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#tw: misogyny
konigsblog · 4 months
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i’m such a sadist i absolutely live for misogynist könig, do you have any more thoughts on him?
oh, i have a LOT of thots about sexist!könig :3 🌷
tw: dub-con/non-con/rape, drugging (intoxcation), sexism, misogyny.
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sexist!könig would most definitely slip the condom off before sliding inside. you're all drugged up, all loopy and fuzzy when he slides inside. usually, you'd scream at him to get off of you -- that he shouldn't have tried to take the condom off. don't you want him to enjoy himself? it's not all about you, it feels better without it..
könig pins your wrists beside your head, watching your facial expressions for any signs of discomfort or anger. yet, you seemed to have not noticed, giving könig a perfect opportunity to fuck you all nice and raw! :3
“meine güte, meine prinzessin... du bist sicher das egoistische mädchen, ja? dreckiges ding... entspann dich einfach für mich, du dummes mädchen.” he teases, looking into your half closed, teary eyes, covered with your heavy eyelids. you're always so sensitive when you're drunk...
you arch your back, moaning out when he pounds into you cruelly. god, he feels so free, so good -- until you notice. of course, even whilst drugged and drunk, you're still the stupid feminist that you are.
you whimper, bucking and thrashing against him while he degrades you with a harsh tone. he slaps you brutally, not holding back, and watching as you breathe out breathlessly, eyes wide before you pass out,. allowing könig to take full control over your unconscious body. :((
“gott, du weißt wirklich, wie du mich aufregen kannst, oder? du bist so eine eklige hure, mein kleines spielzeug, lass uns nicht so tun, als hättest du irgendwelche rechte verdient.” könig bites your neck, using and abusing your limp body until he cums deep inside your swollen, raw cunt!
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translation: (1) “meine güte, meine prinzessin... du bist sicher das egoistische mädchen, ja? dreckiges ding... entspann dich einfach für mich, du dummes mädchen.” “my goodness, my princess... you are certainly are the selfish girl, yes? dirty thing... just relax for me, you stupid girl.”
(2) “gott, du weißt wirklich, wie du mich aufregen kannst, oder? du bist so eine eklige hure, mein kleines spielzeug, lass uns nicht so tun, als hättest du irgendwelche rechte verdient.” “god, you really know how to upset me, don’t you? you’re such a disgusting whore, my little toy, let’s not act like you deserve any rights.”
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classicrocker2000 · 4 months
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Source: Fab: An Intimate Life of Paul McCartney by Howard Sounes
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ramadiiiisme · 5 months
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Toxic boyfriend (eventual Soap/You)
Contains: toxic and abusive relationship, misogyny, the 141 supporting you, female!reader
Divider by @benkeibear
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• You are assigned to the 141, the biggest achievement of your life and become good friends with them all.
• They know you've got a boyfriend although you don't talk much about him but no one takes it to heart because of the nature of your work.
• However they do notice small changes in you after about a year, you're becoming less social, talk even less about your partner and seem to distance yourself from them all ever so slightly.
• After a particular successful mission Price all but orders you to join them for a celebratory drink and although you put on a smile they can tell you're not very stoked about it.
• A couple of hours before you're set to meet you send Price a text asking if it's alright that your boyfriend tags along and how he'd like to meet them all finally. When he gives the okay you shoot Gaz a text asking him to bring his wife Tammy so it won't be so weird.
• Well at the pub your boyfriend is very clingy, always touching you, almost like he's marking his territory but he's warm to the guys, talking as if they're old guy friends but pay less attention to you and Tammy which sours everyone's mood slightly.
• Slowly but surely, the more the alcohol flows, your boyfriend's true opinions start shining through. Does this whole manly alpha male thing even though he can barely work a screwdriver, talking to the boys as if they as men could share his opinion that it's kinda weird that "they now let women into the service".
• At one point he throws an arm around you and goes "I've been trying to convince this one to ditch the military and stay home full time but she's stubborn as a fucking mule."
• You can feel the tension around the table before Price says the damning words "This is the first I'm hearing about it."
• Your boyfriend stiffens beside you and turn his eyes to you going "thought you said the higher ups wouldn't let you quit" and when you give a placating smile and go "higher higher ups baby" they all realize this is the first time they've seen you so nervous.
• Soap butts in with "You know she's the best at what she does right? It would be a waste of her talents to quit now in the middle of her career".
• To which your boyfriend gives a mean laugh saying "sure, career. Only reason she got this far is affirmative action, you know what the world is like now, we have to let the women think they can do stuff that men do best".
• It's at this point that Gaz all but has to restrain Tammy from attacking him and Ghost and Soap are glaring holes into his head which he's too drunk to notice. Price who has sat in relative silence until now leans forward and goes "son, she'd have the same position regardless of her gender. You should be proud of her for how far she's come on her own merit."
• Your boyfriend basically waves him off and you take him home shortly after, saying that this was nice but there's a day tomorrow too and they all notice him grabbing a hold of you a little too tightly, telling themselves that it COULD be because of the alcohol.
• After that you become even more closed off from them, and even when Tammy reaches out to you you give some excuse about being too busy to hang out.
• It's only when Soap notices the fading bruises in training one day that the truth of your situation is revealed.
• You've been too ashamed to say anything to anyone cause with your career who would side with you after you allowed some civilian asshole put his hands on you, what would that say about your ability to do your job?
• The guys spring into action, goes with you to pick up your stuff while your boyfriend is at work, and Gaz and Tammy put you up in their guest room until you're able to get your own place because of course your boyfriend had convinced you to move in with him leaving you with basically nothing.
• Your new place is in Soap's apartment building and he all but becomes your guardian angel: car pooling with you to work in the mornings, takes you grocery shopping because he's "already going so what's the issue with helping you out too" and come over in the middle of the night when you have nightmares.
• It takes you more than a year to open up enough to let him in and from the first kiss everything is rushed but perfect cause you've wasted enough time out of fear but you now know you have nothing to fear from Johnny.
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thingstrumperssay · 4 months
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Two things that I want to point out real quick.
Keemstar's dating a 20 year old right now. His actual problem with women his age is that they're not easy to exploit like 20 year olds are.
The bottom right woman is Adria Hatten. She's dead. Her body was found in 2018 and she's now being used as an excuse for Keemstar to continue exploiting barely legal women.
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merakiui · 11 months
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Your thirst post about Professor Azul the other day is driving me insane in the best way. As his favourite student, you always get punished when you don't do well. Be it a small quiz, a discussion post, and the more the assignment is worth the worse the punishment. You've been bent over his knee and spanked or made to suck his cock and be facefucked until you couldn't even speak anymore because your throat was so sore. Recently you got a 2/5 on an online quiz. You know you'll be punished but it was only worth 1%, so it won't be that bad, right? That's what you think but Professor Azul found out you flunked the quiz because you were out partying, thanks to someone tagging you on social media. He's enraged. When you first enter his office, you tepidly drink on the glass of water he offers. He asks if you know what you did wrong and when you play dumb, not admitting to the parties, Professor Azul knows right then and there that you're not leaving until the next day. He fucks you bare, no condom, spilling his cum into you again and again. By the end, you're delirious, filled with his cum, and incoherent. You wouldn't be surprised to find out he fucked you while unconscious and you're not sure you remember what it feels like to not be filled with his seed. You think that's the end of it, being fucked full and forced to wear a plug that keeps all his cum in. The punishment must be smelling like him and enduring the stares, right? Wrong. The water Azul gave you before is a fertility potion. If you're going to be reckless and not take your studies seriously, it's best that he takes care of you permanently. Well, at least he thinks you'll agree when you're all knocked up with his child, won't you?
AAAAAAAA OTL this has me buzzing like a mosquito omg,,,, orz he's so fine. I cannot be coherent. </3
It's like half hate sex and then half need-to-fuck-you-so-hard-and-deep-that-you're-100%-knocked-up-by-the-end-of-this sex!!!! >_< he's more frustrated that you choose to go out and party, showing your pretty body off to others, while neglecting your grades (but most importantly: neglecting him). Professor Ashengrotto could feign blissful ignorance the first few times. You deserve to have fun, but then he realizes you're better off having fun with him instead of irresponsible college students. What if one of them gets you pregnant? >:( how are you going to afford a pregnancy if you're up to your neck in student debt? The obvious solution is to let him knock you up instead so that he can take care of you and pay all of your fees. He has the money for it and his house is very spacious and nice—much better than the dormitory you're living in.
In Professor Ashengrotto's mind, if you have time to be foolish you can spend that time being foolish with him. Since you seem so disinterested in your degree, preferring to party and drink and do all sorts of reckless things (it's nothing like that; you do these things in moderation, but he's delusional and obsessive and thinks that's all you are: a slutty party animal), he'll show you the reality that lies behind every shot glass. Obviously you've proven to him that you could care less about academics, so why should he care about your protests when you remind him to wear a condom or make sure he pulls out before he cums?
Professor Ashengrotto can be so immature when he's jealous and angry. Maybe he'll feel a little bad if you're struggling to stand hours later or you're bruised from a few rough rounds, but then he has to teach you a proper lesson. How else are you going to learn that university isn't a place for play? If you want that sort of life so badly, then you can just stay at his home like a good housewife and take care of all the children you'll have. :) who needs academic aspirations when you can be his cock-drunk breeding toy instead?
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maceofpentacles · 1 year
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the misogyny that runs rampant and unchecked in the gay community that in turn, transforms into transphobia ((finding trans mens genitalia disgusting)) and gay men assaulting women ((feeling like they can grab their bodies since they aren’t attracted to them)) is something that needs to be addressed.
just because you don’t like certain genitalia doesn’t mean you can call vaginas “scary” and “dangerous”. you’re alienating an entire group of men who are attracted to men.
just because you don’t like women doesn’t mean you can smack their asses and grab their tits “as a joke”. harassment and assault do not care about your sexual orientation.
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torchflies · 2 months
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The Five Names of Ice Kazansky (Girl!Ice Orthodox Jew!Ice) + Glossary of Terms
* I was super bored at my conference and wrote this on a napkin because I was having Jewish thoughts on naming 😎 💁🤷*
To be a Jew is to struggle with God — it's the first thing little Hadassah Tzabarit Kazansky learns in this life. 
She questions for the first time at six years old as Dassy, Rabbi Kazansky’s sharp-tongued little girl and now, as his only child.
“Abba?” Dassy asks him, holding his big hand in her smaller pair as they toss handfuls of dirt into her twin brother’s grave, “Why did Feivel die?”
Rabbi Kazansky takes his only living child into his arms as he answers, “You already know, zeeskeit. He had lymphoma, he was very sick.”
“But why?” She asks again, with the unfailing trust of a child. “Why did God take him away? He was ours.”
“No,” Her father says as tears drip down his cheeks and into his beard, “Feivel was not ours, just as you are not mine. Our children are gifts, Dassy, but they are only borrowed; we raise our children to leave us. Sometimes they stay in this world to do that and sometimes they do not.” 
When her mother dies, she is Hadassah. 
She sits by herself at the funeral, wearing a black dress that’s too long and too loose across her chest to be comfortable. But nothing is comfortable anymore, not when her mother is lying in an aron under the earth and everyone is talking about her like she isn’t sitting ten feet away from them.
There’s dirt under her nails from yesterday, when she had climbed the biggest tree in the shul garden to put an empty bird’s nest back from where it had fallen. She had slipped on the way back down and torn a hole in her tights; Rabbi Moskowitz’s wife, Miriam, had given her an extra pair with a smile. What will we do with you, Hadassah? 
She had spent the entire morning fixing her two thick braids, pulling them so tight that the blond curls didn’t bunch out at any angle, then redoing them again when they didn’t match. It took five tries to make them look perfect. She had pinned both plaits back with one of her mother’s favorite tichels, folding it so it held back her braids instead of covering her whole head. She didn’t have any black dresses, so she was forced to tug out one of her mother’s from her closet, feeling a bit like she was stealing. 
Hadassah, my Dassy. Her mother would say. You’ve gotten so big while I’ve been away. 
Her torn ribbon flutters against her neck and she shoves it down angrily.
She doesn’t want to cry in a room of alte makhsheyfes and alter cockers that she doesn’t know. It’s silly and childish, but all she wants is for her mother to wake up and take her home. 
But dead is dead and Goldie Kazansky is very dead. 
“Hadassah, are you alright?” 
Rabbi Moskowitz sits down beside her, his brown eyes doleful and sad. He shifts until one of his knees sits curled on the bench, regarding her softly and waiting until she’s ready to speak. He does the same thing when she sits in his office every Tuesday morning to practice for her Bat Mitzvah, letting her take her time with the text until she’s ready to talk to him about it. But nothing is right anymore, it’s Tuesday morning and her mother is dead. 
She shrugs, tugging on her right braid and staring out the window, watching a little blue bird hop around in the grass. Her Rabbi doesn’t say anything, he just waits. 
“Excuse me, Lev. Can I have a minute with her?” 
Rabbi Kazansky sits down beside her, in the wreckage of the only life she's ever known.
She falls into her father’s arms with a low sob, “I don't understand!” She cries, twelve years old and distraught, “Why would God take her away too?!”
Her father says nothing, he just rocks her and sings a nigun until her tears run dry. 
The day she meets her best-friend, she is Ice. 
Ice Kazansky, the Ice Queen, buries Hadassah and Dassy as far down as she can reach. She smiles with nothing but a mouthful of pretty, perfect teeth as her Academy classmates call her a frigid bitch, something not to be touched, and she shows them just how desperately their performances are wanting. 
She is a flawless pilot and she is ice: cold, and unfeeling until she ends anyone who gets too close. 
“Ron Kerner,” Her fourth RIO introduces himself, all six feet and four inches of smarmy ego that she doesn't have time for. “But you can call me whatever you please, sweetheart.”
She blinks at him, glacial and unforgiving, and on their first hop together: she rolls them, hanging them inverted until he pukes. 
“You really are an icy bitch.” He moans as he spits up on the tarmac. 
Ice just smiles and turns sharply to grab her third cup of coffee from the mess, not a hair out of place, and according to her classmates — barely human. No one speaks to her as she marches past, no one reaches out. 
“I’m sorry,” Kerner tells her later, pushing his plate of bacon towards her as some kind of peace offering. She instantly shakes her head, decades of lessons kicking in before she can stop herself. He looks so damn dejected that she allows herself a moment of — something. She wavers, reaching out.
She takes his dry toast, with a soft, “I don't eat meat.” 
“Oh.” He says, dark eyes wide. “Ever?”
He's inching closer to things that she doesn't want to explain, kashrut and observance, and being an Orthodox Jewish woman but also being everything that an Orthodox Jewish woman is not. How, in her community, she would have already been married with a baby on each hip — how that was a life she had wanted so badly for so long… until she was told it was all she could ever have. 
“Ever.” She says instead, hating the lie. 
“I’ll remember that, Kazansky.” He hums with a smile that makes him softer, kinder. He has warm eyes too and honey-brown hair that curls up at the ends, her RIO with his awful callsign — Slider. 
“Ice,” She corrects, even as he goes red at the memory of his insult.
“Ice.” He says and she finds that she likes the sound of her cruel epithet in his mouth. 
The day she falls in love, she is the Queen. 
The little gremlin has no idea how close he is to hitting the nail on the head — she is Hadassah, but also anything but. 
“Icy!” She somehow hears over the throng and almost rolls her eyes behind her shades, recognizing that lackadaisical voice and the only person in the world who calls her Icy. 
He's a memory, an old friend, a first kiss and the first of many hefty guilt spirals at eighteen, in a world so different from the one she had grown up in. He had been three years older than her then, still was, and had seemed so much wiser than her at twenty-one. But now, at twenty-six, she knows how young they both were. 
Still, the last she heard, Loosey Goosey Bradshaw was off getting married and having a baby, not frequenting the O Club in Miramar. Her cold eyes sweep the crowd and she only narrowly finds him, waving at her from the bar — lanky and jovial as ever. She doesn't smile, but she could have. She's missed him. “Hey! C’mere, I got someone for you to meet!” 
She follows her marching orders, letting his voice wash over her as it starts being audible over the pounding pop music. 
“Here she is, the best of the best — Ice Queen Kazansky. It's how she flies, Mav: ice-cold, no mistakes and I'm just warning you now, pal. If you get bored and do something stupid, she’s got you.” 
He's bent over double, giving a life lesson to the short, stocky young man beside him. Ice has half a foot on the boy and that's being generous — he’s tiny. He smiles from ear-to-ear when he sees her though, full of lust and ignorance, and she thinks of that one film that Slider’s been making her see at the drive-ins every few weeks now: Gremlins. 
“She could have me all the time if she wants.” The little cowboy drawls and Ice ignores him completely, only to raise an eyebrow at her old friend, no wedding ring in sight.
“Hey there, Bradshaw,” She intones, flat and bored, but Nick knows her well enough to pick up on the undercurrent of amusement there. “Odd place to hang out for a married man.” 
He goes a little red at that, flushing up to his eyebrows and she steals his Budweiser to cast her eyes over the crowd again as she sips, “Slider should be around here somewhere, I think you just missed him on the way to his latest crash and burn.” 
The little guy clears his throat, for what must be at least the second time, if his uppity attitude is indicative of anything specific. 
“Goose,” He announces, all bluster and no bite with those big teeth of his. “I think the Queen’s lost that lovin’ feeling.” 
Beside her, Ice’s old friend blanches bony white. “Nope. No, Mav. She hasn't, she really hasn't.” He's making slicing motions across his neck and for a moment, she's concerned about his blood pressure and the vein twitching at his temple. “Mav,” He hisses, so low that she almost misses it, “No.” 
“Actually, Goose.” Those bottle-green eyes fan over her, assessing for some soft spot that she doesn't have. She lets him try. “I think she has.”
The little thing grabs Nick by the wrist and drags him in the direction of the jukebox. Ice merely hums and lets them go, sipping on her free drink. 
She doesn't expect the serenade, nor does she expect the way her heart bottoms out or the way her lips tremble against the cold glass of her bottle. 
You never close your eyes anymore when I kiss your lips…
This maneuver is not recoverable and she can't eject.
Pete Mitchell is going to destroy her entire life, or maybe — he’ll give her a new one.
He does give her that new one, three years after they get married — Golda Helen Mitchell, named at a Zeved Habat for his mother and hers. 
— 
Glossary of terms:
Zeved Habat — naming ceremony for a baby girl
Hadassah — Hebrew name for Queen Esther
zeeskeit — Yiddish term of endearment similar to sweetheart
Kashrut — kosher dietary laws
Rabbi — a leader, both religious and otherwise, in the Jewish community and a teacher
Aron — a casket
Tichel — the head covering of a Jewish woman after marriage
Bat Mitzvah — the coming of age for a Jewish girl
Shul — synagogue, Jewish place of worship
Alte Makhsheyfe — Yiddish insult meaning old witch
Alter cocker — Yiddish insult meaning (annoying) old person
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cryptidclaw · 3 months
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I think a lot of the young Thistleclaw/Bramblestar/etc stand on TikTok are kids who think it’s so cool and edgy and rebellious to like these characters and aren’t aware that what those characters did is so genuinely gross that it is a completely fair reaction to hate them. I’m saying this because I used to be similar, hating popular characters just because they were popular, and I think some kids might feel the opposite, loving hated characters just because they’re hated
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Ya, my theory is this:
I think a lot of this is just the result of kids going through their edgy phase and wanting to be different. Made much worse by the misogyny baked into the Warriors books that a child may not be able to properly see and understand yet.
A kid reading Brambleclaw's pov will probably take what the writers are telling them at face value and not see anything wrong with his actions. Same goes for many other male characters in the books who do very shitty things, but due to the misogyny of the books writing, the readers are told that these characters are in the right while many times the female characters are supposedly in the wrong.
This is why so many kids hate Squirrelflight too, they are told my the writing that she is just a dramatic bitch, when truly she is not. This goes for a lot of female characters.
When a kid who has already been fed this kind of misogyny from the books enters the fandom they can be left confused and angered by so many older fans hating these male characters that the books told them were good. This is then made worse by them being young, and edgy and wanting to be different and controversial so they double down on liking these "controversial" male characters and hating the "controversial" female characters.
Plus they can then find other kids with the same opinions and ideas and then feel validated in their own opinions. Also at this age they probably really like getting into fights in the comments of their posts which just makes them enjoy posting more controversial stuff ...
I only hope that they do not fall down a worse misogynistic pipeline on the internet (which could definitely happen due to the Tiktok algorithm) and grow as people as they get older. Most of them probably will change and grow, they are still kids!
Anywaysss I think this really just shows what the Erins writing can actually teach kids....
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augustjustice · 10 months
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Hail to the King
Link to fic on AO3
Eddie is just loitering in the makeshift alleyway beside the gym, minding his own damn business skipping sixth period–Kavinsky’s chemistry class, no way in hell he was going to that–when, to his own great misfortune, Billy Hargrove spots him.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?”
He’s saddled up to Eddie before he even fully registers he’s no longer alone, a malicious gleam to his smirk. The way Hargrove looms, like he’s the big bad wolf or something, makes Eddie startle, shoulder blades smarting from where he jerks abruptly back against the brick wall.
And, hey, cut him slack for being taken off guard. At least half the time he usually has to do something, deliver a jeering taunt on the cafeteria table or a poorly timed set of devil’s horns, before the jocks corner him.
But Hargrove, Eddie’s learned from a distance in the few short months since he arrived in Hawkins, swaggers around like he owns the place, always spoiling for a fight. Rumor had it he was the one responsible for the shiner former reigning Hawkins High King Steve Harrington had been sporting back in November, and he’d gotten into more than one skirmish in the parking lot after school since then. In other words, Hargrove was one pissing contest away from throwing a punch at all times, which meant giving him a wide berth was the best policy.
And Eddie was pretty damn good at that, skirting around relatively unscathed, especially considering his reputation amongst most of the student population. He’s got a dozen of ‘em, tricks of self-preservation for staying alive at Hawkins High. He knows how to be loud enough to draw attention away from his little sheepies, look scary enough most people don’t give him shit, and run like hell when he needs to.
The biggest problem with all that is…Eddie has one glaring fatal flaw.
He doesn’t always know when to stop running his big, dumb mouth.
“I know this is jock turf or whatever, but, uh, last I checked?” he waves a sweeping arm around them. “It’s a free fucking country, man. Which means I can stand here all I want to.”
Eddie isn’t nearly fast enough to snatch the keys out of his front pocket to wield as a makeshift weapon before Hargrove has him pinned up against the brick, an arm pressing into Eddie’s windpipe.
There’s a vicious glint in his eye Eddie’s seen before. In the eyes of the wild dogs that sometimes wander around the trailer park late at night. In his dad’s eyes, when he’s spent too long at the bottom of a bottle.
That look means nothing but trouble. Shit, Eddie really should have just run instead.
“Nobody ever taught you when to shut the fuck up, did they?” Hargrove demands, grin wild as he echoes Eddie’s thoughts, sounding an awful lot like his own old man. “Don’t worry. I know just how to help you out with that.”
And then he rears back his fist, ready to do just that. But before Eddie has a chance to rasp out the first barbed insult that comes to mind, open his mouth and stick his foot further in it, a sudden voice rings out.
“Hey hey hey!” Hargrove’s grip on Eddie momentarily loosens enough for both their heads to swivel in the direction of the sound. “What the hell is this?”
Eddie’s moment of hope is short-lived, however, because, low and behold, standing at the end of the alley is, of all people…Steve fucking Harrington.
Could be worse, Eddie guesses. It could be Hagan, or another of Harrington’s ex–and Hargrove’s present–cronies here to double team him. Harrington isn’t as likely to pile on as one of them.
At least, Eddie doesn’t think he is. With the exception of breaking Byers’ camera last year, the guy tends not to get his hands dirty. A catty comment or two, a light shove, that’s the most Eddie’s learned to expect from him, and that’s usually only once Harrington already has some particular ax to grind. Eddie can’t think of anything he’s done lately that would piss off King Steve specifically.
But any hope he had–however unlikely–that a good samaritan was dropping by to intervene has pretty much evaporated. Harrington doesn’t get his hands dirty, sure, but he definitely doesn’t stop the shit he sees going on around him from happening either.
Except…Harrington suddenly charges his way down the alleyway, not quite shouldering his way in between Eddie and Hargrove, but suddenly standing close enough to strike.
“Seriously, let him go,” he says sternly, hands planted on his hips. Eddie thinks, nonsensically, that for a moment, he looks like someone’s scolding mother.
Hargrove lets out a bark of braying laughter.
“What are you, now, Harrington, some kind of crusader?” Though he’s still got Eddie pressed into the wall, his attention has firmly turned to Harrington. “You wanna get your head busted in for shit-mouthed little pipsqueaks and the town freak? Better watch out. Might give Munson here the wrong idea.”
Releasing Eddie’s collar, Hargrove made a swishing motion with his free hand that is unmistakable, one Eddie had been on the receiving end of more than once.
And, oh, Christ. If ever there was an opening to convince Harrington to turn this back around on him, that would be it.
Eddie shifts subtly, trying to dislodge himself enough that he’ll be able to bolt.
Harrington just rolls his eyes.
“Honestly, man, don’t you ever get tired of listening to yourself talk?”
Hargrove ignores the dig. Instead, he just looks Harrington over, sizing him up.
“Guess one ass beating wasn’t enough for you, was it, King Steve?”
And, well. There’s that rumor confirmed, Eddie guesses.
Harrington’s jaw clenches, expression hardening.
“I said leave him the fuck alone, Hargrove.”
Harrington must sense he isn’t going to, not without physical intervention, because he reaches out suddenly and slams his palm into Hargrove’s arm, attempting to off-set his balance and push him away from Eddie. Catching sight of the motion before Harrington even fully makes contact, Hargrove shoves Eddie hard, knocking him to the ground before he turns and presses Harrington into the brickwork with a loud thud, the other boy essentially taking Eddie’s place.
“You really wanna do this again?” Harrington asks, and if he’s afraid, Eddie couldn’t tell it. He looks distressingly calm for someone in his position. “After what happened last time?”
For the first time, Eddie sees something like fear flash across Hargrove’s face.
“Figures you’d need a little girl to fight your battles for you,” Hargrove shoots back nonsensically. But then, as quickly as he’d pinned him, he’s letting Harrington go, taking several steps backwards.
As soon as he’s free, Harrington brushes off the shoulders of his Members Only jacket, still painfully unaffected, like he’s literally sweeping away Hargrove’s touch.
Hargrove spits on the ground between them, looking for all the world like he wishes he was spitting in Harrington and Eddie’s faces instead.
“Whatever. Not worth having to listen to my bitch sister whine if I blackened up that other eye for you, anyway.” Lowly, Eddie catches him muttering, “I’ll deal with you later.”
Then Hargrove turns and heads out of the alleyway without looking back.
A long, silent beat passes, the only sound the heavy breathing of the two boys left behind.
“What the fuck just happened?” Eddie finally asks Harrington, because there’s no one else around to ask.
He’s positive when he retells this story later, no one is going to believe him. …If he even bothers to tell it later at all.
But Harrington doesn’t answer, just stares down at him, arms now crossed over his chest, almost…defensive. He looks…he looks fucking tired, light circles under his eyes, like he’s had one too many of those rich kid house parties in a row. Maybe he has, for all Eddie knows.
(Eddie doesn’t think so. He gets plenty of business, anytime someone throws a rager in this sleepy ass town, and he hears about the parties second hand, customers name dropping various basketball players and cheerleaders in front of him while they fork over the cash. No one’s mentioned Harrington’s name in months.)
“Hey, man, are you hurt?” Harrington asks, bending slightly down to rest his palm against his own knee, at a better eye-level as he looks Eddie over.
Eddie wants to make some sarcastic comment back, about gallant knights and damsels in distress, but Harrington’s staring at him with transparent concern, not a hint of mocking in his eyes. Any comeback he might have come up with dies in Eddie’s throat.
“No,” he says quietly, dropping his gaze so he doesn’t have to look at Harrington’s big brown eyes staring down at him. He wipes his hands off against his pants, then flinches a little, turning them over to see the gravel burns.
“Well,” he says, smile wry as he holds up his palms for Harrington to see, “no worse for wear than usual, anyway.”
Harrington winces in sympathy, then offers Eddie his hand, careful to wrap it around Eddie’s fingers only as he pulls him to his feet.
Once he’s standing, Eddie tilts his head in the direction Hargrove had beat his hasty retreat, aiming for a little levity when he asks, “So, who the hell you think pissed in that guy’s Wheaties this morning?”
Harrington scoffs, expression haughty. “Hargrove’s an asshat.”
“Well, yeah, dude. He’s a jock, whaddya expect?” Eddie quips without thinking better of it, and then winds up on the receiving end of Harrington’s withering glare. “Shit. Sorry. Forgot I was in the company of his fellow compatriot.”
“I’m nothing like him,” Harrington says vehemently.
And, in that moment, Eddie is inclined to agree with him.
But he doesn’t say as much, instead opting to look away from the sudden intensity in Harrington’s gaze. Glancing downward, Eddie heaves a long sigh. Hargrove, in his infinite grace, had managed to spill most of the contents of Eddie’s backpack out onto the pavement.
Before Eddie even has a chance to start sweeping it back together into a manageable pile, Harrington is squatting down again, stacking Eddie’s copy of Two Towers on top of his flung open notebook and cradling his black and red die in one palm.
“Here you go.”
Harrington hands the items off to Eddie carefully, one at a time, mindful of the scrapes on his palms as he makes sure he has everything. He’s not sure why, but Eddie had kind of expected him to just thrust the stuff into his arms, getting it out of his grasp as quickly as possible, like he might get burned.
When he presses the 20-sided die into Eddie’s hand, their fingers brush–which is a detail deserving of no attention whatsoever. Nope, it wasn’t even a blip on Eddie’s radar. Certainly not enough to send a tingle down his spine.
Eddie’s just finished tucking the dice away in a side pocket when he catches Harrington studying the notebook in his hand, flipped open to a sketch of Kas the Bloody-Handed alongside some of his character stats.
“It’s not polite to snoop, you know.” Eddie drawls the words out lazily, enjoying the way Harrington’s eyes snap to his, wide like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie drawer.
“Sorry,” he blurts immediately. Then, to Eddie’s surprise, he gently taps the top of the page with one finger. “That’s for your game, right? Dwarfs and Dungeons?”
“Dungeons and Dragons,” Eddie corrects abruptly, before his mind even has time to fully process the fact that, butchered name notwithstanding, Steve Harrington knew what D&D was.
Harrington rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking weirdly…chastened.
“Yeah–yeah. Yeah, right. That.”
“Wait, how the hell does the King of Hawkins High know what Dungeons and Dragons is?” Eddie demands, sounding more accusatory than he meant to.
Harrington grimaces.
“Not the King anymore. In case that wasn’t clear.” He nods in the direction Hargrove had just disappeared.
Eddie waves a hand, as though ushering away this trivial detail.
“The passing of the crown doesn’t happen that quickly.” Even he’s not sure if he’s mocking Harrington or trying to reassure him. He jabs a finger in his direction. “And the question still stands, man.”
It’s just–he can’t really fathom a jock like Harrington paying attention long enough to have even a slight clue what the Hellfire Club got up to. Unless, maybe, he had heard about it in one of those bogus articles claiming a tabletop board game was the death of American morality and probably the means for opening a gateway to hell itself.
Eddie wonders if he’s about to be on the receiving end of yet-another pearl-clutching sermon. That, at least, would align perfectly with the worldview Eddie had established after years of stewing in this podunk town.
Harrington shrugs. “The kids I babysit for play it. The little shits are always trying to get me to join in their game.”
He says all this casually, like he didn’t just drop several earth-shattering revelations all at once. Like the fact that he babysits, apparently. And babysits nerd children, at that, if their interest in D&D is anything to go by. Maybe Eddie likening Harrington to a scolding mother earlier hadn’t been as totally off-base as he’d thought.
“You could play with us, sometime, if you wanted,” Eddie hears himself offer, and why the fuck did he say that? “Sit around the table at Hellfire, get a taste of what big boy D&D looks like. You know, as opposed to the kiddie bopper version.”
Harrington blinks at him, like he can’t quite believe Eddie’s said it either. Eddie, for reasons he can’t name, tenses, waiting for him to laugh in his face. It’s almost like he’ll be disappointed when Harrington inevitably turns up his nose as haughtily as he had about Hargrove, delivers the scorn Eddie has practically invited upon himself.
Instead, Harrington just shakes his head. “Nah, man. Thanks, but, like I said, those brats are a menace. I’d never hear the end of it if I played with anybody but them.”
“Well,” Eddie shrugs, feigning nonchalant as he tugs a strand of his hair up to his mouth to play with, like he invites star basketball players to join Hellfire every day, “offer stands, if you ever change your mind.”
Harrington claps a hand on his shoulder, jocular but friendly, not at all like those hard smacks the jocks sometimes deliver in the halls with the hopes of stealthily knocking Eddie down.
“If Hargrove bothers you again, come and find me.”
Then he gives Eddie one final nod before he turns on his heel and starts jogging back towards the school entrance.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, Eddie shouts at his retreating back, “Hey, I won’t forget this, your royal highness! You’ve got my vote for prom king!”
When Harrington flips him the bird without even turning around, Eddie just cackles.
And, despite his repeated professed disdain for the entire tradition, three months later when the prom ballot comes around…Eddie does scribble in a checkmark next to Harrington’s name.
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inkblot22 · 1 year
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HELLOOO!! hruu? any epel thoughts? :0
I was thinking of forced pregnancy bcs … u cannot tell me he’s not a family guy who would not want a kid of his own .. man has a breeding kink and noncon somnophilia … iykyk
Hello, friend! I am doing well, and I hope you are as well! Typically I'm terrified of the idea of bearing a child, but that terror is what gets me going. May I just say, this is some good food. Thank you anon, and I hope you don't mind if I expand on this. Of course all characters have been aged up to 18+, and I also have no idea what gripped me. This was supposed to be much shorter.
As always, TW for yandere, forced impregnation, afab reader (misgendering warning if you're nb or transmasc, stay safe everyone), "subtle" misogyny, if you can call it that, noncon, drugging, somnophilia, name calling. Animal abuse, if you consider Grim an animal. Don't worry too much, he doesn't get hurt.
Epel strikes me as the type of guy who would want to do anything to prove that he's "manly." You and I know that actually manly people are effortless about it, but Epel feels the need to try because... well, to put it plainly, he seems a little delicate. That's not to say that he's weak. No, you find out relatively quickly that Epel is a lot stronger than he looks.
It all begins with lunch, ridiculously enough. You and the others are talking about the future and Epel mentions that he wants a lot of kids, and you can't help the giggle. Epel as a dad? It just tickles you pink, because all you've ever known him as is a rough-hewn, soft-spoken apple boy. Vil's poison apple for that really weird plan he'd come up with. You didn't mean to hurt his feelings. That's not something you tried to do, but it happened, and despite you apologizing and explaining yourself, he seems to have taken it hard.
See, in your mind, it's just bizarre to imagine him surrounded by a bunch of little kids. In his mind, you were laughing because you believed him to be so effeminate, so girlish, that he couldn't possibly impregnate anyone. And he'd grown, in the past few years you'd known him, but he was still sweet-faced and willowy, so he felt like it was a double dig, both at his manhood and appearance.
You went home after class wondering how you could get Epel to forgive you, not expecting to find him standing in front of the doors to Ramshackle house. Grim points out that he's holding something, and you notice it too, but can't make it out from the distance you're standing at.
You shout out a greeting as you approach the door, pulling out your keys, and Epel turns to you with the most radiant smile you'd ever seen him give anyone. Foolishly, you thought he couldn't have possibly have still been upset with you, but you apologized again anyways and let him in.
He greets you by mentioning that he had gotten the go ahead to spend the night. You go along with it, even though it's a bit of a faux pas to invite yourself over. He is well aware that Ramshackle, despite being much nicer now than when you first moved in, is a lonely, lonely place and there are an abundance of strange critters living there, magical and not. You include Grim in there, jokingly.
Right as he's about to say something else, Grim interrupts him and asks if he's holding some kind of pie. Epel sighs, but it's a good-natured sigh. The three of you walk in and he places the tart, not pie, in the kitchen. You tell him you're going to get changed, leaving Grim downstairs with him.
When you come back, Grim is scarfing down a slice of that tart and there's a piece sitting next to Epel that he hasn't touched. He slides it towards you as you approach, says he wants you to try it because it's his grandma's recipe.
It's really delicious, something about the reds and oranges of the sunset coming through the windows and this wonderful confection make you a little teary-eyed. You tell Epel that he didn't need to bring anything, least of all something made with his grandmother's recipe, but he brushes you off entirely. Says it's his pleasure, even.
Usually, you would have offered to play some sort of card game, but Grim has completely fallen asleep at the table, and you're beginning to feel a bit tired yourself, so you excuse yourself to put Grim to bed.
You swear you were planning on going back downstairs to clean up the dishes, but you sat down for two seconds on your own bed and that was the last thing you remembered.
At least, that was the last thing you remembered until you felt that bleary awareness that comes with waking up. You know how when you wake up, you're aware of everything but paying no particular attention to anything? It was that, except as the seconds ticked by, you were growing more acutely aware of a disconcerting wetness between your legs paired with a feeling of... fullness? A stretch, something grinding into you.
You looked to the side, noticing Grim was completely asleep and snoring. You moved to sit up, coming to the stark and sudden realization that the weight on top of you was, in fact, not a blanket.
"Dumb bitch." That sounded like Epel, and his voice was white-hot against your ear, "I'm gonna show you just how virile I am."
You, understandably, begin to panic, since you barely know what's going on through this weird bleary haze you're currently under, but are aware enough to know that this is being done without your consent. You kick your legs and realize that they're in the air, your knees closer to your ears than you'd like.
You take in a breath to scream, because maybe, just maybe someone is standing outside, despite your horned friend leaving campus many years ago, and you're immediately thwarted by Epel's lips crashing against yours.
He pulls away to mumble, "I'm gonna make a wife and mother out of you."
Your head felt so heavy, and Epel chuckles at your expression.
"Go on ahead and tell me you won't make a great mama. I wanna hear it from you." His tone is light, mocking, even.
You can't muster anything more than a garbled series of noises that resembled pleading for him to stop.
He ignores you completely to kiss your sweaty temple, "Think I used too much a'that potion."
"Why?" You managed to ask, then louder, "Why?"
Epel doesn't answer you right away, but you feel his hips still and his cock twitch inside of you.
And then he says, almost happily, "Do you think it'll be a boy or girl?"
You don't get the chance to answer before he's moving again.
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batwynn · 7 months
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You know when you watch something and you immediately just know that it's made by a certain type of man who hates women, and has unkind opinions on mental illness and then you go and look up the original author's work and you see that his book's plotlines are all horror-based-mental-illness tropes but also fatphobia and oh look he has a new book about a... oh, it's about a woman. That he hates.
Sometimes those vibes are just 100% correct.
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sealz888 · 2 months
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Fallout headcanons for Vulpes 🥺
I'm trash I know
Thank you for your ask! I didn't realised I had this many thoughts on him compiled. I hope you enjoy these.
Heads up! Content warnings for Domestic Abuse, Domestic Violence, Misogyny, Slavery and general legion stuff. Triggering content is below the cut.
He has Oculotaneous Albinism, specifically Type 1b, explaining his white hair and light eyes, but his tan face. For the unaware and if I may cringe for a few moments, there are multiple types of Albinism, each with different effects and caused by different genes.
Doesn't actually know what a fox is, only donned the moniker after an older soldier nicknamed him. It's actually a coyote head.
He has to dye his hair often and use contacts as his OCA made him stick out like a sore thumb, especially in the Mojave, making it hard for him to infiltrate and spy. Keeps it short for the same reason.
His father actually joined the legion out of his own volition. His father grew up in a misogynistic society and resented his wife and Vulpes' Mother. However, for reasons below the cut, they were actually booted.
His mother gave birth to 3 girls after him.
Due to his abusive family life, he became extremely sneaky, carrying on his legion life. They noticed this and instead of punishing him, they doubled down, training him into a frumentarii.
When he was 7 his family assimilated into the legion, and his mother was pregnant with his third sister. After her birth she ""disappeared under mysterious circumstances"" and Vulpes' never saw her again. (see below cut)
Told his sisters stories to '''help''' them sleep, these stories were actually just him describing what monsters would brutally kill and eat them if they didn't sleep.
A year or two later, his father died in battle. Vulpes' never really cared for his family or bonded with his sister, considering he was dragged out of their lives for training. He was ecstatic when his father carked it, hated the fucker.
Actually managed to get his sisters to be given as wives, not really slaves somehow. I guess because he was related to him by blood and they were slaves, I guess, he was a slave too by proxy.
Had to keep it under wraps, however, considering his cold-hearted rep.
TRIGGERING CONTENT BELOW THE CUT! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
He would often beat her and abuse her in displays of power in front of a young Vulpes' whose name at the time was Michael. Much of his mother's horror and father's admiration, he also began abusing his mother.
He would somewhat tolerate her before she gave birth to Vulpes, appalled that she birthed a '''""ghoul with skin""" and that she couldn't give birth to a normal child. It only got worse and worse as his sisters were born. Vulpes' was also abused for this, but stood proud of his appearance.
His father actually drowned his mother after she gave birth, he had a sneaking suspicion he killed her based on how much disdain he had for her, but doesn't know if it's confirmed.
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merakiui · 1 year
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Oooooh expand more on incel discord mod scara? 👀👀👀
(cw: yandere, brief nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, incel behaviors, obsession, misogyny)
Either he lives in Ei's basement, or she kicked him out and so now he lives in a very nice apartment far from her. Scaramouche is an incredibly toxic gamer; the type who will spam petty nonsense like “kys” or “your mom doesn’t love you” or “get better at the game before you talk to me” or “i bet you shoot blanks irl.” He is a menace and a bully and an omen all in one terrible package. You’d think that with all of his cruelty he’d actually be trash at games, right? He’s actually surprisingly good—too good, actually, to the point where he’s placed very high on leaderboards and in online tournaments. He also has the worst gamer rage and short temper...
He’s in a server that was created by a pro-gamer who calls herself the Tsaritsa. There are eleven mods in total, with Scara being the sixth. Your meeting wasn’t exactly a meeting; it was more of you had been in a VC with him and a few others and the lot of you were playing games for the fun of it. Scara had some time to kill and he figured that annihilating everyone in the lobby and flexing his skills would give his ego a significant boost. What he doesn’t expect is for you to actually beat him and top his score by a few measly points. He claims he doesn’t care, but then you lightheartedly rub it in his face and now he really cares. The two of you end up arguing in the VC, going back and forth about skill issues and raw talent and how he should just relax because it’s just one win. He ends up kicking you out of anger and spite. 
Later, after appealing to mod Dottore (Scara hates him), you’re let back into the server after having promised to not stir up trouble or fights. Scara doesn’t notice your arrival for a few weeks until he spies your profile picture in the VC and he’s immediately reminded of how annoying you were that day. He’s been grinding on that game ever since you beat him just to improve; he’s such a loser. 
Scara actually doesn’t play with the other server members often. He’s more of a solo gamer, but with you in the picture he’s determined to put you in your place. That singular win chips his pride more than he’s willing to admit, so whenever he sees you alone in VC he’ll hop in and demand a rematch. You always agree, and each time you always win. Scara is losing his mind. How is he suddenly so trash?! What’s going on? He used to be so good—and he’s still good! You’re just hacking or something. Did you secretly team up with Dottore and did he let you in on some stupid hacking tricks? Is that what’s going on?
Every time you win, you tell Scara to get better. He’s trying. Archons, he cannot stand you. He’d kick you again, but like a worthless cockroach you’d just find a way back in. 
At some point, the two of you add each other so you can take your feud beyond the server. Every weekend the two of you engage in rematches and you win every time. If Scara’s pride was cracked before, it’s absolutely shattered now. His hatred for you and your skills (which he is certain are just cheap hacks) grows day by day until it gets to a point where he’s going through the socials you’ve linked to your discord profile just to see what kind of person you are beyond games. You might not even be a female, but Scara automatically sees you as one because of how annoying you are. He has this whole mindset that “women can’t be good at video games” and so regardless of your gender he’s going to live with the thought that you are a female who is kicking his ass at a game he used to be godly at. And Scara, as a pro-gamer, as a man, cannot let this continue to happen.
The next time you’re challenged to a rematch, you text him: if I win you have to pay for my groceries for the month. Scara thinks that’s a stupid request, but he agrees. And if he wins you have to leave the server forever and never return. Unsurprisingly, you win. But just barely. Scara doesn’t care enough to wonder why that might be, but then you’re typing to him: gg, not my best game. I’m kinda hungry and running on three hours of sleep rn, so I’m not at my best. 
Scara peers at the message with a scowl, sitting perched in his gaming chair. sleep, idiot, he tells you. and make sure you eat.
Obviously he tells you this only because he wants you to be in peak condition when he plays with you next. Not because he’s worried or anything. 
Your grocery bills are covered for two months instead of the one.
At some point, amidst trying and failing, Scara thinks he’s gone insane. He must be trapped in some vicious, unbreakable loop. He knows he should probably give up, but giving up would look weak and then his server members might say he has a small dick for letting you win all the time. He hates you, but what he hates more is when you stop appearing online for your weekly rematches. The idea that he would be worried over you is so lame. He’s not worried. He just needs you to be in one piece so he can kick your ass. 
The next time you text him you tell him you were busy with your real life, which is understandable, but Scara is chronically online and so he thinks that in the time you were offline you were busy fooling around like a slut. Is that how you’re so good at games? You seduce the competition and then win while they’re distracted? He hates you and your trickery. 
But he still finds himself asking if all is good on your end. If you need him to send money. If you need anything. Since when did he care so much? It’s not caring, Scara assures himself; it’s hate-caring. He’s doing this only because he needs you here so he can win. 
Without realizing it, you’ve become Scara’s discord kitten. He sends you money out of spite, he pays for your groceries and other necessities out of hatred, he stays up late on VC with you just to trash-talk and insult you (i.e. get to know you more). He finds your personal social media accounts and the accounts of your real life friends and he pulls up pictures of you on his three monitors and fucks into his hand to the sight of you. 
He really is going insane. How did he get to this point? Since when were you able to get him this hard? Why does he immediately think of you when he’s doing the most mundane tasks like chores or shopping and suddenly he’s insatiably horny? It must be because you’re a worthless female using your charms to seduce him, to always beat him at games, to use him like you probably use every other man you’ve come across!
Scara decides that, regardless of whether he wins or loses to you, he ought to just take you for himself and keep you in his apartment as his little housewife. Then he can get back to being good at video games and you can serve him like you’re meant to. He just needs to find your address and plan a few things, as well as buy some...tools. 
He can’t wait to welcome his kitten home. :)
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hannahssimblr · 1 month
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“Can I tell you something?” Alison whispers as we lay side by side on a bed, some nameless person’s bed in Dollymount. The sounds of electronic club beats are muffled through the floor from the kitchen beneath us.
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“Yeah of course.”
“Don’t take it the wrong way though.”
“I won’t.”
She smiles, “I really, really like the stupid faces you make.”
“Stupid faces?” I have to look at her, so I prop myself up on my elbow, “What stupid faces?”
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She giggles sleepily, all soft and relaxed after I made her come. I don’t know how I did it, by the way, it’s something that seemed to have happened by divine chance, leaving me with no solid idea of how it can be repeated, but now I have to pretend that I did it on purpose. “You just pull these really expressive faces, like,” she tries to imitate me, tugging her lip between her teeth and rolling her eyes back, “like you’re enjoying yourself so much, it’s so cute.”
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I kiss her shoulder, “I am enjoying myself. It’s nice. Do you want me to be all serious? I can do that, I can be really stoic and manly if you like,” I set my jaw and stare right at her when I roll on top of her, “Alison,” I say in a deep, unemotive Terminator voice, “copulating with you is enjoyable to me, let us continue.”
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“Stop,” she laughs weakly and squirms away, “and by the way, if you were a real manly man you wouldn’t even speak or make any noise. You’d just wheeze out these really heavy, ominous breaths.”
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And would I look you in the eye like this?” I demonstrate, unblinking, “And would I be concentrating so much that I’d look like I was doing a shit?”
“God, no, in my experience guys don’t even look me in the eye. They bury their face into the pillow and then get embarrassed and start apologising when they come like they’ve just realised they’ve done something disgusting.”
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I drop back to her side, “Oh, God. That sounds miserable.”
“Yeah that’s why I like your stupid faces, actually, and the way you look at me. Sometimes you even say nice things. It’s always pleasant with you and I never regret it.”
“I’m just blurting out random shit, it’s not exactly romance novel worthy stuff.”
“You said a few minutes ago, and I quote, ‘Oh Jesus, fuck, Alison you’re so fucking hot.’ Do you know how good it feels for me to hear that?”
“i can't be held accountable for the things I say when I'm about to come,” I say with a shrug, “and anyway, you are. I was just sharing the facts.”
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She reaches up to touch my cheek, stroking the back of her fingers affectionately over my skin, “That’s the thing though, you’re never embarrassed about sex. You make me feel kind of special, or something. You’re a lovely boy, you know that? You’re just about the loveliest one I know.”
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“Why does that make you sound so sad?”
She looks up at me with her big blue eyes and I can’t help but touch her too, brushing my fingertips up the side of her face while she lies there, still, red hair fanned out over the pillow like some kind of beautiful painting. 
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“I’m not sad,” She whispers, “We’re just being vulnerable.”
“Hm, how are you holding up?”
“I don’t mind.”
It takes me a moment to realise that I, in fact, am the one that is sad, and perhaps it’s because I’ve been drinking, which is never really that good for me or the image I try to uphold, but an unexpected type of sorrow takes me over in a surge and I only realise I am about to say something very stupid when it is far too late. I am already saying it.
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“Why don’t you want to be with me, Alison?”
She sighs and breaks eye contact, “Because that would be ridiculous. You don’t want that.”
“I think that I do. I don’t understand all of this casual stuff, I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to do it.”
“But you’re doing it, you’re fine.”
“No, I think I need more.”
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“Jude,” she drags a frustrated hand across her forehead. I think I put her through this type of thing a lot, “you don’t want to be my boyfriend, you just think that you do.”
“I love you.”
She snorts with derision, “No you don’t, come on, you’re just lonely.”
“You’re right,” I hesitate, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, that was stupid.”
“I think that deep inside you’re just a sad little boy who wants someone to look after him, and now you’re searching for some poor, naive girl to do it. Right?”
“No, of course not. I just… don’t like being on my own.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t like how it feels.”
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“You’re making a great case for us being together, by the way. Who wouldn’t want to go out with a guy who is depressed and gets really weird whenever he’s alone? Wow, he doesn’t sound clingy at all.”
“But you’re not making any decent case for not being together.”
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“Being with me would probably ruin your whole reputation. You don’t want to be the guy who’s going out with the bloody village bicycle of fifth year.”
“Who calls you that?”
She scoffs, “Um, everyone, come on. You think I don’t know? I bet the stuff those rugby boys say about me is foul.”
It's true that the conversation in the changing rooms is so pornographic that it used to stun me, but I've been on that team for two years now and have realised that the conversation is always about the the same things, like whose arse cheeks were visible under the hem of her skirt, what they wish they could do to random girls in the hallway, big tits and blow job lips, invented scenarios with girls they will never have the courage to actually talk to. It's boring.
“I don't think I've ever heard them mention you.”
“Well then you’re just not listening.”
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“Alison, yeah, the shit they say is gross, but even if they did talk about you, they definitely wouldn't be saying that you're the village bicycle of fifth year, come on.”
“Of course they do. But that’s what I get for being this way. I should just keep my legs closed, right?”
“C’mere,” I tilt her face gently to mine, “If they're saying that then it's not in front of me.”
I can't read the series of emotions that flash across her face, but her silences makes me begin begin to question if any of this is comforting at all. I continue, “and I swear if I ever do hear anyone talking shit about you in that dressing room I’ll shut it down straight away.”
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There is a pounding on the bedroom door. 
“Hey!” Some girl yells, “Who’s in there? This is my room. Nobody better be having sex or something in there!”
Alison and I stare at one another. 
“Hello? Can you open up please? You can’t just come into someone’s house and start locking the doors as you like!”
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“Hey! Piss off!” Alison yells back, which only increases the ferocity of the door rattling, “What should we do?” she murmurs.
“Probably get a move on, you think?”
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“Yeah, might as well,” she lies spread out on the mattress staring at the ceiling as she tries to gather the strength to move. Finally she relents, “Okay, throw me over my jeans.” 
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I pluck them off the chair that I flung them onto earlier and then start retrieving some of my discarded clothes too. “Should we fix up the room or something? Like, I dunno, take the sheets off? I feel a bit bad.”
Alison scoffs, “Why, so you can have them dry cleaned for her? Or do you want to go downstairs and put the washing machine on? No, you can put your condom in the bin but that’s all she gets. What does she expect? We are at a house party, and there is a bloody bed. Does she seriously think that people aren’t going to fuck in it?”
“You’re right,” I chuckle, “Get a grip, huh?”
“Right!”
“Loser.”
“Loser.”
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