

It would be unfair to say it was all bad, after all there was a reason you did fall for Him in the first place. When you would read mysteries and He would listen to you criticize the culprits' plans and schemes and he would look in awe at how you would’ve gotten away with it. Or how fun it was to sneak out with him, your family none the wiser. Even when things got bad and it felt like He was the only one that would talk to you for days, you cherished it because it truly felt like he was your life line. 

When things were good they were great, it was just when they were bad did you start to recognize them. 

Things were bad a lot towards the end. 

Gladys had been one of the few willing to go to bat for you, and perhaps the only one who He would listen to. She was the only one who could set him straight when he got huffy at the thought of you having some basic independence of being able to go outside and not needing to be watched like a child all the time. 

She was the one you went to with your suspicions and early symptoms, when you were too afraid to go to the doctor that reported right back to Him. 

She had also been the only one who knew your fears about having this baby. In your mind there were a total of two possibilities for the life the baby would live. One that they would live a life like yours, isolated within the walls of the house under their fathers obsessive gaze, never to experience the outside world. Or two He would hate the baby on principle and see it as just competition for your time and attention like he did with everybody else.

She did her best to try to quell your fears, trying to assert He would never do either of those things, especially, the last one. 

But you saw it in her eyes how she knows how sour He would get when he would come home to find you playing with his younger cousins. How He gets when someone new so much as looks your way a beat too long, or has the gall to get your attention.

How you’re barely allowed to talk to other girls your own age and that’s only saved for special occasions when his friends bring their girlfriends and He’s otherwise occupied. And even then He has a penchant for just removing you from them just to have you sit with him, and you’re out in the awkward position of being the odd one out in his group.

How when you did gather up the nerve to bring up the topic of babies to him one night his answer was “I ain’t ready to share ya’ darlin’, I don’t think I’ll eva be.”

But your most hard-hitting evidence was what happened to your dog, Hardy. He had been an old stray you saw skulking around the property, and whom you took in when He was touring. Hardy didn’t have much of an interest in running around or playing fetch, just sitting by your side and eating treats. 

Everything was good until He returned. You knew it was gonna be trouble the moment He walked through the door and saw you scratching the dog’s belly. Inspite of the fact that Hardy was usually tolerant of strangers, something about Him immediately put the usually placid dog on edge. You immediately got to work on trying to find some sort of compromise in regards to him, and offered everything from making Hardy a permanently outside dog to even being willing to have him be boarded with a family member while He was home. 

You had asked Gladys where Hardy was the very next morning when you couldn’t find him anywhere, only to be told that He had taken him out for a walk. You didn’t have the heart to be told a lie when He returned alone.

He started taking you with him at that point, and you hardly knew a moment's peace after that.

Your attention is not your own to freely give away, let alone your affection, He expects it all to go to him. He did lord knows what to a dog that had had the misfortune of occupying some of your time when he was there, you hardly wanted to chance the life of a baby that would need all of it. 

However in spite of all of that, you thought with her by your side you would be able to weather his reaction, whatever it may be. Even if your worst fear came to be and He didn’t really want anything to do with the baby, you could at least have someone to love the baby just as fiercely even when you were otherwise occupied by Him. It wasn’t necessarily fair, but you could somewhat see the function of it, and in spite of the weariness he’s instilled in you by that point, you were still reasonably confident in your ability to plan for the long term.

And then Gladys died.

And you were left to navigate the hardest thing you could face alone. 

“Ain’t nobody ever talks about how hard this can be. Or how easy it is to mess up,” Sue continues as she polishes off her plate. “But maybe…” she prods. “If you had a partner to help ease the load, you wouldn’t doubt yourself so much.”

You groan at this point wanting to truly be done with this day already. “Not this again,” you bemoan. 

“Honey,” she says with a firm but comforting grip on your shoulder. “I know a thing or two about leaving bad things behind, but I do think sometimes you need to let someone else in to help you recover,” she says. And almost like they rehearsed it, Gina comes in with a mug of tea, and a kiss to Susan’s forehead as she demands she go back to bed to rest up.

You want to argue back that you did a good enough job of recovering by yourself, but that’s hardly fair to say considering how you were about as helpless as Rosie herself that first year and a half you were here. You had thought that you would’ve been out of here maybe a couple months after giving birth, and been in a completely new place with no ties whatsoever. But the reality is that there’s no possible way you or Rosie would have survived without the help they were so willing to give. 

And that’s all they’re trying to do now. 

You take a minute to fully gather yourself, as you realize you being upset won’t help Rosie in the slightest. You also pick up the slice of cake, as you don’t want her to think she’s being punished for being upset with you. 

You find her hiding underneath the blankets of the bed you share with her and you can only hear sniffling at this point. You try to approach this delicately, as this is new territory for the both of you, so you place the cake on the nightstand, crawl underneath the sheets with her, and allow for her to come to you. Luckily you don’t have to wait for long.

“Mama!” she cries as she buries her face in your bosom, her tears already soaking through the cotton material. “Mama, I didn’t mean it! Please don’t be mad! I’m sorry Mama! Please don’t leave.”

“Sweetheart it’s okay,” you reassure her, running your nails up and down her back, as it always did the trick of settling her down when she was a baby. “Mama’s not goin’ anywhere without you. I’m always gonna be with you.” You hardly put her down her first year of life, going against all the books and holding her at just about every possible moment, so you can hardly fathom where she got this idea in her head that you would leave if you got upset with her. But remembering what Jenny had told you earlier, you have the sneaking suspicion it is related to her noticing the lack of a father in her life. 

“I’m sorry mama! I’m sorry…” she repeats over and over again, and for each time you make sure to reassure her that nothing she could ever do would make you leave. 

Finally when she’s tired herself out and her eyes are red and raw do you finally speak. “Rosie, it’s okay to be mad, but it’s not okay to be mean, because you’re mad,” you say softly to her running your nails on her back, something that has always soothed her. 

She rubs her eyes and wipes her runny nose before looking up at you again, and gives a groggy “I understand Mama.” 

“Good,” you say, kissing her forehead. “Now can you help me finish this cake.” 

You see her eyes widen before she eagerly grabs the fork and dives right in. With your help, it’s not long before it’s almost entirely gone and when she takes that final bite of the cake she goes wide-eyed sticking her fingers in her mouth to pick out the errant piece. “What’s this Mama?” she says holding the little porcelain baby up. 

“Oh you found it Rosie,” you say excitedly, “This means you’re going to have good luck.”

“... Like a wish?”

“Sort of,” you answer.

She gives an excited shriek before she clasps the little figurine in her hands and whispers something almost inaudible to it, with the only recognizable words being “Danny” and “Neverland.” You’re slightly disappointed that your lesson hadn’t quite landed today, but you choose to leave it for now, as you don’t see the harm in wishing to go to a non-existent magical place. 

Once teeth are brushed and pajamas are put on, Rosie settles into bed, but not before making sure you’re not about to break your long-held tradition of storytime. She’s the type of kid who when she likes one story she demands to hear it over and over again. 

And lately she’s latched onto Rapunzel. 

The whole concept does unsettle you greatly, for how close it is to your story. But whatever qualms you have with the story you’re not gonna deny your daughter, because your problems are your own cross to bear, not hers. 

As you read it you get to the part where the witch mother casts her out of the tower and she wanders the forests with her children. You wonder if Rapunzel ever found joy in those years away from the mother who isolated her, away from the prince who could have taken advantage of her. She survived not only on her own, but kept others alive as well. WHat did she do? Did she forage and hunt for her babies, did she find a village where she could work to support her family? 

Sometimes you wonder if she did truly live happily after the end of the story, or if she traded one cage for another as you did before. 

Your daughter is long asleep by the time you reach the happily ever after part of the story. She’s still in the habit of sucking her thumb at night, so you gently remove it, and put one of her favorite stuffies in her arms. And that marks the end of your daily duties, so in theory you should be able to finally fall asleep and be done with this day. 

In theory.

In actuality you creep out of the bed you share with your daughter into the single bathroom of the apartment. Usually her steady breathing tends to be enough to get you to fall asleep, it’s been that way ever since she was a baby, but you’re left feeling agitated having had to think of Him more than usual today. 

Not just because of the song on the radio, but Rosie’s outburst reminded you far too much of her father. It feels like the worst injustice that she mimics someone who isn’t even here.

Now that ain’t my fault now is it darlin’? A familiar voice whispers in your mind. You feel a shudder run down your spine at the thought of him, not to mention the way you shamefully feel yourself pool within your underwear. You slide down the bathroom door, out of sight of the mirror, as though that will prevent you from facing what you’re about to do. You even close your eyes for good measure as your hand reaches your folds and your fingers caress the slick outer lips of your pussy. 

You had tried to ignore this part of yourself for so long. You justified it during your pregnancy, as your body had been making you want to do other stupid things like sleep right in the middle of the store or eat paint chips. Even after giving birth and your inner feelings remaining unchanged, you justified it by thinking you were just particularly lonely, and for all that he kept you isolated, you were never alone when you were with him. Or that he was the only man you ever knew that way so he’s all you had to go off of in order to satisfy these urges.

For as much as your mind curses Him for ever coming into your life, even after all these years, your body has yet to catch up. 

You’re far from unique in your desire for him, but it’s especially shameful for you as you know what he’s truly like. It’s like scratching a mosquito bite, you may know that it’ll just make the itching worse, but dear god did it feel good in the moment. 

But even that is far from an accurate description as you plunge your on fingers into your sopping channel in a poor imitation of what you remember. 

You bite your lip in an effort to keep noises at bay but it just makes you concentrate on the wet squelching sounds echoing through the bathroom as you plunge your fingers into yourself. The sharp sting of pain forcing your mind back to where you experience the most of it. 

“You’re so sweet darlin’,” he purrs, his jaw glistening from your juices having just made a feast of you for the past hour or so. He had made it a game to see how close he could bring you without actually letting you cum, something he tends to do when someone looks your way for a little too long, as though he means to re-establish his claim over you. That only he can give you pleasure like this but take it away on a whim if he chooses. 

“No more…” you beg, new tears forming and following the trail previously set, your lips undoubtedly bruised from how much you have been chewing on them throughout. “Please,” your thighs aching from the death grip he has them in, undoubtedly leaving bruises for you to feel in the morning. 

“Alright,” he says seemingly conceding. But before you can breathe a sigh of relief, he continues, “we’ll switch it up for tonight.”

He flips you over to your front, spreads your legs wide open again, and dives right back in. 

You can’t help the way you’re left trembling from the memory, but what does shake you somewhat is the when you realize that it’s not simply the ghost of the memory that is making you feel that bruising pressure on your inner thigh, but in fact your own hand keeping it there. 

Still the masochist within you that yearns for the ghost of a man you once thought you knew takes a hold and refuses to let go now that you’re so close to release. So you give in and continue your frantic movements biting down hard on your lip to prevent any errant cries from leaving, and grip onto your thigh for dear life, even now trying to deny yourself that you want him here with you.

As you’re coming down from your high, you fight back your tears of shame. Trying to remind yourself why you left in the first place. How for all the moments he made you feel amazing, they weren’t worth the amount of grief he caused you on a near day-to-day basis.

Grief he’s still causing you more like it. 

You don’t think you could have written a better love story in the beginning. You met him when your eyes locked on each other from across your favorite bookstore back in Memphis. He had oh so shyly approached you and asked what you were reading, a bit starry eyed as he listened. Back then and arguably still the concept of a man listening to you was such a novel and unique thing to experience. 

It progressed from there, hand-holding in the school hallway, shared milkshakes at the local diner, and Sunday dinners with his family. Of course there were the less than wholesome aspects of your relationship of stray hands when no one was looking and heated kisses after a particularly rousing performance.

Truly the hallmarks of the greatest love story the world had ever seen. 

If only you knew how wrong a love story can go, because your story went very wrong. 

You vividly remember your first time with him.

Undoubtedly the cruelest thing he ever did to you.

You were never supposed to find out about the other girls, well that’s not true. The newspapers sure knew about them but he had convinced you that it was all nonsense and that he would never do that to you. All of his friends knew, hell even some of their girlfriends knew, but ideally you were never supposed to find out. 

But the only chink in the armor was that there was in fact someone who had wanted you out as soon as he stepped in. Fact of the matter is that he was practically giddy as he told you what your fiance had been doing on the road up until that point. You were heartbroken and humiliated as to what he did and even more so when you learned he had been gearing up to break up with you the night he proposed, but only stopped when he realized that you wouldn’t be waiting for him, once his career settled.

He had been calling your house non-stop and sending his friends over all with the mission to coax you into talking to him. Worse still he even got your own friends in on it and now you can’t have a single conversation with any of them that doesn’t turn into them telling you how sorry he feels for hurting you and how he desperately wants you back. 

The only people, aside from his manager, that were happy at this development were your parents. They had liked him up until he started to really take off in his career, and they wanted none of the controversy, especially when it came to your squeaky clean, good girl image they had for you. 

They’ve been walking around with the smuggest “I told you so” looks ever since you announced that you were done with him. If only they knew their good girl had been sneaking in her boyfriend for the past three years and had a whole routine for doing so.

But the downside to this is that He was just as aware of the routine as you were. And despite it having been awhile he evidently remembered enough as he stood outside your window, right after all the lights in your house had gone out. 

“Get outta here,” you hiss at him, opening the window just a crack. “You’re gonna wake up my parents.”

“Baby I gotta talk to you,” he pleads, his face utterly heartbroken. Guilt eats at you, knowing how there were days you wished you could go back to not knowing at all. But then you get angry at not only him but yourself for these thoughts. 

If only all of your love for him had died the moment you found out, you would’ve had the strength to shut the window on him that night, and your life probably would’ve taken a very different course. 

But no, you’re hurt and you felt that you had to have the final word. “Talk to one a your other girls,” you say as you move to close your window but he beats you to it and ends up opening it wider, allowing for him to fully step into your space. 

“Get out,” you say severely. “Get out, or I’ll scream.” 

“Darlin’, please listen,” he begs.

“Don’tchu ‘baby’ ‘darlin’ me,” you whisper-yell. 

“I swear things’ll be different this time round,” he pleads, clasping his hands in yours. 

“I’m done with your nonsense, I want you outta my house and outta my life.” tears are already streaming down your face and you make no motion to wipe them away. If he’s gonna hurt you like this he deserves to know. 

He looks at you. Truly looks at you and sees that you’re dead serious about this, that for you there is no coming back from this. 

“Okay,” he says solemnly, looking down at you more defeated than you’ve ever seen him, unfelled tears doting his eyes, and his bottom lip trembling. 

That takes you by surprise, but you try not to show it. “Good,” you say, trying to stamp down the urge to be mad that he’s not fighting harder. There is a hurricane of emotions going through your entire being, hating him and loving him at the same time, but you recognize that you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of being able to sort through said emotions while he’s here. 

“But…”

“But?” you say, confused as to what more there is to say. 

“Let me have you,” he begs breathlessly, stepping closer to you, boxing you into the wall behind you. “Just for tonight,” he clarifies as though that’s gonna make it better.

That offends you but you can’t afford to raise your voice so you hiss at him that it’s not as though you didn’t offer when he was here. “I ain’t ever gonna forgive myself for bein’ so stupid and steppin’ out on you, I-I thought I had more time, tha-that we’d got the rest of our lives together,” he says his voice painfully small, and his eyes pleading with you to agree. 

Your heart swells hearing his words, pleading with your brain to forgive him seeing how much pain the thought of never being with you again is causing the both of you. Another, unmentionable part is also hounding your brain to accept his offer if only for the fact that you had wanted this yourself for so long.

“If-If I do that…” you say in a low voice, your face burning as to what the both of you want but aren’t saying aloud. “Then you’ll leave and never come back?” though even as you say that you’re not exactly sure how you feel over that prospect.

“Just one night sweetheart,” he begs, giving you a quick desperate kiss to your lips. “One night to know what a life with you could’ve been like, and I’ll be outta yer hair forever,” he says with a quick peck to your lips. 

He makes it almost sound romantic, not like he’s quite literally backing you into a corner, and coaxing you into something you’re not sure you want just so that you would finally know peace from him. But that's far from your mind as that little bit of contact does something to you and it’s like opening the floodgates for all the feelings for him you’ve been trying to bury. 

It feels like you're transported to almost a year ago when, he would sneak his way back into your room after having said his goodbyes to your family and parking his car around the corner out of view. How you both move your blankets and pillows onto the floor to avoid the creaky springs of your mattress, how you both keep your voices low, and muffle most sounds with the pillows, how he kicks off his shoes and unbuttons his shirt before slowly undressing you, your body being treated like a present to unwrap. 

Like this it’s easy to forget what he did, easy to forget the pain he’s caused when he’s treating you so sweetly. Kissing every inch of skin, nipping at your sensitive skin every so often, before laving at the bruising area with his tongue. You bite down on your lip hard, willing yourself to keep a cap on the filthy moans and declarations of love alike. 

You had done things with him before but it had never felt quite like this. He had always been insistent that you wait until the wedding night for that, wanting to savor you and all you had to offer before the time came. Which made it feel all the worse when you did find out about those other girls. Your friends had tried to justify it by saying that he was just getting in some “practice” for you, but that hardly made it feel any better. 

But the way he touches you, so sure of his newfound skills, it’s almost easy to forgive him. He treats you almost deceptively sweet, and for as hard as you try to keep yourself quiet, you admittedly don’t do a great job at it. But you manage to keep a good enough lid on yourself. But as it goes on it feels like he himself forgets that he had to do the same, as moans and groans alike continue to escape from his mouth. 

That should’ve been your first clue that he was up to something, but by then as he continues to bury himself deeper and deeper into you, you can’t focus on much else. Had you been thinking straight you would remember he arguably has better control of himself than you do, as he often would tease you over it. 

But in the moment that’s not what you’re thinking about. All you had on your brain was him, and how good and right he felt.

If you could go back in time you think you would’ve strangled your younger, far more naive self, as now in retrospect it became clear what he was planning on doing. He had no qualms to exposing what you had done already with him if it meant merely getting a chance to talk to you, why wouldn’t he take the opportunity to go full scorched earth if given the chance. 

He continues his steady rhythm, and when he whispers in your ear, “It’s only ever gonna be you, darlin’,” you find yourself letting out a silent scream. Your eyes screwed shut, so lost in the pleasure of it all, you would only get the tail-end of the disdainful look he would give upon failing to get you to crack. 

Still you vividly remember how conflicted you did feel in the moment, how for all that it felt good, it also made your stomach turn, for all the hurt he’s caused you yet how deceptively sweet he could be to you. It just gave you a serious case of whiplash. 

But you were so focused on keeping as quiet as possible not even being able to fathom the heap of trouble you would be in should your parents ever find out. You could hardly fathom the agent of your destruction laid within you, but it wasn’t until it was too late did it truly click. 

That devious look he had in his eyes, the one that spoke nothing but trouble. The very same look that seemingly first trapped you all those years ago when you caught it staring at you from across the bookstore. He picked up his rhythm, not allowing for you to fully recover, from the last time, as he pistons into you seeking out release for himself.

You were so dizzy in that moment you didn’t register how he raised his hand onto your night table, before quickly slamming it three times into the wall. 

The very wall you shared with your parents. 

Even in the moment you didn’t fully recognize what he had just done, everything sort of blurring together. Before you can even hope to get your bearings, he’s spinning the both of you around so that you now were on top of him, his fingers digging bruises into your hips, as he thrusts back up into you, no longer trying to feign tenderness, as he seems to rip another climax from you as he lets an unrestrained groan fall from his lips, while your inner walls tighten around him. 

Even in your haze, you realize that this is bad, and you manage to gather yourself enough to slap your hand over his mouth, but that does little to muffle the singer. Especially as it seems as though he's hellbent to be heard. “What did you just do?” you ask unbelieving, frozen in fear even as you hear the muffled shouts of your father through the wall. You feel underneath your palm as his mouth curls into a grin, as he shudders and you feel his hot seed burn you from within. And that’s when you hear the powerful footfalls of your father burst out of his room before he slams open your bedroom door. 

You can only imagine the image you make at that moment, naked sitting astride the nearly fully clothed boy you had sworn up and down for weeks you were done for good with. “What in the hell is going on in here!” your father shouts at the top of his lungs.

Everything after that happens in a blur of your fathers harsh shouts and the sharp sting that comes from your mothers hand across your face as she calls you a whore. By the time it’s all said and done you’re on your knees at the front door begging them to let you back into the house. 

“Take her with you,” your daddy practically spat at him as he tossed you to your knees outside of what was once your home. “I didn’t raise no whores, and you seem to now be in the business a collectin’ them.” 

You can almost hear the sound of a rattlesnake as his arm coils around your shoulder, laying his jacket over your weeping form like a gentleman. “Don’tchu worry baby,” he whispers in your ear. 

He’s almost angelic in his appearance, playing the savior role well, having escaped your home relatively unscathed and in remarkably high-spirits for the situation. But you don’t have much of a choice in the moment, remembering Gina’s words of how easily this family will toss aside wayward women, but it never truly sunk in that you were liable to become one. 

He would tell everybody that your daddy had thrown you out after asserting that you still wanted to be with Him in spite of all of that he’s done, and your folks practically disowned you for it. You let him say what he wants because you don’t see a point in telling the truth and if you’re being honest, part of you wants to believe it. It was a far more romantic story than what had actually happened. 

As you’re coming down from your second and somehow less satisfying orgasm, does the guilt start to creep in. Even after all these years you still yearn for his touch. 

But that is so much easier to admit than the alternative of missing Him.

It eats at you that you still think of Him like this after all that he did to you, and worse still it’s almost like you want him to come back.

Your heart practically leaps out your chest when you hear a soft knock at the door and for one horrifying second you think you’ve somehow summoned him to you. 

“Mama…” you hear a small voice whimper behind the locked door, and you breathe a sigh of relief. “Mama, I threw up.”

You don’t know if it’s a consolidation of three different people telling you the same thing in one day, the culmination of your late night loneliness for the past four or so years, or the noxious fumes of the truly unholy combination of stomach acid, red beans, and Jelly Beans that you had to clean up in your sleep deprived state, but you come to the conclusion that you can no longer do this by yourself. 

Being a mother tended to be enough of a deterrent to most men in the city, which didn’t bother you one bit, but it did make you feel all the worse when you did meet the few who were still willing even after learning about Rosie. 

Sam or Lou may very well have been as nice and understanding as they seemed to be, but because of Him, you now look suspiciously at every man trying to get close. 

Perhaps the women in your life were onto something and it is about time for you to move on with your life. Because if you resolve yourself to being for all intents and purposes a shut-in who never knew another man’s touch other than His, then you ran for nothing. 

So it’s with a semi-defeated sigh that you tell Jenny the next morning to send over Lee’s friend to the shop while you’re working to “see how it goes.” 

You do admittedly put a little more effort into your appearance than you would on an average day and you perk up every time a man who looked close to your age walked in. But if any of them were sent by Jenny they didn’t mention it. 

You only ever had one boyfriend when you were a teen, so it feels more than a bit intimidating to go into this, but you can’t deny yourself a life anymore. 

Afterall if you don’t then you may as well have stayed in Memphis. 

The day goes by and of the few men that do enter the shop, of the few that seem interested in you, none of them knew who Jenny was.  

It’s well past closing and feeling both tired and rejected, however the bane of your existence you call Jenny has yet to return, so you instead just flip the sign without properly locking up and hope they’ll be back soon. This isn’t necessarily unusual but you’re just eager for this day to end and hope that a nice cuddle with your daughter will be enough to lift your spirits. 

But for now there are books that need to be out back.

Soon you finally hear the shop bell ring, but instead of the comforting tiny footsteps or the recognizable clack of Jenny’s heels, you instead hear an unfamiliar pattern of heavy footsteps over the low volume of the radio. You look between the shelves from where you’re stocking books in the back and while you can’t make out specific details you see what is undoubtedly the shape of a man standing at the counter. 

“I’m sorry Sir,” you announce still from behind the shelf. “We’re closed for the evening, but please feel free to return tomorrow.” 

“Oh I ain’t going anywhere sweetheart,” a voice drawls.

A voice you would recognize anywhere.

You think you begin to understand at that moment why some animals will chew off their own arms to escape a trap. After all, what is a limb or two in the face of inevitable doom? And even when they do eventually die, they will at least go with their head held high knowing that they did all that they could, because better dead than captured.

But you stand there frozen, barely capable of breathing at a steady rate. You feel like every drop of blood has been drained from your body. Like someone reached into your lungs and snatched the air right out of them. Like your bones have lost all integrity and you’re only kept standing by the mere fact you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. 

He is here. 

Elvis is here.

Not only that but the footsteps getting louder tell you he is getting closer. 

Fuck.

Your mind is going a million miles an hour to try to get out of this, but all of them fall flat when you remember your daughter is not here and if you were to run that would just leave her in his clutches. So rather than act on any plan, you walk out from behind the bookshelf, because there is no point fighting the inevitable. 

You’re hoping your look isn’t so much deer in the headlights and more awestruck and in disbelief that he found you. Which is true to some extent as you thought you had been so careful all these years, so all you can muster out when you see him for the first time is a pathetic little “h-how?”

Your hackles raise slightly as you see him reach behind him, and to your surprise he pulls out an old battered copy of Nancy Drew. You’re so confused for a second until you recognize it as yours. 

One of the many that Gina would send you periodically when you lived with your parents.

One of the many that had the name of this very store stamped to the inner cover. 

One of the many you took with you when you were kicked out.

One of the many left behind at Graceland. 

Fuck.

You want to kick yourself both for being so careless in your haste to leave, but you have no time for that as he says, “I ain’t as smart as you baby, but I figured out your breadcrumbs eventually.”

He thinks you wanted him to find you. 

Didn’tchu though?

“E-Elvis…” you whisper, the single name somehow feeling wrong as it comes out of your mouth. You’ve avoided even thinking about it all these years, as though if you try hard enough you’ll be able to purge him from your mind and thus from your life. As though simply uttering it will somehow summon him. 

That theory isn’t disproven as he, as usual, wastes no time in getting straight to what he came here for, his long legs carrying himself to you as he moves to engulf you within his arms. You stave off the immediate instinct of putting your hands up and allow this to happen, remembering what used to happen when you would deny him. 

He even goes so far as to spin you around, and you lose your footing and have to rely on him in order to not face plant onto the floor. But this works all the better to create the image of the long-lost lovers joyfully reuniting after so long. 

But as he gazes into your eyes, it isn’t fully complete until he leans down to capture your lips. You would like to say you had to force yourself not to flinch away, but even you would know you’re not that good of a liar.

It’s a kiss for the ages truly, both all-consuming and yet leaving you longing for more. The pitfall of having denied getting close to anyone these past few years now show themselves full-force as you on instinct lean full-force into his touch, and welcome his kiss, even fully knowing how precarious your situation is.  

All these years you never could’ve imagined how much you could miss touch- how much you could miss his touch. The kiss itself isn’t even broken until he roughly moves you against the bookshelf and forces his thigh between yours and your left gasping for air as you feel him for the first time. 

And you can’t help the little whine that leaves your lips before you gather yourself once more to look him in the eyes. 

“Did’ya miss me sweetheart?” he whispers against your lips. 

“I…” you say, tears welling in your eyes. “I’ve thought about you every night.” 

This is not a lie.

His fond expression doesn’t crack an inch as you say that, but before you can sigh an internal breath of relief, you feel a tight grip on your wrist as well as on your jaw.

“Then where’ve you been all these years,” he says, low and dangerous. 

It’s certainly not an unfair question to ask. But you’ve been prepared to answer this question since the moment you stepped foot outside of Graceland for a quick errand.

You don’t know what he knows yet, and that’s terrifying.   

“I…I…” you say in a quiet voice, all your years of preparation failing you when you needed it the most. 

In the back of your mind, though you are loath to admit it, you think you always knew this day was coming, that he would find you, and the only thing you could do was to try to lessen the blowback you would experience. It’s why yours and your daughter’s last name is Love. It’s why you never tried to get involved with another man. It’s why you even made that goddamn deal in the first place. 

“I’m going to disappear,” you say, casually taking a sip of your tea, not truly a fan of the taste, but lately it’s been one of the few things your sensitive stomach could handle. “And you’re gonna help me do that.” You couldn’t just ask anyone for help on this, you were surrounded only by sychophants who would do practically anything for Elvis, so you had to look elsewhere to the person whose only side he was on, was his own. 

“And why would I help you?” The Colonel said, idly stirring his coffee, but obviously trying to mask the spark of interest in his eyes. For as much of a slimeball as he can be, you would be a fool to not acknowledge that he’s a decent enough businessman at the end of the day to recognize  a good deal when he sees one. 

“Because you want me gone as much as I wanna be gone,” you state. He hated that Elvis kept you around, even more so when Elvis made it clear he had no intention of staying a bachelor once he finished service. 

Truly under any other circumstance he would be the last person in this house you would confide in, but though your desires were very different they did often run parallel. Something you realized when he talked Elvis out of eloping right before he got shipped out and into a long engagement. Truly the greatest boon you’ve been given since you’ve gotten here, the lack of recognizability or association with the rockstar will serve your purposes all the better.

“Can’t argue with that logic girl,” he says, taking a bite out of the muffins you had baked this morning as a peace offering to him. “Why do you even need my help?” he questions.

“Because I need someone to make sure that he doesn’t ever find me,” you declare, you had practiced this in your head so many times, too afraid to ever voice it aloud or write it down should any of it get back to him. Even an Ocean away you still feel his breath on the back of your neck, with the only safe place being inside your head. 

You had excused yourself from following him to Germany by feigning sickness with the promise that you would join him as soon as you felt better. Which wasn’t hard to do considering your symptoms before he left, left you practically bedridden.

Ever since you figured out your… condition (it felt too scary to even think in your head, let alone voice out loud), your mind had been running rampant with all of the possibilities of how he would react. None of which you're willing to risk coming to fruition. 

“And if I said No?” he asks, but from the look in his eyes he’s all but ready to pack your bags himself. Part of you feels guilty to leave the boy you once loved with such a man, but you have bigger things to worry about now. 

“You’re absolutely free to say no, Parker,” you assure, but he’s savvy enough to know that’s not the end of it. You don’t know whether it’s you mimicking the late Gladys Presley, or something that comes natural with becoming a mother, however you do know you need to assert yourself now of all times, not just for your sake but your baby’s. “Regardless of your help or not, I’m gonna to leave. Now whether I’m gone for twenty minutes or twenty years, will all depend on you, but know that this will also determine how long you’ll be able to keep your position as Manager.” 

He seems to bristle at your words, “And how do you figure dat Lil’ Miss?” he says with a dangerous look in his eyes as you seem to threaten the only thing he happens to care about. But once you do explain it he looks at you with no small amount of respect in his eyes as he mulls over your plan. “Quite devious,” he comments, literally tipping his hat at you. “I think I’m beginnin’ to get what he sees in you.” 

You're far from proud of your plan, and the slimeball’s admiration of it doesn’t help either, but you know for a fact it will work, and Parker is gonna make damn sure that he doesn’t ever find you. 

You made that plan practically bulletproof, but you never factored into account that you would choke in the moment that it truly matters. “Elvis I…” you trail off, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, clutching your hands on his shirt to keep yourself somewhat steady, trembling from the effort it takes to maintain that makeshift barrier. You’re either about to give the performance of a lifetime or… or…

No 

You can’t think like that otherwise…

This has to work. 

Your brain is going a million miles a minute, trying to remind yourself that you have to make this work if you have any hope of getting out of this without him ever having a chance of finding her.

But in real time you watch as this notion turns to ash in your mouth. 

You feel as your blood freezes in your veins when you hear the door slam open only to be followed by the familiar little dashing footsteps. Your heart drops into your stomach as you hear your daughter stop dead in her tracks and you want to throw up at the thought of him laying eyes on her. This is truly what all your nightmares have been building up to, but even they paled in comparison to the reality of what would actually happen. 

“Danny!!!” she squeals at the top of her lungs, before sprinting right into the arms of the man you were so desperately running from. You’re too shocked to do anything about it at the moment, and only watch in horror as something beyond your worst nightmare plays out before your very eyes. 

Even when your instincts kick in to keep her away from him, he casually moves your hands out of the way as he easily scoops her up and over his head, practically playing keep away as you try to take her back. “Is today the day!?!?” she squeals, wrapping her arms around his neck as best she could, giving him a kiss on the cheek, none the wiser at the danger the two of you were in.

“It sure is baby girl,” he says with a mile wide grin on his face. “Why don’tcha go pack everything you’re gonna need in Neverland?” You don’t miss the way his eyes slide your way, no doubt trying to gauge your reaction. 

She squeals in delight, as she jumps out of his arms and makes her way to the stairs, completely oblivious to your state. 

Everything your daughter ever said about “Danny” suddenly makes a whole lot more sense, and you can’t help but want to kick yourself for not paying attention. You thought she was safe with Jenny, you want to throw up at the thought that you unintentionally sent her into the lion's den without her.

She doesn’t even have the decency to face you in that moment, seeing her right outside the window, in Lee’s arms -or Charlie as you would later learn- pointedly not looking in. 

You don’t have the luxury of being mad as you feel his attention focus back on you in that moment. 

“Now…,” he says as he brings your face closer to his, tenderly grabbing your chin, wiping away a tear. “You wanna try again, sweetheart,” he grins maliciously, knowing you’ll have no choice but to be “honest.” 

And that’s it you have only one card left to play and you pray whatever forces that have written the story of your life will be merciful and let this plan work as you hoped it would all those years ago.

You fall to your knees and begin to sob uncontrollably into your palms. It’s actually easier than you had initially hoped, it in fact takes more effort not to cry when you think about him. It’s a miracle you’ve been able to stay this intelligible up to this point.

“Elvis,” you cry, trying to sound as pathetic and heartbroken as you possibly could. “Elvis I-I-I’m so sorry,” you stutter trying to really sell it. “He-he told me that you kn-knew and you didn’t want me anymore,” you hiccup for good measure. “Ho-how you couldn’t have a baby weighing you down, and that-that if I ever came back, he would make sure I would lose her for good.”

You start to hyperventilate, but it’s far from intentional, as you know your very life is at stake in this moment. If he doesn’t believe you… you can’t think like that. 

You know him well enough to know that he won’t believe your words specifically, but he does believe in the world he’s created in his head. That regardless of what you feel, what you say, or even what you do, you love him and want to be with him- always. It’s just others preventing that from happening. It was the women who tempted him on the road, and then it was your family speaking poison in your ear, and then it was the men he couldn’t trust to not look your way. It was never you personally, regardless of how he would sometimes lash out at you, you wanted to be there because he wanted you to be there. 

In the back of your mind when you had just barely begun to formulate leaving, you knew it would be foolish to believe there wasn’t a chance, no matter how slim, that he would find you. And you knew that it wouldn’t go without punishment should he ever find you should it ever occur. So you had to formulate a plan not just to leave, but how best to set yourself up if he ever returned. 

(There have been some nights that you lay awake believing that you prepared so well not because you were paranoid, but because it was an inevitability.)

You hear his clothes shift as he kneels down before you, and he takes your chin into his hand though much gentler this time. 

“Who’s ‘he’” he demands, voice as cold as a tomb. 

He’s buying it, you think, though you have no time to celebrate. You let out a truly pathetic little blubber through your tears, purposefully unintelligible trying to sell the emotions. 

“Who?” he asks, softer this time around, but no less urgent.

“The co-” you cut yourself off taking a deep steady breath. “The Colonel,” you whisper as though you fear speaking his name aloud will bring him to this very spot.

Parker’s far from innocent but you feel a slight twinge of guilt that his downfall would be for something he didn’t do as opposed to all the things he had done. But you can’t think like that anymore, it was gonna be either him or you. 

Someone would need to suffer because of what you did, and you would be damned before it was you or your daughter. 

And so Parker is now the villain who cruelly kept you and your daughter away from him, and not that you wanted so desperately to get away from him that you practically disappeared off the face of the Earth. But it seems like a fair trade. Parker loses his job, you lose your life. Maybe not in the literal sense, but in all the ways that matter you’ll be gone. 

You don’t relax at all when you feel him gently cup your face in his hands to softly wipe your tears away. You look upon the devastatingly handsome man, as he looks as if he means to take you in his arms to never let you go.“Don’tchu worry baby,” he says, wiping your tears away. “You don’t gotta worry bout that rat bastard no more.” You let out a small cry, hoping it sounds more out of relief than out of devastation to his words. “So now you and Rosie can come home,” he states with a delusional smile on his face. 

Despite the fact that you knew this would realistically end one of two ways, you can’t help but balk at the words. You try your best to smile at his words, but even you realize how hollow that gesture is, in spite of the part you know you’re meant to play in the moment, between the two of you, only one of you is an actor.

He’s having none of it as you feel the previously gentle hand cupping your face wrap around your throat. “Now. You. And. Rosie. Can. Come. Home.” he grits out, his grip around your neck tightening with each word emphasized. 

He knows what your answer is, no doubt he’s just trying to rub salt in the wound knowing that it’s not a choice he’s giving you. This is all the proof you need that he doesn’t fully believe you, but is willing to play along. Leaving may have been forgivable, staying away for so long is another matter entirely. 

He’s just punishing you for not being as enthusiastic as you should be at the prospect of coming “home,” as you should be.

You’re not playing pretend well enough.

“Mama!” Rosie squeals excitedly and when he lets go, you turn to see her making her way back downstairs, her favorite blanket now a makeshift rucksack of what you assume to be all toys dragging behind her. “Mama it worked!” she said, as she ran full tilt toward you, holding something in her palm. “Danny’s gonna take us to Neverland today.”

You see the little porcelain baby from the king cake and you find yourself wishing you were anywhere else. But you know better than to believe in wishes.

“Can we go now?” she says, her little hand grasping one of Elvis’ fingers and shaking furiously. “Now please,” she begs, before he scoops her up into his arms and propping her on his hip. He holds her close and you're forced to face what you have been ignoring all these years. The shape of the nose, the way her lips curl in such a specific way, there is only one place she could have gotten all of that from. It feels like just your luck that your child would be practically a carbon copy of the man you so desperately tried to get away from. Really it was only a matter of time before someone figured it out. 

“Now hold ya’ horses yittle,” chucking her under the chin in a far too familiar manner, as she giggles in his arms. “Yer mama’s gotta get ready herself.”

“I… do…” you say, playing along, trying to keep a cap on your distress for your daughter's sake. “I-I gotta pack a few more things baby,” you say, giving her a kiss on her forehead, hoping she misses the tears in your eyes. “I’ll b-be right back.” you manage to stutter out.

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” his voice so saccharine sweet it makes our teeth ache. “We’ll be right here.” 

As you turn around you feel a hard smack on your ass, and you fully stop, burning in humiliation that he would treat you like that, especially in front of your daughter. 

The humiliation only further ramps up as you walk up the stairs, and you can feel the slick already gathering between your thighs. Less out of titillation you believe and more out of a defense mechanism, knowing what will more than likely happen the second he's able to get you alone.

Or is it?

It doesn’t feel real as you step into the upstairs apartment, you see Gina at the stove and Sue filling out a crossword puzzle, her glasses threatening to fall off her nose, none of which suggests they have any idea of what’s going on downstairs. You’re almost angry about that, like it would’ve been easier to walk away from them if they had also been in on it as well. 

“Where’s Rosie so eager to rush off to?” Sue asks idly, not looking up from the paper.

“Oh ummm…” you say, trying to think on your feet for a decent enough lie. “ Sh-she’s going to a sleepover with-with Jenny.” 

You’re usually a better liar than this, but him being so close again has you all out of sorts tonight. Not to mention your mind is running rampant with all the worst case scenarios possible at the moment with the most egregious being that he’s gonna take her and run, forcing you to chase him down the same way he’s undoubtedly done for you these past few years. You’re practically feeling every second tick by, fearing the longer you take the greater the chances will be that they’re both gone. 

Is that how he felt when he was away from you? A small voice in your head asks. It’s an awful roiling feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would feel if the person you loved most wasn’t where you left them. Would he be so cruel to do that to you?

“Did that fella Jenny setchu up with ever show up?” Gina asks, wiping her hands on her apron. 

“Ye-yeah and… and I’m gonna get dinner with him,” you swallow, the lie tasting like bile in your mouth. As you turn to your room, already mentally mapping where the important documents were in your bedroom, preparing to pack a few outfits for Rosie, and whatever other odds and ends you would need. 

Your answer catches Gina off guard, and Sue immediately looks up from the paper sharing a look with your other Aunt. “Ain’t that a little fast, Hon?” 

“Maybe…” you say, hesitating as you try to hold back your tears. 

“Ya don’t gotta go if you ain’t ready for it,” Sue says behind you, putting a hand on your shoulder, that you flinch away from. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong If it’s still a little too early for you.” 

That’s the worst part about it. You know they would fight tooth and nail for both you and Rosie if you just asked. But you know the type of mess Elvis can and will bring into this house should you decide to fight him on this. After all they’ve done for you, keeping them out of the type of spectacle he brings is the least you can do.

“I have to go,” you say sternly. 

One look at your squared back shoulders and your far away look they know there’s no stopping this. You hold back your tears as you accept their hug and accept their well wishes. You say your goodbyes promising to be back soon, unsure if you will ever see them again, and you put on your biggest fakest smile as you let go of them, wanting to at least leave them with one happy memory.

Relief floods your entire being seeing her at the bottom of the steps, only for the dread to return seeing him there with her. Especially when you hear the story he’s telling her. You don’t miss the glance he steals your way before focusing on your daughter once again. “I thought to myself, ‘thas the girl whose gonna be mine.’”

“Like-like love at first sight,” Rosie asks, and you can practically hear the stars in her eyes.

“Exactly yittle,” he drawls out. “Took her awhile to figure it out though but she learned eventually. Now we’re all gonna go home.” His eyes slide right off her and cut directly to you. Her eyes follow him and she quickly scurries off of him to reach you. 

“You ready Mama?” she asks you as she takes you by the hand leading you to the door where you see a car parked right out front.  It may as well have been a hearse in your mind. 

You pick her up and you look down the darkened streets and you briefly flirt with the idea of just sprinting and never looking back. But the hand on your elbow guiding you to the car puts a halt to those thoughts. 

You still don’t know how much of your story he does actually believe, so you sit yourself down in the car without so much as a fuss and resolve yourself to your fate. Though that doesn’t stop you from seating yourself in the middle and placing Rosie by the window, as you still aren’t totally out of the mindset of keeping her as far away from him as possible. Neither of them seem to mind as she eagerly presses tiny hands up to the glass in awe of the nightlife of New Orleans, while he slithers an arm over your shoulder bringing you closer to him. 

As you contemplate what your life will look like from now on, you pass by so many places you’ve become familiar with these last four years, but what nearly breaks you are the unfamiliar places. Record stores, movie theaters, restaurants, and so many other places you avoided all due to an irrational belief that he would somehow be there. You did your best to limit your time in the outside world to only when you absolutely had to be out. 

Maybe that’s why you were so willing to trust Jenny and her altruistic generosity to watch over your daughter and take her places you were too anxious to venture to. 

You caged yourself into your new seemingly better life, but you didn't live at all. You were hiding. Always so afraid that he would somehow find you, you neglected to live. You put yourself in a different cage and convinced yourself you were free. 

“Mama? Mama, why are you crying?” your sweet little girl asks. 

But you’re gonna do what you’ve always done for your daughter. What you’ve always done when it comes to Elvis. You’re going to play pretend. 

“Mama’s just so happy we’re going baby,” you say with a solemn kiss to her forehead as his grip further tightens on your shoulder. 

“I know what’ll cheer you up!” she declares and completely unaware of the salt she’s about to pour on your wounds, she pulls something out of her little rucksack. “Danny, do you know the story of ‘Punzel?”

“Can’t say that I do darlin’” he says, eyeing you over her head. She sets the Grimm fairy tale book down on her lap and opens it to the worn pages she’s seemed to memorize by heart. She proceeds to read to the both of you, in the sense that she recites the story she’s heard maybe half-a-million times before word-for-word, going off pictures more than the actual words on the page to know where she’s at in the story. You try your best to focus on the book for your daughter's sake, but it’s nearly impossible to do when you feel Elvis' familiar bruising grip on your inner thigh. 

You shoot him a look and grab a hold of his wandering hand, trying to signal for him to stop and pay attention to Rosie. He gives a mirthful smile to you as he feels the slick there and seemingly tightens his grip in retribution, as though he wants to get a head start on re-establishing his claim over you. You in response bite your cheek and bear it, until at one point it nearly becomes too much and one lone tear rolls down your cheek and onto the page of the prince wandering blindly through the forest.  

Your daughter is far too sweet for her own good, as she notices this and gives you a gentle pat on your cheek, trying to comfort you the same you’ve done for her before. 

“Don’t worry Mama,” she reassures you, mirroring what you’ve done for her when a story gets her a little too worked up. “They always live happy ever after.”

You give a shuddering sigh as Elvis finally let’s go of your thigh. You clutch onto that little porcelain figure in your pocket and hope she’s right.

You make it to Memphis in record time, Rosie having long since tired herself out, is wrapped securely in your arms, but you’ll find no suh peace with his arm coiled around your shoulder as he sadistically whispers how Rosie’ll have a blast meeting the rest of his family while the two of you get “reacquainted,” of course he used more colorful language but you don’t want to have to think about that for right now. 

When the familiar gates come into view 

“Ahh, my baby missed home that bad,” he whispers, giving a deceptively sweet kiss to your tear-stricken cheek. “Why don’tcha hand the ‘lil one over to me and you just head up to bed and get ready for me?”

Despite the questioning lilt in his tone you know for a fact he’s not asking. And so going against all of your instincts screaming in your head, you let go of your daughter and watch as he takes a hold of her. To your relief she’s at the very least on the same floor as you, but you can only hope that she, at the very least, will sleep through the rest of the night, because you doubt he’ll let you out even a minute sooner than he has to. 

The bedroom has changed in many ways since you’ve been gone, though the most striking thing  was how your side of the bed looks as though it were converted into a little shrine for you. Small baubles and trinkets you left behind on the stand, you even find an old nightgown of yours on your side of the bed, the last thing he ever saw you in. It doesn’t fit you like it used to, having and breastfeeding a baby will do that to you, but you put it on all the same knowing he will want to see you in it. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror, seeing your breasts straining against the silk material and the bruises peeking out beneath the scandalously short hemline, it really does settle in that this was all inevitable. This is the very same image you saw the night before he left for Germany.

The same image that confirmed your decision to leave in the first place. 

This moment, feels like the dread you always felt when getting to the last few pages of a book. As things were wrapping up and you would have to face the harsh reality of your situation...

You’re back in the fucking hotel room.

You won’t even have the luxury of daydreaming of your escape, because there is no world where you leave without Rosie, and he knows that. He knows she’s the reason you ran, and knows that without her you’re never gonna run again. That’s why he went to the lengths he did to endear himself to her first before you ever had an inkling as to what was going on. 

Your thoughts turn to Jenny, and how you entrusted what you loved the most to her, only to have her spit in your face by turning around practically handing her over to him on a platter. Either she knew that he was her father and didn’t bother to question why you were so desperate to get away that you faked a whole other life, or she didn’t and handed over your daughter to a stranger. You don’t know which is worse. 

You also can’t forget how she was perhaps the most vehement about you dating again, which you can’t even begin to understand if she was working for him the whole time. But you can’t put it above him that he wouldn’t have Jenny push the issue if only to further twist the knife if you ever did take up her offer. As though to remind you that you never had a chance of moving on. 

Because it always goes back to him.

You want to hide from it all and you give into the urge, and crawl under the silky sheets of the bed, for all the good it will do to protect you. 

Monsters don’t hide under your bed. They crawl into it. Those are your last conscious thoughts as you feel the bed shift 

“Welcome home Satnin,” he whispers before you feel the sheets being ripped away from you.

Taglist

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[aheathen-conceivably]

Violette had tried not to think about Will’s question for weeks. Still, there were small moments that brought up the confusion she had felt when he asked. They weren’t as common now as they had been in New Orleans, but even people who were friendly had a way of asking one too many questions. She had never had any questions about who she was. They were her mother and father, and that’s all she thought she or anyone else needed to know.

Still, she wanted answers for herself, to root her new-found bravado in some sort of concrete truth. But for all she wanted to ask, she didn’t feel like she could go to her mother or father. Least of all because she was old enough now to see their faces when the questions took on a malevolent tone. Her mother’s small wince before she turned to look at her father, his face now a mask of angry stone. Then her polite but terse answer to try and prevent the situation from getting any worse, even while her father’s arm gripped around her shoulders more tightly.

There were moments when she wanted to speak to her mother like she had once done when these things happened. But Violette had long noticed that her mother had a way of avoiding difficult questions, of getting lost in her thoughts and forgetting to answer, or just responding with a pleasant platitude that made her feel better in the moment but gave her no real answers. 

So she stayed silent, instead thinking that maybe she could talk to her father on the way to the ranch. But she needn’t even look at him to hear his voice descending into the heavy tone that happened when his face grew dark, Who made you question yourself, Princess? Huh? Where are they? Tell me, I’ll take care of them for you. 

She couldn’t quite name it yet, but she could sense fear in their answers: the fear that her life might be more difficult than theirs had been, and that there was nothing they could do to stop it. As she encountered their avoidance and anger, she could sense that this fear would keep her in the shadow of their protection forever, even once she was grown. Only in trying to protect her, they couldn’t see that she wasn’t afraid; she wanted the truth, and she slowly realized there was only one person who would give it to her.

When she entered the cabin the first thing that Violette heard was the sound of cursing coming from the kitchen, “Goddamn bread. Foolproof rise recipe, my ass…”

As she stepped nearer she could hear rustling, like someone was frantically flipping through the pages of a book. "Can you not cooperate for once? Just fucking once! Goddamnit, I'm trying, the least you can do is meet me halfway!" The frustrated voice was replaced by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor and rolling away just as Violette reached the doorway.

Her Aunt Jo looked up at her presence, seemingly talking to herself amidst a messy display of canned products, flour, and half finished attempts at cooking. As soon as she saw Violette she wiped the flour from her brow and tried to cover up the look of frustration on her face. She only succeeded in transforming it into guilt that Violette had seen her outburst, but quickly realized that her niece was too preoccupied to register her emotions anyway.

It took Josephine barely a split second to see that Violette wasn't herself. Her usual long strides and childish bravado had been replaced by sheepishness, and before she could even acknowledge her the words spilled out of her mouth. “Aunt Jo, what–what are you?”

Josephine looked at her quizzically, but she quickly continued in a rush of words too long hidden, “It’s just, Momma doesn’t look like me and Poppa doesn’t look like me but you do, and the kids ask me at school and Billy looks like his Poppa and they all seem to think there’s something wrong with the way I look or with Momma and Poppa together and I don’t understand. Is there something wrong with them? Am I supposed to look like you or like them? Is there something wrong with me, with not looking like either your momma or your poppa…”

Her voice trailed off and a wave of understanding washed over Josephine. She moved around the flour covered table and took her niece's confused face in her hands, “Lottie, look at me. My father looked like your momma too, do you understand? And he looked different from my mother and from me, so I know how they look at you, how you feel and the things they ask. That’s why I told you that you can always talk to me, because you are never alone, okay? You never have to feel like no one understands."

She almost stopped there, wanted to stop there, but Violette was staring at her with her mirrored olive eyes. They seemed remarkably unafraid, perhaps even angry that she had stopped speaking at all; Josephine knew that it was time, just the way she had long ago told Zelda would happen. So she took a deep breath and sunk to her knees next to Violette.

"You need to know there are people who think that others are lesser, simply because of the color of their skin. Those people don’t want to know that people like us exist, or that your parents could love one another. Some of them can’t believe it for all they’ve been told. So they ask and ask to try and make sense of it, because it—we threaten the lie that they’ve told themselves: that black and white people can’t live and love just the same. That one is inferior to the other and so they must be kept separate.”

At her last word, Josephine’s stomach sunk. She knew that part of Violette knew all of this, had seen it or felt it and internalized it to some extent, but to say it so bluntly was another matter. She could feel the nausea rising, so she could only imagine what a child must be feeling, but still Violette’s gaze remained resolulte.

She pushed back her niece’s hair and continued, “Just this, us, the love that your parent’s have and their lives, it threatens these people. So they will try to tell you that there is only one side of you, to put you in a box that fits their prejudices rather than challenge them. They’ve tried to draw a line in the sand that would split you in two; but you are you. You are whole and your parents love each other very much. That’s something to be proud of, no matter what anyone else may make you feel. Do you promise me you’ll always be proud of who you are and how you look, Lottie? Of your parents and the love they have for one another?”

You are whole. It would ring in her ears for the rest of her life. Every time she saw a sign telling her where to sit or someone looking at her parents hatefully. Every time someone stared at her a little too long only for a wave of disgust to wash over their face, or each time someone tried to tell her, whether in words or in actions, you aren’t really one of us. She would hear it in her mind like a refrain, a comfort radiating from this very day when her aunt’s arms were wrapped around her, even when she was long gone and there was no one left standing between her and the world’s vitriol.

I am whole. It lodged itself deep into her brain, creating a connection within her that kept her from splintering even when the world drove the wedge deeper into her psyche and tested the mantra to its limits. But on that day all she could do was nod her head in agreement and try to comprehend everything her Aunt Jo had said as she hugged her.

#1932 #sims 4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #ts4 historical #sims 4 decades challenge #the darlingtons #sims 4 legacy #ts4 legacy #sims 4 story #ts4 story #1930s #Zelda darlington #Antoine Duplanchier #Violette darlington #Josephine Duplanchier #tw racism

[aziraphales-library]

Hi mods! I'm new to the fandom so I was shocked seeing the AO3 tag for the first time. Largest fandom I've joined by far (difference in fic count is in the tens of thousands), so thank you so much for your hard work!! After finishing S2 I've read great fics where Aziraphale apologizes/decides he made the wrong choice, but I've had difficulty finding fics with a POV that A + C were both asking the impossible of one another. I was wondering if you have any s2 recs where that's explored? TY again!

Hello and welcome! Here are some fics in which they talk and both of them acknowledge mistakes...

undercover by Lilian (T)

Aziraphale seeks a broken Crowley out to talk to him again. This time they do slightly better. Story picks up right from where the show left us.

Three Kisses…and then Rabbits. by impatient14 (M)

The thing is, Crowley didn’t know. Not entirely, at least. Not in the same way he knew the measure of every nebula, the heartbeat of every star. He wasn’t given the tools–wasn’t afforded the right–to know. He’d thought around it, of course. He’d spent many a moment (or century) daydreaming impossible things. He’d read enough books and seen enough movies to feel pretty confident about the mechanics, at least. He’d even written a little scene or two himself–carefully vague, of course, and never to the extent of his mind’s vivid imagination. Given an Effort, his body responded the same way theirs do; it was all pleasant ache, shivering heat, and dazzling hope. And yet. When the moment came, it wasn’t what he was promised. *** Or, three kisses between and an angel and a demon.

the human custom of wrong love by pinklemonades (T)

He supposes he should’ve seen it coming from the moment they met in the garden when their lives became inextricably intertwined to the point of mutually assured destruction if either of them tried to leave. (or in which Aziraphale realizes that Heaven will never care for him the way he wanted them to, Crowley can’t figure out why he can’t let go and leave as easily as Aziraphale did, and the two lovers realize they need to learn how to love without hurting)

You must remember this by HolRose (T)

Aziraphale and Crowley have their extremely alcoholic breakfast at The Ritz at the angel’s invitation. Important conversations are had, harking back to their shared experience of one night in 1942. A canon-compliant fix-it fic.

only then i am human by Angelofsmalldeath69 (G)

When his phone rang he let out a squeak, heart stuttering. He stood up so fast his chair almost fell over, and paced for a moment before grabbing the phone. “Hello?” “Hello, Archangel. The demon has arrived! I’ve been asked to let you know.” Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut, holding the phone to his ear with both hands so it wouldn’t fall from his trembling grasp. He managed a thank you, set the phone down, and grabbed the edge of his desk to keep him upright. He could do this. So what if he was the worlds worst liar? Who cared about his awful case of stage fright? None of that mattered, not when it came to him. If he had to put on a show to keep his beloved safe then Goddamnit- this would be the greatest performance of his life.

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #fix-it #communication #apologies #reconciliation #mod d

[pupyr0arz]

Amab!gn!reader x stalker!soap. Dubcon/nc (sexual harassment), stalking, etc. soap is an awful ex. Mentions of murderous intent, guns, assault and abusive behavior.

you’re still working on the timing. You can’t bring it up too early, it’s a date killer and you refuse to let him win. It’s what he wants, to send any prospective other scrambling for the door, and even if spite is the only thing keeping you in the scene it’s a damn good motivator. You’re going to be happy with someone goddamnit, and it’s not going to be his toxic ass. It’s not like you’re asking much, just a casual relationship. You’re not one for commitment, marriage isn’t something you’re willing to consider, and honestly these days who is?

Aside from him, at least. You’re not sure if that counted. The ring he bought seemed more of a collar, the creep.

Never doesn’t work either, he makes sure of that. You’re not sure how he finds you, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to assume he can pick your shitty locks. You don’t move, you don’t have the cash for that out of the blue and you’re seventy five percent sure he’d track you down in a week. He was always the type. The other twenty five percent was him finding you after two weeks. You really should be smarter about who you date, an army man is one thing but one with ties to intelligence? Awful stuff to separate yourself from. You’re smart enough not to thrash, he’d only pull you down tighter. The trick to quicksand is floating away slowly, calm and measured.

The third date, if it’s going well, seems to be a nice time to bring it up. Wind the conversation into personal topics, troubles, issues, soothe them and give whoever you’ve brought back a shortened version of events. The best version of this conversation you had was at four pm, high off your ass on a hot girl’s couch where the two of you ate canned sardines and crackers and you put your head in her lap. It’s just an annoying ex who kept sniffing around the area, you know how it is. Girls pat your arm sympathetically, guys tell you they’ll send him packing. It’s all self defense tips and reminiscing on psycho exes. Guys don’t get stalked as often, or they don’t talk to you about it as much, but you hear a lot of horror stories. One time a girl lifts her shirt and presses your hand to a scar where her ex stabbed her with a knife.

You take some solace in that he’s never been violent with you. He has a temper, sure, but compared to the many, many opportunities he’s had, he’s only sent maybe one person to the hospital. He’s more than intimidating in person, built like a brick shithouse and he gets that look in his eyes that tells anything with a pulse and anything registering on a brain scan to get the hell out. Sometimes you dream of him handling bombs with that look in his eyes. You don’t know if you find that crazy, suicidal hate is more unsettling, or the warmth he still has when he looks at you.

he’s a ‘chivalrous’ stalker. Follows you around at night when he’s in the country. Burner phones leaving messages and texting constantly, he still sends you money. You use it, of course, you’re in no position to deny yourself the nest egg, but you hate how he acts about it. Every glance to him, acknowledgement of his existence or not, hell the way you pour your coffee seems to be some coded invitation to him. He leaves long voicemails of him, hand on his dick as he alternates between obsessing over your body, your dick, the time you had together, and with how worried he is about you. It’s pathological, some fucked up fetish of his to imagine you like that, an object he keeps locked away and dusts ever so gently to avoid bruising. It makes you want to punch him until his stupid, pretty face is unrecognizable and bury him in the woods. Your face burns as you try to look back the disgusting, annoying fucking babbling for the sounds of his moaning.

Like clockwork, he stops by. Jiggling your locks open and fucking around with your things. He doesn’t steal anything, but you’re pretty sure that’s just because you left your stuff when you broke up and hit the road. You used to buy shitty dollar store cameras, but he’d break them and leave thumb drives of him jacking off in your room, so you stopped the habit. He’s never had an ounce of shame in his life, and it doesn’t seem to have changed when it comes to you. He’s more brazen, if anything, when you’re dating. You play hard to get and all he wants to do is chase the bone more, stupid dog with his eye on a moving car.

You never say his name to your new flings, he babbles yours in the calls and messages. Once he mails a notebook, full sized, where he’s spent every page but one with nothing but your name. You called him a schoolgirl, and your boyfriend at the time had given you a wide eyed look of general horror. Admittedly, he’d been spooked by too many run ins with an aggressive stranger, but it was a stupid reason to break up in your eyes.

Maybe it was more than a little impulsive, but the number you’ve memorized still works. Still, you’re more than a little tired of the whole mouse and cat game. And you’re a bit drunk. Whatever, it’s not like you’re much better sober these days. You’re never rational when it comes to him, otherwise you would’ve tried to kill him by now.

It rings.

You know you’ve timed it right when he doesn’t pick up, off killing and fighting and being the scariest thing in the dark. You don’t say much, but you don’t need to. He was always sensitive when you two dated, and he’s gone above and beyond to prove the desperation of the depths he’s sunk to. You’re not trained to read people, and your only experience with fighting was kung fu at thirteen. But this fight is going to be on your own goddamn terms from now on.

You’ve gone to the range without him, a week before. He lamented about it like you shot his dog instead of some paper targets. You’re no gun nut, but you’ve learned a couple things.

Load. Aim.

“Johnny.”

Click.

#.bark #noncon cw #dubcon cw #Cod #male reader #amab reader #notsafeforworkers #soap #soap x reader #soap x male reader #stalking cw #johnny soap mactavish #cod soap #cod x reader #Writing #snippet #Call of duty fanfiction

[farewellneverland2004]

Being a reincarnation sucks! and UWMA told us, but we were too happy for DeanPharm to listen!

Okay! This might be a little bit of a hot take, and also possibly a little theorizing. But I will stand my ground and die on this hill!

UWMA is my all-time favorite BL, and might I even say, one of my favorite web dramas ever!

It's a compelling, heartbreaking, beautiful story about a wonderfully healthy relationship between two very traumatized people. Finding each other, and in the process, reconnecting the tortured souls of two people who loved each other but weren't given the option to be happy together.

Now, though that scenario is not likely to happen to me or you, it's still an interesting story, using the soulmate trope to its ultimate advantage. I love the idea of a healthy, yet unconditional and unending love that prevails through all.

However, although I love the reincarnated love trope, there is a blatant fact that I, and many other UWMA fans have been oblivious to. and that is how much it would SUCK to be in our beloved Dean and Pharm's shoes!

What invoked me to make this post?

Well, it's plain and simple. I'm sick of all the complaining and making fun of My boy Pharm for being a cryer!

Am I biased because Pharm is my favorite character and I relate to the inability to stop myself from crying and it usually takes a while for me to stop, so I see a lot of myself in him? Maybe, but that's not important!

What's important is that I believe, people who complain or laugh at Pharm for this know that this is a response to PTSD, but don't take time to really acknowledge how bad this PTSD would be if you were faced with it in real life. This is why I want to shed light on how being the reincarnations of Korn and In have done little to nothing beneficial for Dean and Pharm, other than the fact it's what brought them together.

(But just an FYI, crying is a normal reaction to things, and maybe Pharm is just a very emotional and expressive softy and there is nothing wrong with that! MEN SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO CRY GODDAMNIT!)

Well, since I just ranted about the Pharm crying disrespect, might as well start with him and his respected past life counterpart, Intouch!

As we see all through UWMA, Pharm probably has the more blatant PTSD from his past life out of the couple, and it makes sense.

In was left to watch the man he loved take his own life in front of him. He was the one to witness his improvement, his confession, and his mutual decline until he had nothing left to say but "I love you" and "I'm Sorry", and in the end, he was still left alone. he is left cradling the body of not only the first man he probably ever openly loved but also the first person who he could actually relate to in a world that told him if he wanted to survive, he had to hide who he was.

This user makes an interesting point on how Korn dying isn't just a traumatizing event for In, but in his mind, also an act of betrayal. Because he promised him, yet he traumatized and left him alone in a world that would hate him for who he is.(in Intouch's mind ofc). Yet he also knows that though he is hurt, all he wants is to be with Korn, so he commits suicide to escape the life he'd have to live without him.

These very hard-hitting and intense feelings are already bad to live with for the one who actually experienced the trauma firsthand. But imagine, being a normal kid with a happy loving family, yet you are plagued by vague but traumatic memories that are not your own? you wake up crying every morning, you panic at any unsuspected loud noise, and you get seemingly random panic attacks that you can't even explain why they happen.

You seemingly have no valid reason to act this way. You want to stop, or at least to know why, but can't for the life of you understand. I think many people can understand the feeling of being depressed, angry, anxious, etc., and don't really know why. So they feel guilty and exhausted from these strong emotions they don't want or understand.

For Pharm, the more he learns about his situation, the more he's around Dean, and the more he learns about Korn and In, the more intense his episodes get. he has more nightmares, more flashbacks, and he's less able to discern In's emotions and pain from his own.

At one point, he even realizes that the more he finds out about In, the more power In's feelings of betrayal and anguish have on him. He ultimately decides he doesn't want to know how In died, believing what's done is done and it's best to leave it in the past, just for him to find out later and for all his efforts to stay himself to be diminished by In's immense grief.

He straight up almost DIES because In's soul can't distinguish Dean from Korn, and therefore Pharm from Intouch. And people still thinks he doesn't deserve to cry all he wants?

Moving onto the titular man that, for lack of a better phrase, "started it all", and his green-flag of a reincarnation! Dean and Korn.

(If you don't agree with the dean, green-flag statement, I respectfully disregard your opinion)

So... let's just get this out in the open. I believe Korn was always suicidal. Or at least, very depressed.

Now when I say that, I obviously can't know how his childhood went or when his mental health began to decline, but considering the family he was born into, and the time he was in when he realized he liked men, it's not too hard to suspect that these feelings have been festering for a while.

Korn was the eldest son of a mafia loan shark. We don't ever find out about his mother, whether she was around or not, but considering how his father treats him and his children, I can assume that even if she was in their life, his father would still be calling all the shots.

We know that Korn is expected to carry on the family business, and at the point of his life where we are introduced to him, we see his father is beginning to put even more pressure on him to start taking up jobs and practicing to take over when he's gone.

But we see that Korn doesn't want to take over. He doesn't want to hurt people and he just wants a normal life for his brothers and himself. However, due to familial obligation, and threats from his father, Korn is submitting himself to a life he hates for the sake of his brothers, so neither of them has to throw their lives away for their father's business.

At this point, the existence of Korn is miserable. He's being pressured to do something he desperately hates, to submit himself to a life he does not want. He's ostracized at university for his affiliation with loan sharks and his general anti-social demeanor(which is definitely a coping mechanism) He's being berated and called useless by his own dad, which would definitely hurt his view of himself. He cares about his brothers way too much to ever let them know how much he's hurting, isolating himself from their care. finally, his sexuality would make him a target for discrimination, so he's forced to hide more about himself until he's probably forced into a marriage with a person he does not love, producing an heir to take on the job he hates and officially restarting the generational trauma and cycle of abuse.

This person better explains what Korn was going through mentally and what In truly meant to him than I ever could. But basically, they say that before In, Korn had practically dug himself a hole he couldn't get out of, and he was living on autopilot. Just moving through the days, until the day would come when he couldn't take it anymore. I very much agree with this. and every flashback, when they get closer and closer to the day, you can see that he doesn't know how much longer he's gonna last. So now that he is at the point of hopelessness, all he can do is let him know he loves him, and apologize to him and their dads for making them witness what he was going to do, but also for leaving him.

Now, I see a lot of comments about how Korn was being selfish with taking his life, because not only did he do it in front of the person he loves, but also in the process, he left him alone in the world. I personally feel like these comments tend to push a little too much on Korn being selfish that it ends up almost coming off as victim blaming. And I want to make it perfectly clear, people who commit suicide do so (mainly) as a last resort. almost no one who is going through with committing the act is doing so out of spite or to hurt others. They do so because they believe there is no other way to escape or fix what's wrong in their life. Korn is no exception. He was in pain, and he needed help, but he believed there was nothing that could be done, and probably felt if he was out of the picture, he would no longer be a burden on In and he would finally put an end to all the war and suffering in his heart and in his life.

However, suicide is an act that at the end of the day hurts everyone the victim is close to. people who are affected by a loved one taking their own life can feel a piling number of emotions. Confusion, anger, guilt, etc. We see those emotions expressed in In, An(In's Sister), Korn's brothers, their dads, and even Pharm. These emotions are valid and it's a common response. So I won't blame the audience for empathizing with In more than Korn in this series. To be fair, even Dean holds resentment towards Korn once he finds out.

Which brings me to why it'd suck to be Dean. He's possessed by the soul of a very depressed and broken man with anti-social tendencies. He's having issues similar to Pharm where he has memories that are not his own, not to mention he's always preoccupied with looking for someone he has no idea may or may not exist. He also chooses to isolate himself from his parents and siblings for the sake of his paternal grandmother, making his relationship with them more strained once he has to be in their lives. (which may or may not be influenced by Korn due to his tendency in life to self-isolate.) He puts on a stern and responsible act for everyone to mask his social awkwardness, still looking for someone he does not know.

And when he finally feels happy and relieved because he's found the thing he's always felt was missing, it only gives him more questions of who those memories actually are, and what he and Pharm have to do with it. The more he finds out, the more his true anxieties begin to take over and he desperately tries to put on a brave face for his boyfriend because he knows Pharm is already going through a lot, and he wants to make sure he's not worried.

When he actually finds out who Korn and In were, and What Korn did, he immediately starts cursing Korn for what happened. But it's so much more than just him being hateful towards a man who took his own life. Because to him, whether he likes it or not, Korn is an aspect of him. Whatever Korn feels, he feels. Korn's actions are his actions. So whatever Korn did, Dean is responsible for.(at least in his mind)

So Dean is practically cursing himself, calling himself a bastard. to Dean, He's the reason Pharm is terrified whenever there is a loud unexpected noise, he's the reason Pharm has panic attacks, and he's the reason Pharm cries in his sleep. He thinks it's his fault that Pharm was so scared of being in a relationship with him, Not to mention he's probably dealing with Korn's soul feeling the same amount of self-loathing. To Korn, everything is his fault, and because of his actions, he abandoned, hurt, and killed the one person that made him keep going.

So now, Dean is left with double self-loathing, and blaming himself for things that were most definitely NOT his fault.

Now, onto my final point on what the worst part of being the reincarnations of two unresting souls. Which is the lack of being your own person. When your body is holding two separate souls constantly fluctuating on taking the wheel, don't be surprised if you feel just a tad bit unsure of who you are or what things in life are your own.

Now, there are some things that their past life events influence that are not bad and are in fact quite sweet. like how In always wanted to be good at cooking, and so Pharm is born with a mother who is great at cooking, and in the process learns to be a good cook. Or Korn going to the beach for the first time with In being one of his happiest memories, and so Dean grows to love the beach, and therefore swimming. But the main thing that this drama shows as its conflict through the series is both Dean and Pharm trying to stay themselves. To have their actions be their own. and also, when the whole reason they are reincarnations of these two men specifically is to reconnect them and fulfill a promise made long ago, there's also the conflict of how much of their love is genuinely theirs. That's probably the worst anxiety in the world! You finally find a person who can truly relate and understand what you're going through and you feel an intense unexplainable love for them, only for you to fear that the relationship you built together isn't based off of love that is yours. It makes you fear that you are hurting the other person because why would you stay with someone if you're not sure if you love them? This is something they both have to face in the final episode. They separate for a little bit to give themselves time to reflect on their own feelings and only after they know that the souls of In and Korn are content, do they know that the love they have is real and it's theirs.

So...Still think reincarnation is cute and fun?! There's a reason people work to finally escape Samsara! Thank you for coming to my rant lol!

#uwmaseries #until we meet again #deanpharm #thai bl #thai drama #reincarnation #trauma

[richardsphere]

Leverage Redemption Log: The Debutante Job

Time to start the last season (as of current date. I know Season 3 is in production) --- We're in London... (crown jewels?)

Person is walking and phone-texting, he's being tailed. He panics. Camera slides past an old woman

Guy gets kidnapped, Hardison is here to save the day. (I dont mind post-timeskip Hardison being HackerGod with this ridiculously unrealistic level, cause he's relegated to Special Episodes. So it helps let him feel "balanced" compared to the other OG members who get to show off their coolness every episode)

Hardison and the Nerd talk about his hand-bejeweled computerajigger. --- Back in the states. Parker is dressed as a Crustacean. Elliot complains that Sophie has become a bit too much of a prepper in her newfound Mastermind position.

Hardison is working on a satelite launch with some milionaire actor (but thats a story for another time)

To be clear: Volkov's ridiculous wealth is definitly not a reference to Putin's golden toilet. Definitly not.

We need Legal Proof. --- Meanwhile at Harry's Retirementhome (i mean office) he's preparing to sue a constructioncompany over a womans injuries (judging by the way he's moving her chair she's probably at least partially paraplegic, but i dont want to say for sure)

The look on Harry's face when he sees Sophie: "here we go again" "I was unaware that civil engineers took such an oath" Ok to be clear the whole "devourer of children" thing is based on an ancient historical slander-job by one of the abrahamic religions (i THINK it was christians slandering phoenicians?) There is no actual evidence that any actual children where ever thrown into the fire-offering-statue-thingy. Sophie your script is both overwritten and under-researched. (NO SLANDERING ANCIENT GODS.)

Harry's look at the cheque like "well my client would've literally settled for less". --- I like the little acknowledgement from the team that Harry had that case on lock and that they only interfered beause they needed him quickly.

So we're definitly doing the "Sophie has to learn the lesson from The Gold Job" plotline now, arent we.

Harry still doesnt understand the "now lets go steal an inside joke"-bit. --- Harry's disapointment that his cover-story to get back in the game is "lawyer".

Parker in a Bag. "thats a supsicious amount of security"... "that is the right amount of security". Good gag, 8/10 He's trying to teach his daughter English Language and Ettiquette (gut instinct: Aranged marriage?)

Volkov wants UK high-society friends to protect them. Now if only we had a Duchess on our side. Sophie protests at the change of plans, she's forgotten that only the essentials should remain rigidly planned. --- Time to distract the pilot: Using nothing but some costumes and a sugar-ed up sandwhich. (Pretend mistaken identity for a cocaine smuggler)

Weights match stolen relics, enough evidence to past legal for the publishers. Breanna knows their locations thanks to the London Surveilance Panopticon.

Elliot is going to the safehouse with Pizza, --- "its been ages since I've been in London without having a serious problem to solve"... Goddamnit. Season 1 of Redemption was about Harry redeeming himself for past sins, and now season 2 starts with Sophie digging up her old Duchess persona (a notably long con that the nobility still seemingly believes in) and saying a line like that. We're gonna get Sophie Backstory Things arent we?

Also the safehouse... isnt. --- So the editor was a weakspot. "oh they tied him up in the basement, never good" "Basement?" What a simple fresh-eye can do.

Oh now Breanna has made me remember the Dara O'Brian stand-up thing about how those basements are dug and Chuggy.... (in related news, I am sad now.)

I apreciate Breanna taking the time to check wether Harry is legally back or just on loan, its a nice little formality.

Judging by Sophie's reaction, that neighbour is either a Celebrity Cameo, or someone from her old Duchess Days. (Makes sense, the reason the basement-diggers dig is cause their neighbours are rich-asses who cant be made to sell their house) --- Oh the BIG ASS FONT is back. (I do apreciate the little joke of it going "VOLKOVS TOWNHOUSE" before the camera moves 20 ft to the right and it says "VOLKOVS NEIGHBOUR". Its a good joke, 10/10)

he doesnt look like a celebrity cameo, so i think he's just a pastiche.

Turns out, MR Music likes sound of all types, Sonar included. Oh so its both a rockstar and one of Sophie's ex-mark's.

So for those of you keeping score: Miss Deveraux cultural footprint now includes: San Lorezo's 20 royal bill, a priceless mystery painting only 5 people have ever seen, A US military base and a UK Gold Record hit from the 70's. --- Who the hell spells Todd with an H?

The daughter does not like the slave-labour dress.

Tohd is back... Tohd is a spy.

Ok im going to ignore the "Enhance Picture" stuff, but only because this is hardisons own camera and is probably a custom-made one with a high-enough grade lens to actually capture all that data. But we better not see this "program" used on regular CCTV footage later. --- Tohd has gone missing, right around the same time that miss hates-slavery-dresses vanished. its a teen romance.

Everything is runnig in a closed loop, no way to shut it down except to make it reset itself.

And there is our Tohd-shaped complication. --- Breanna manages to talk the debutante into staying until her father's nice and sloshed.

Good on the reporter for helping our heroes find the torture-battery.

And Tohd escapes through the Rockstars Basement. Where Kiki has planned quite the welcome party. (sure he has diplomatic immunity but lets be honest... He's a despot who just lost a lot of his money. His rivals will take care of him)

Back to the theatre, news report shows reporter giving an interview. Ah, Hardison and the neurodivergent urge to tangent mid-apology

#leverage #leverage redemption #leverage redemption season 2 #The Debutante Job

[boltlightning]

alright i watched on stranger tides and dead men tell no tales finally. i know you’ve all been waiting on pins and needles for my thoughts, so:

on stranger tides is......fine. good, even.

but i can’t believe this is called a “return to low fantasy” given...everything. like AWE is clearly high fantasy, but there were only one or two elements that pushed it into that category. OST has at least three or four that easily could have been removed and replaced with more conventional and appropriate stakes

RIP to groves and gillette who didn’t deserve that

barbossa’s back must hurt from carrying this entire film. his monologue about his leg is fucking all-time

the humor was not great and i cannot believe how far it fell lmao

it was pretty fun to see jack on his own for a bit, but i do think he shines best when paired with barbossa or gibbs in this one

2.5/5 movie

dead men tell no tales is one of the movies, ever :)

why. just...................why. in general: why

i do love barbossa and i feel like they were really missing out by not focusing more on his emotional threads

henry and carina were really good casts. they really looked like their parents

not to beat a dead horse. but. i feel like having a sympathetic admiral representing the royal navy in this film would’ve added a lot of weight to the premise. maybe that royal admiral could be a close friend of henry’s mother with a vested interest in his well-being and return to civilized society, rather than some inconsequential bullshit about the glory of england from a guy who matters so little i didn’t even catch his name. maybe...this admiral could be a skilled pirate hunter who knows the caribbean very well...the only officer who ever bested jack sparrow...who could that be i wonder...

i’m just saying while they were retconning shit from the first three movies they could at LEAST have considered bringing my man norrington back from the dead. maybe let him wear a ridiculous wig. that’s all i ask

i admit i did tear up seeing older will and elizabeth being happy and reunited at the end. it is hilarious that elizabeth had no lines but i’ll take what i can get

the music was very good in this one

1/5 movie. would not watch this again

in general: please. i am so tired of undead enemies to fight. i know it’s at least partially to excuse the lack of blood, but for god’s sake we know it’s a pg13 movie you do NOT have to keep having new ways for death to not matter. there is nothing wrong with enemies being normal mortals because human conflict is the most interesting thing about the franchise. (i feel like will becoming captain of the dutchman should’ve solved some of these things at least a little anyway. he should’ve been chasing salazar’s ass the entire time. but what do i know)

and i’m really not opposed to jack’s character slipping as much as it did in potc5 if they acknowledged it at all. i was giving the script the benefit of the doubt and thinking his newfound foolishness would tie in with barbossa’s arc. maybe jack and hector talk about how they’ve ruled the seas for as long as they have, and they’re old, and there’s only so much of the world left for them to chase. and maybe they’re not as good at this shit as they used to be!! carina being so involved in science could have been a catalyst for them to realize that hell, technology is beginning to outpace them and sailing is changing as a result. or something. but no. this would require any sort of reflection. so the idiocy persists for the goofs. goddamnit

i wonder if this says anything about the franchise as a whole. that the same characters fight death, over and over, never dying, and they never address the fact that they are clearly aging and dragging out their adventures on the seas well beyond their prime time, unwilling to make room for new faces and unable to move on from the days of old. but i’m sure it’s nothing

#and is incredibly normal about it #everything i do i do for hector barbossa #apologies for untagged potc content but i don't want this to show up in the tag lol #bolt watches potc

[masonsystem]

long post abt a seto quote surprise surprise

literally insane crazy that this is like the one (1) and only piece of text EVER that shows how seto had felt knowing that he and his family didnt have a future beyond his teen years, and even this isnt made that clear bc he brings up his own personal feelings abt this matter a total of net zero times like oh my god. like this is a dude that learnt about haruka's mortality way before haruka ever gained the courage to tell it to his friends (which is a big fucking deal considering his death drove ALL of his friends to suicide in different timelines), learned that his and his family's futures were gonna be cut short, and learned that his own DAD was going to be the one to carry that out via violently murdering them all. and hes like. god. anywhere from like 7-14 when he learns all of this and he never confides in Anyone EVER.......

and like the fact that this is the one and only piece of text IN ALL OF KAGEPRO where seto is shown expressing his feelings on this speaks for itself with how he just, bottles up and does not acknowledge his own feelings of despair like you can see his denial of his feeling in his overall demeanor throughout the story, laughing heehee hahaing with everyone at the theme park knowing they'll all die this week like hes crazy. he's crazier than kano bc kano at least breaks down but seto? ohhhh this crazy son of bitch doesnt break down until hes at the absolute limit (surviving after everyone dies + lying to mary for weeks + learning mary had been lying to him as well LIKE). but like the fact he can carry on AFTER HIS ENTIRE FAMILY DIES IN ONE NIGHT speaks volume of just how practiced he is in doing this shit, all of novel 8 seto pov is just Seto Repeatedly Denies That He Feels Grief For His Family 😃 and thru the most insane way by painting this narrative that he had always valued mary over everyone else, which is FALSE!!! BTW HE IS NOT A YANDERE..... FUCKING GRABS YOU LIKE oh my god hes not a yandere. he doesnt actually value mary over everyone else he is LYING like his whole character is characterized by wanting to change himself so he can support others and this EXTENDS BEYOND MARY.... literally this is the dude who speaks fucking weirdly bc he loved KIDO so much that he changed his speech patterns for her, at 14-ish years old starting looking for work so he could support his family, and he spent a whole night looking for kano.... like he loves his family. throughout novel 8 he's saying that he values mary more than anyone else but his actions? completely says otherwise...

and also the fucking shonen brave lyrics of how he talks about how he cant hear his own thoughts bc other people thoughts keep intruding and knocking on his mind, like not being able to recognize his own thoughts has always been a Thing with him like goddamnit im too sleepy to pull up the novel to grab more screenshots (hence why this post has a grand total of one quote from the screenshot lol), but like towards the end of novel 8 he basically has a moment where he says smth among the lines of like "-my own voice rang out, telling me 'you're wrong'." SOMETHING LIKE THAT. but yeah ignoring his feelings be it by his own accord or bc of the circumstances of his powers, has always been a Thing with seto.... SETOOOOOO

#and im not even gonna go into how other characters who have similarly been burdened with the knowledge of impending death #handled their dilemma (spoilers: not well) vs how seto just. Does Not acknowledge it ever not even to himself like hes crazy. hes insane. #i need mekakucity reload NAOWWWWWWW #kgprambling #seto tag

[simizzy-writes]

almost friendship

|| Pairing: AGED UP!Aomine Daiki x GN!Reader

|| Warnings: 13+. language.

College AU. You and Aomine have an interesting dynamic in the beginning. Almost like a weird sort of friendship. Enjoy✨ 

(had to re-post this because it wasn’t showing up in the tags. yay. thanks tumblr, very cool.)

For anyone who hasn’t worked in some form of customer service, here’s a fact: you’re an underpaid actor. You must smile, speak politely, and cater to the customer’s whim, et cetera et cetera. You pretend like it’s your life’s passion for barely above minimum wage. It’s not hard, but every now and then there’s that one person that just makes you want to scream.

Aomine Daiki was that person.

It was Monday, goddamnit. Why must your week start off like this?

You stood at the street corner diagonal to the coffee shop where you worked. It was small, quaint and free from corporate oversight. The owner was your neighbor, and when they offered you a job to help pay for your university tuition you accepted. They allowed you flexibility, and you gave them loyalty in return. Besides, it was close to the university campus, so it made sense to accept.

Anyways, where were you? Ah. Right. It was Monday, and waiting ever so patiently in front of the coffee shop was that blue-haired, cocky, arrogant -

“Yo, are you goin’ to open this place up or what?” Aomine called out.

“Prick,” you muttered. The sun wasn’t even up yet, why was he even awake at this hour? To annoy you, probably. He was like that. Honestly, if you really had to dig deep, Aomine wasn’t that bad. His company was nice sometimes, but why he fixated on you when you thought you had come across as nothing but a bitch towards him was beyond your understanding. You distinctly remember writing his name as Aho-mine on his order the first time you met because he was acting like a jerk. Maybe he liked the whole ‘edgy and indifferent barista’ vibes you put out, because Aomine seemed to make it a point to come by and irk you in some fashion during your shifts. And if you had to really do some soul searching, you could even admit that you liked it. There were worse things. Like having to work full-time to put yourself through college. Yay.

The shop keys jingled in your hands as you approached the shop, any hope of a peaceful shift opening getting thrown out the window. Aomine would follow you in, pester you with some sort of conversational topic, order the same thing, then leave once it started to get busy. On the surface it sounded just fine, and honestly it most likely was, but you weren’t a morning person. You liked routine, and a major part of that routine was the sound of silence. To his credit, he never seemed to be bothered with your robotic single-syllable replies, so there was that, at least.

You opened the employee entrance door, pulling it open and allowing Aomine to follow in after you. You sighed, unzipping your jacket and hanging it up on the employee coat rack. From behind you, a chair scraped across the tiled floor and you heard him yawn.

“Man, how can you handle getting up this early?” he mumbled as he sat down, chest pressed against the back of the chair and his long legs stretching out in front of him.

“Money,” you replied. “I like having a paycheck. Why are you up so early? You never bug me this early.”

He shrugged, blue eyes following you around the shop. “Couldn’t sleep. Went out to shoot some hoops, and now I’m here.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

Another shrug. “Don’t know.”

That was a lie. He knew, he definitely knew. More or less, anyways. Aomine tossed and turned for most of the night. His body was agitated and restless. He was anxious for something, but he didn't understand what. It certainly wasn't related to his college classes, or the upcoming basketball game he was going to be in. His mind was racing but he couldn't focus on anything. After getting sick and tired of waiting for sleep to hit, he got up well before dawn, and decided to go shoot some hoops alone. Aomine worked up a sweat doing it, too, as if sweating out his anxiety was going to enlighten him on what was subconsciously bothering him. It partially did, but eventually he decided to change tactics. He would go by your coffee shop and wait for you to show up for your shift. Through his excellent powers of observation (which meant that he made a lucky guess) he knew that you preferred to work opening shifts so that you could go to your classes in the afternoon. You weren’t a morning person and he wasn’t either, but his classes were in the morning, and he admittedly liked starting his day off with you. Well, he mostly just watched you get the shop ready for the day, counting money for the registers, setting up the table and chairs, getting pots of coffee and tea ready for the morning rush…You had your routine down to a science, and he liked being able to watch you work with such efficiency. Eventually, Aomine came to appreciate the little details about you. You’d bite your lip as you counted money, close certain drawers with your hip, the way you knew this needed to be done that way…The way you made your own drink every morning and how you prepared for the morning regulars knowing that this guy liked this in his drink but the woman after him would have it that way…

What he enjoyed the most, though, was how you paid attention. Yes, you weren’t much of a sparkling conversationalist in the morning - he wasn’t either, let’s be honest - but you did listen. Aomine would joke around sometimes, pestering you and disrupting your routine just enough to annoy you but not kick him out. Sometimes he sat in silence, or sometimes he’d talk about basketball and his experiences playing in high school with his friends and what it was like playing on a college team. When he’d think you weren’t paying attention you would surprise him with a specific question or comment that proved otherwise. It reminded him of his friendship with Momoi on a basic level. He and Momoi had been friends since forever and he could talk to her about everything. She was comfortable and understood him and that’s what made her such a great friend. You were like that to some degree, but it went a little beyond comfort and understanding. You didn’t have any ties to him, no history or any association beyond this odd before-opening interaction. Was it a kind of anonymity? Like Aomine could pour out his insecurities to you and just know  that you would simultaneously care but not enough to go gossip about it? Ugh, he hated this kind of crap. It would be easier if his feelings were as simple as ‘yeah, I want to fuck you’ instead of…whatever this was.

“Banana milk.”

“Huh?”

You stood in front of him with an outstretched hand holding a carton of banana milk. Clearly you disrupted his train of thought, so with a teasing tone you repeat yourself. “Banana milk for the big, strong boy.”

He huffed and swiped it from your hand. “Yeah, yeah, talk shit all that you want. Shit’s good, okay?”

You nodded dutifully. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Probably puts hair on your chest better than anything else in the world.”

“I can take my shirt off and we can find out,” he said with a smirk.

“If you need me to help you figure out if you have any chest hair or not it’s probably safe to assume that you don’t have any.”

He laughed, and it dawned on you that it was the first time that you heard Aomine laugh. It was pleasant, deep and warm. Like the way a hot cup of tea feels in your hands. You smiled and enjoyed the pleasure of hearing it.

There was a pause and empty air pressed between the two of you. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was tentative, like something needed to be said but neither of you knew what to say. Thankfully, Aomine broke first.

“Hey, so…” he began, only trailing off when he noticed your attention was completely on him for a change. It made him feel nervous, which was new, but he continued. “I’ve got a game coming up. If you aren’t doing anything, you should come check it out.”

You tilted your head to the side in mock consideration. “I mean, I could try to squeeze you into my schedule…”

Aomine scoffed. “All you do is work and go to class. Have some fun for once.”

“Bold of you to assume that I will have fun,” you challenged.

“Oh, you will,” he assured you. “Every game I’m in is worth watching.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so humble, Aho-mine.”

With flourish, Aomine swung his arms out to either side and grinned. “I’m the entire package. Humble and talented.”

And hot, you thought to yourself, but he didn’t need to know that. “Right, right. Sure.”

Before another pause settled in the air, he spoke up again but his tone was sincere. “I’d like it if you came and watched the game.”

His honesty was surprising, but you were touched that Aomine was actually being sincere with expressing that he really did want you to be there. Could this be a true step towards a friendship with Aomine Daiki?! Wild.

“Okay,” you replied. “I’ll be there.”

#aomine daiki x reader #aomine daiki #aomine x reader #knb imagine #knb x reader #had to repost this because it wasn't showing up in the tags #so that's cool #smh

[arrowflier]

Hello!!! I have a prompt request. When Ian and Micky get their baby (cause they will be parents) how do they agree in the name?

“Mickey, there’s got to be a name you like here somewhere,” Ian said flatly. There were at least four different books of baby names spread out before them on the coffee table, interspersed with handwritten lists on torn notebook paper.

“We’ve been through the options a million times, why won’t you just help me decide?”

“Cause they’re weird fucking names, that’s why,” Mickey groused for the third time that hour. “Why can’t we just name the kid somethin’ normal?”

“Like what?” Ian asked, exasperated. “You already said no to like, half the most popular names of the year.”

Mickey snorted.

“Yeah, cause we ain’t namin’ our kid after a hobby, or a natural fucking disaster.” He caught the set of Ian’s chin, and added, “or a fruit, goddamnit Ian!”

“Hunter and Storm are perfectly good names,” Ian muttered. “And I still say that—”

He cut off when Mickey stomped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“If you name our daughter Roma because of your fucking tomato obsession, Ian,” Mickey hissed, “I swear to fucking hell I’ll divorce your sorry ass.”

Ian rolled his eyes.

“At least you’re not threatening to—”

“AND murder you!”

They stared each other down, faces inches away. Ian’s chin jutting out, Mickey’s eyebrows twitching.

Then they sighed in unison, and backed down.

“What about—”

“Not naming her after your sister, Ian,” Mickey vetoed.

Ian hummed acknowledgement.

“Then maybe—”

“Or mine,” Mickey added, shaking his head. “Gotta have their own name man, we agreed we weren’t doin’ the junior thing here.”

Silence.

Mickey sighed.

“I guess we could do something like—”

“Mickey, I said no gun names,” Ian reminded, and they both fell quiet again.

Something tugged on Mickey’s pant leg, near the knee, as he stood there thinking. Quick and sharp, to grab his attention, little fingers poking his leg through the denim as he looked down into deep brown eyes.

“Little busy, brat,” he said, all fondness, reaching down to muss her hair.

She tugged again, undeterred.

“Come on, give your old man a break,” he laughed. “We’re tryin’ to name your little sister here.”

Brit frowned, lower lip stuck out comically, and gave one more tug hard enough that he reached for the waist of his pants just in case, ignoring Ian’s choked laughter.

“What has gotten into you?” Mickey muttered, and finally crouched down to Brit’s level.

“Alright, you’ve got my attention, kid,” he said seriously. “Now what the fu—” he looked up at Ian, “—udgecicle do you want?”

“Mee nah,” Brit responded solemnly.

Mickey blinked.

“Mina?” he repeated, then looked up at Ian. “Wait, was that one of the ones you were sayin?”

Ian shook his head.

“No,” he said slowly, “but I…kind of like it?”

“Yeah,” Mickey said, looking at the daughter again, who was watching him with wide eyes. “Me too.”

“Like Mandy and Fiona put together,” Ian mused.

“Or Monica,” Mickey countered, “and Laura.”

Ian smiled.

“Mina,” he echoed, almost dreamily. “I think that’s it. I think that’s her name.”

Brit made a noise.

“Yeah, you like that brat?” Mickey said, still looking at Ian. “Cause I think it’s pretty coo—”

“ME!” Brit screamed suddenly, stomping hard on Mickey’s foot. “NOW!”

“Fuck!” Mickey yelped, hopping back and shaking out his foot. “The fuck was that for?”

“Meeeee!” Brit howled, head thrown back and everything. “Play with meeee noooow!”

Then she ran from the room like a little tornado, shoving books off the table as she went, and thundered up the stairs to her room as her fathers blinked after her.

After a second, Ian huffed, a short escape of air. Then he did it again, and again, until his laughter was unmistakable.

“Ian,” Mickey said warningly, “Your daughter just assaulted me, what the fuck is so funny?”

“Sorry,” Ian bit out, “Sorry!”

Mickey waited for an explanation, arms crossed, but the laughter only got worse.

“We just named our daughter,” Ian gasped out in the midst of his hysteria, “after her big sister’s tantrum.”

Mickey’s lips twitched, even as Brit’s wailing got louder.

“Guess we did,” he agreed, and finally started to chuckle. “But you heard the little lady,” he added, shoving Ian toward the door Brit had run through, “it’s her turn now.”

#doesn't really fit the vibe of the day lol #but that's okay I think you guys need to cool down a little anyway😂 #daily speedwrite #fanfic #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #original child character

[aleabea]

faults with the monster high reboots that the monster high movies did better (in my personal opinion!)

monster high itself (as in, the building)

i like the idea of the building as an ancient entity with its own mind: this ancient place that does strange things– which kind of mirrors the ghouls themselves. you really give the audience the power to add their own creativity to it as well. the pool that has unknown mysteries, the catacombs that give monsters the power to travel underground through normie territory. why take that away and replace it with something rather flat and stale that follows a rather cliche/typical storyline of revamping an old building that isn’t in the least bit as visually memorable as its predecessor.

the powers of the ghouls

their unconventional, weird powers from the old movies are realistic: they mirror themselves as monsters, and embrace that individuality. making their powers (or even giving powers: why did laguna need super speed again?) more stereotypical and generic takes away from the message of being your ‘freaky self’. why cant cleo’s superpower be thats shes super rich and an intimidating diva WHY does she need to tie people up with bandages– ???

the drastic clampdown on characters + their significant changes

everyone had a character they could relate to. it was easy to switch up you current favourite and play around with all sorts of different scenarios and backgrounds. it also turns your audience against you: mattel removed so much representation/inclusivity (even  though there are issues with racial stereotypes, but that is a post for another time), which is one of the key pillars of the entire franchise. not to mention that a large portion of the guy characters (which i would generally like more of) are gone/replaced…

why… why give clawdeen a male romantic interest (who adds nothing to the story). why goddamnit

i dont mind moanica d’kay as an antagonist, but…

i have to admit that it took me a while before she was a zombie and not a vampire (but the terrifying implications of her being able to turn normies into zombies is pretty cool). but having toralei walk around in the background like she isn’t an iconic character in the franchise feels… weird. why would you not use her character and have an awesome team-up of villains??? (+so monica is not the only villain again in the second movie) = wasted potential EVERYWHERE

also the zomboyz are boring af

the change in aesthetic: to hyper modern and minimalistic

i like the grungy, unconventional style of the older monster high movies. sure, the animation is definitely cleaner and more beautiful in the reboot and the monsters do look closer to 16 (however, im really not a fan of making animated characters look younger to fit their ‘age group’ (*cough cough* barbie), especially since most of the fanbase is older now anyway and would love a more mature approach), but it feels more generic and the bright neon highlights/absence of spookiness really don’t do it for me. it feels like theres no theme connecting all these different factors.

some plot that makes me go?

where is frankenstein and did he leave frankie by herself??

i think the ari being able to turn solid and human is a bit of a stretch? why is she even considered a ghost then if ghosts can just live normally among humans? (even though i assume she doesn’t age) it is a fun plot point though ngl even though im hella salty that they replaced catty noir, an iconic poc, with a british white girl…

(i do acknowledge the massive plot holes in the other monster high movies as well. but don’t fuck up your own lore pls)

these are my thoughts so far maybe ill add more to this later idk

feel free to add anything or contradict me, i would love to hear other opinions :DDD

#monster high #monster high reboot 2016 #monster high reboot 2017 #mh #bit of a rant tbh

[clandestinegardenias]

talk about your social theory thoughts i wanna hear about the he asked for no pickles/your son calls me daddy now dichotomy

THANK YOU for asking this I now have an excuse to burden everyone with my Thoughts on this post (even though it took me a few days to form them fjdslkak sorry)

SO Cas was never socialized to interact with humanity - he has an extremely tenuous grasp on social norms! He lacks the mental schematic humans rely on to stage public interactions. 

Like, think about when you’re tired, and sad/angry, and the last thing in the WORLD you want to do is interact with another person. But you do really want a hamburger. Fortunately for you, there are standard social scripts to get you through that interaction so that you can acquire a hamburger without expending a ton of effort. You know the script: “I’m good, how are you?” “I’d like a Big Mac, no pickles, with a medium fries” “No thanks, that’s all!” “Oh, sorry, I asked for no pickles?” “Thanks so much, have a great day!” Boom, done. You slip into a front stage, public persona that can deal with mundane social interactions on autopilot. CAS DOESN’T HAVE THAT, or at least is still learning/not very good at it. He’s his backstage, private persona pretty much all the time! Dean moderates that and provides the normative scripted interactions Cas is missing - he acts as the public-facing persona FOR Cas! 

He pulls out the script and says, for Cas, “Hey he didn’t want any pickles”

DEAN, on the other hand, is VERY good at the front-facing public persona--at hiding behind social norms and scripted interactions. He’s SO good at it, in fact, that it’s hard for him to turn that off and slip into his private, backstage self. His public self has become more or less a cage around him. He struggles to break norms, to say no, to leave obligations unfulfilled, to criticize others or prioritize (even acknowledge!) his own inner wants and feelings ESPECIALLY when those go against what he and others expect of him. 

I think a lot of this goes back to his relationship with John--about the expectations placed on him from a very young age, the responsibilities he had to shoulder, the extreme masculinized identity he was expected to take on, the emotional punishment for any deviation from those expectations. Dean has been so conditioned to ignore his own wants and needs, and more or less everyone in his life has expectations of the role Dean SHOULD perform, so he gets locked into that. But Cas doesn’t have those expectations, doesn’t even get social norms anyway, doesn’t need Dean to be any specific idealized role. 

Cas, I would argue, is one of the few (if not the only!) person who really understands who Dean is, backstage, in his own, private self. He doesn’t NEED Dean for anything, doesn’t need him to BE anyone, and he sees the damage Dean does by ignoring his inner self. So Cas intercedes for him, gives him permission to be something other than the expectations and normative social roles that have been forced on him. He allows him to confront his deep-seated need to live up to the expectations of others and never challenge how those relationships have hurt him--in particular his relationship with his father. 

He looks Dean and John’s relationship right in the face and says “He calls me daddy now” -- he rejects your negative influence, disempowers your role as a father, slaps your heteronormativity right in the face, redefines the social norms that govern Dean’s life, allows Dean to be something other than daddy’s little weapon. 

Dean moderates Cas’ relationship with society, smooths it and eases the way.

Cas moderates Dean’s relationship with his own internalized expectations of himself, smooths it and eases the way. 

That’s love, right there. That’s caring, caretaking, softness, soothing, intercession on your beloved’s behalf. They complement each other so, so well -- they make each other more comfortable, they make each other better people. They CHOOSE to soften each others’ harsh experiences of the world through their actions. 

Goddamnit they’re beautiful!! They should have kissed!!! Declared mutual undying love for all eternity! HAD A FUCKING SOFT ENDING. This is a television show!! GAH!

#autisticandroids #ask #wow yeah okay I DO indeed have thoughts about this huh? #spn #supernatural #destiel #deancas #meta #social theory