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katiexpunk · 5 months

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Sex On Fire, Part 1 | Pairing Firefighter!Joel Miller X Fem!Reader

Series Summary: You're a country girl in the big city, thanks to your generous aunt. You expected to have adventures your first year in New York, but what you didn't expect was for your hot, firefighter neighbor, Joel, to be part of them. Part 1 Summary: You move to New York, after a little coaxing from your aunt. You meet your new neighbor, Joel, and quickly learn he's a Captain with the NYFD and good with his hands. Rating: 18+ Minors DNI Word Count: ~6.7K Warnings: Sexual tension, sexual tension, sexual tension. This one is dripping in it. No age gap specified. No explicit smut (yet, there's uh...gonna be a lot in part 2), but a nice lead up to it in the end that will probably blue ball you. Groping. Alcohol. Hardcore flirting. Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, and Kings of Leon song references. Uniform kink. Joel has a hard on for seeing reader in his shirt. Reader's mom has passed. Texas/small town vibes. New York City. There are no specific descriptors for reader, except that she has hair. Ya'll, these two are just down for each other so fucking bad it's not even funny. Authors Note: This one is for my darling moot @darkheartgatita. Pia, thanks for putting Firefighter!Joel into my brain. I hope you enjoy. As always, thank you to my Slutty, Smutty, Sister @sydneyinacoma who inspires me every day and shares her filthy thoughts on the reg. And to everyone who gives my little blog love -- I fucking love you all so much. Part 2, Fall and Winter, will drop next Saturday.

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S P R I N G Spring blooms, bringing with it a new beginning for you. Of all the places you’d thought you would be, New York was not one of them.

Life back in Texas wasn't terrible, a bit dull sometimes, but not awful.

Yet, in the mundane moments, your mind often drifted to daydreams – visions of swapping your Levi's for a sleek black dress and trading quiet farmland for the lively hum of city bars. You’d think of Samantha from Sex and the City sitting on your porch at sunset, drinking Bud Light, wishing your fairy godmother would appear and magically turn it into a dry Martini.

That was until three weeks ago, when your rich aunt, visiting from New York, decided to sprinkle a bit of magic into your life.

“I’m gonna move to Italy for a while,” she casually said over family dinner as if she was just announcing that she was going to the store for milk. You should have been surprised, but she’s always been the kind to never stick around for too long. Single and child-free, she’s spent her adult life dancing to her free-spirited rhythm, bouncing around from one place to the next. Not because she had to, but because she could. You, on the other hand, were the total opposite. After your mom passed away, leaving the cocoon of the familiar felt like too much. Despite your aunt's protests and encouragement to just go, you resisted, not wanting to leave behind your dad and the comfortable life you'd known. But if there's one thing you've learned about your aunt, it's that she's relentless – and yanking you out of your comfort zone was precisely what she wanted, and she had just the plan to do it.

She handed you the keys to her Lower East Side apartment, turning your once silly little daydreams into a reality. “Sweetie, you need this – you’re meant for so much more, your dad will be fine. Please go,” she encouraged.

Despite your initial reluctance, you caved, and before you knew it, you were on a plane bound for JFK.

++++ You feel like a small fish in a big pond as you navigate the city. Trying to figure out the subway turns into a whole saga of you getting lost more than once. You eventually find the right borough, but not without a fair share of unhelpful people brushing you off along the way. Yep, you're definitely not in Texas anymore.

While walking through the city, it hits you that a new pair of shoes is in order; something made clear to you by the little blister on the back of your heel that’s screaming at you. Despite the annoyance, you’re enjoying the walk to the apartment, your new home. The city's buzzing with life, and even the faint smell of urine in the air doesn't bother you. It's a wild, trippy feeling to be in the city, to feel like the main character of your own story.

You grab your phone, itching to double-check the building your aunt texted and ensure you have the right address. Remembering her advice about the unassuming exterior but spectacular view, you get ready for the big reveal. The key affixed to a keychain with a little apple on it meets the lock, and as you turn it, the door swings open, revealing a spacious wooden staircase.

As you step inside, you notice there's a bit of mail scattered on the slightly dusty floor. You collect the envelopes and magazines with your aunt's name on them and neatly stack the other pieces for Joel Miller into a pile on the bottom step.

After climbing the – Jesus, really fucking narrow – stairs, you're faced with doors opposite each other. While a brief doubt nudges you to recheck the apartment number, your gut tells you that the door with the welcome mat showing lemons and a pot of fake flowers is the one — a stark difference from its neighbor with a simple grey mat and no decor. Trusting your instincts, you decide that the lively entrance is the one.

As you step inside, you're greeted by a cozy space that, despite its age, radiates warmth and character. The walls are adorned with paintings that seem to tell stories of bygone eras, while rays of sunlight filter through the window, revealing glimpses of the bustling cityscape below.

Though small, the apartment is meticulously decorated, each corner telling a tale of adventures and cultural escapades. Remnants of your aunt’s travels, collected with care, add a touch of global flair to the modest space. Posters from Broadway plays hang proudly on the walls, as do family pictures. It’s lived-in; the kind of lived-in that feels comfy and embraces you like a warm hug.

You look at the frames on the wall and pause when you see one of your favorites – a photo of you as a little girl, smushed between your mom and your aunt, a cake three sizes bigger than your tiny head lit up with birthday candles in front of you. You can't help but trace the edges of the frame with your fingertips, connecting with the warmth radiating from your mother's beaming smile. Miss you, mom escapes your lips as your eyes linger on the photograph for a heartbeat longer before the rest of the room demands your attention.

In the compact kitchen, a handwritten note from your aunt beckons, strategically placed beside a bottle of wine on top of a stack of takeout menus. Her words resonate with warmth and encouragement. "Welcome to your new home! I am so proud of you for taking me up on my offer. Disregard the bedroom chaos—I started painting the walls but didn't quite finish before taking off. Feel free to pick up where I left off if the mood strikes. And if you ever need a hand with anything, Joel Miller across the way is a nice guy. I've already told him that you’ll be staying for a while, or who knows, maybe forever. Love you!" The paper carries the unmistakable fragrance of her perfume, and a smile graces your face after you finish reading it.

Setting the heartfelt note aside, your attention shifts to the menu for Sang Garden, a vibrant pink post-it exclaiming, "Right down the street! Super yummy!" Hunger gnaws at your stomach; the last meal was a distant memory from this morning, and you're ravenous. Without hesitation, you dial the number on the menu, your choice a steadfast favorite: orange chicken. “10 minutes,” the older lady on the phone tells you, not bothering to say goodbye before hanging up. Huh, efficient, you think.

As the aroma of anticipation fills the air, you finish unpacking your suitcase and weave through your new space until your food is ready. Only having to go down a flight of stairs and less than a block down the street to pick it up is a new feeling for you. If you wanted something like this at home you’d have to drive at least 20 minutes to pick it up.

You finish the entirety of the meal within minutes curled up on the couch, Sex and the City on the T.V.. Your aunt was right, it’s good. Probably the best orange chicken you’ve ever had in your entire life; just the right amount of zest and sweetness. You can already tell you’ll be a regular. Everyone always talks about the pizza in New York, but nobody bothered to tell you about the Chinese. You can tell you’ll probably have a lot of moments like that, discovering new things for yourself instead of hearing about it from magazines or seeing the photos on Instagram.

With your belly now full of the sticky goodness, you settle into bed for the night. You stare at the ceiling, paying no mind to the smile that’s been plastered on your face for the past three hours. You feel giddy, like a little girl seeing the stars for the first time. You’re doing it. You’re really doing it.

The city is still thrumming to life, but the distant sound of sirens and honks eventually turns to white noise as you drift off to sleep.

++++

The next morning, you rise with purpose; new life breathed into you. You brew a cup of coffee and decide to savor it on the fire escape, enjoying the not-yet-thick spring, and still slightly chilly, spring air. As the city stirs awake beneath you, you’re determined to craft an agenda for the day. With another few days to spare before your new job starts, your thoughts drift to the bedroom, where the abandoned paint cans await.

It's been a while since you've had the chance to dive into something genuinely productive, or creative for that matter, and you decide that this is the perfect opportunity. Your aunt chose a deep, rich shade of green, one that harmonizes seamlessly with the space; not too dark, but not puke or pea green, either. It’s pretty. She always has had good taste.

And while you like the color, it’s not particularly one you’d like to see splattered all over your clothing, having only brought what you could fit into a small suitcase. Your aunt must have something, you think. The woman has more clothes than a department store and there is no way she could have brought them all to Italy, although you don’t put it past her to try.

You make your way to the guest bedroom and rummage through the dresser located there. The top drawer is full of nothing but scrapbooks, the middle drawer has only sweaters, but luck strikes in the bottom drawer, where you locate a handful of old shirts.

You pull out a dark blue, oversized “New York Fire Department” cotton t-shirt; the front of it has an emblem, and the back says “Rescue 1 FDNY” in faded blocky white letters, obviously well-loved. This will do, you tell yourself, quickly exchanging your tiny crop top for the large shirt. It hangs over your body, the bottom nearly hitting your knees. Why your aunt has such a large shirt in her collection you’ll never know, but you wager it’s probably from one of her many “friends” over the years.

++++

The sounds of Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours" fill the room, you stand in the center of the bedroom, paintbrush in hand, ready to transform the space. The nostalgic chords of Stevie Nicks' voice in Dreams infuse the air, blending with the scent of fresh paint as you dip the brush into the can, and begin. “Like a heartbeat drives you mad,” you sing, slightly off-key, but no one is around to listen and you don’t mind. “Thunder only happens when it’s rainingggggg,” you belt, using the paintbrush as a microphone.

While most of the paint makes it on the walls, you have to admit that painting isn’t your strong suit and a fair amount of it has splashed back onto your face, shirt, and even your hair. You’re having fun, more fun than you’ve had in a while, even if you make a mess while doing it. Not like you’re gonna see anyone today anyway.

“Players only love you when they’re plaaaaaying…” doing your best Stevie twirl.

More and more green covers the walls, but as you’re about to get started on the final white wall, you’re interrupted by a loud steady stream of knocks at your door.

You hit pause on the music, and make your way to the door, unsure of who would possibly be knocking. You peer through the peephole to take a look, but you can only see the back of a man in a simple white shirt, his back turned to face away from the door. You undo the chain lock and swing the door open.

As the man pivots to meet your gaze, his presence sweeps over you, an unexpected force that leaves you momentarily disarmed. He’s handsome in a way that unmoors you; a mass of a man with broad shoulders, sun-kissed skin, and sculpted biceps that redefine your sense of composure. Whoa.

“Hi,” you murmur, your eyes conveying a blend of softness and curiosity, "Can I help you?"

The man looks at you, and you feel yourself heat under the attention of his gaze. His eyes gently caress your frame; lingering a little too long on the emblem sewn into the fabric, just above your breast.

"Uh," he clears his throat, his hand rising to his face, fingers subtly grazing the beard hair on his cheek, as if grappling for words. "Yeah, well – no, uh," he stumbles, the words caught in a momentary struggle. "Hi, ‘m Joel Miller, I live across the way," he greets, angling his body to signal to the door directly across the foyer. “Oh right, my aunt told me about you you,” you say, introducing yourself, voice smooth like honey. “She mentioned you were a nice guy and to call you if I ever needed anything,” you say, taking up space in front of him by leaning into the door. “Just stopping by to say hi, then? Or do you need a cup of sugar or something like that?” you ask with a playful tone.

Suddenly, the last thing he wants to do is admit that there's something you could help him with—like turning down your music. He likes Fleetwood Mac as much as the next guy, but the last three days on shift have left him craving peace, not a soundtrack reverberating through the thin walls.

Plus, he wasn’t expecting you to be so damn attractive.

And he definitely wasn’t expecting to be wearing his shirt when you answered the door.

“Ha, no, don’t need any sugar,” he chuckles, “just thought I’d make myself known.” He pauses, eyes locked onto yours. You notice the subtle flecks of amber in his deep brown eyes and the furrow of his brow. He’s painfully handsome. Just as you’re about to say something, he breaks the silence first, “But I'll let you get back to whatever it is you’re doin’...you look busy,” he tilts his chin to the paint that’s splotched over your bare legs. You can tell he’s looking for the story behind the mess.

His left hand leaves his pocket and he places it on the doorframe. He leans into it, and your eyes catch the firmness of his bicep flexing under the strain of his lean before meeting his face once more.

“Cute shirt, by the way” he says, his voice low and even.

“Oh thanks, you like it?” you ask, pulling the fabric out in a tent from the center, noticing the little splatters of paint as you do. “It’s my aunt’s, I just borrowed it while I finish up some painting.”

“Yeah, I have the same one,” he adds, “looks a helluva lot better on you than it does me, though,” a little laugh leaves his chest and his cheeks flush, a little embarrassed that he just said that. Fuck, it’s been so long since he’s tried to flirt with a woman.

Your skin prickles with heat, and you’re suddenly very self-aware of what a wreck you must look like, but you decide to be bold anyway. “Maybe we’ll have to compare sometime,” you playfully retort.

“Yeah, maybe we will,” he responds, looking you up and down, hoping the meaning behind his words isn’t too obvious.

“Well if ya ever need anything, ‘m just across the way,” he says, dropping his hand from the doorframe, hitting his thigh with a slight sound of a pat. “Nice to meet ya, Darlin’,” he says. You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker down to your chest once more, your stiff nipples now peeking through the fabric. He turns on his heels and turns his back to walk back to his apartment.

“Nice to meet you, Joel,” you purr. His head peers over his shoulder back at you, and the corners of his lips turn up in a little smirk.

Oh god.

You’re so fucked.

++++

Later that night, you text your aunt that you just met Joel Miller. You curse her for not telling you how incredibly hot he is. You also tell her that you decided to finish the painting, sending a selfie of you in front of the freshly updated walls with the message. You also add that you borrowed one of her shirts and that you’ll do your best to get the paint out of it.

Her response causes your breath to hitch in your throat, and your stomach swirls into a tight knot.

“The walls look amazing! Oh and by the way, that’s not my shirt, it’s Joel’s. I must have forgotten to give it back to him; the shared laundry downstairs sometimes causes mix-ups. Be a doll and give it back to him, will ya? Oh and quarters for the machines are in the clay pot next to the door.”

Fuck. Of course you would answer the door to your incredibly hot neighbor, covered in paint, in his shirt. You shake your head in embarrassment.

You look down at the shirt and notice just how much paint is all over it. You strip it from your body, bring it over to the sink, and begin to scrub the paint out of it with dish soap. As you watch the paint fade into the warm water, you notice the tag on the inside of the shirt and the rank inscribed in permanent marker on it.

Your fingers prune in the water, but you eventually get all of the paint out of the fabric. Satisfied with your cleaning job, you hang it up to dry and scribble out a note.

The following morning, on your way out to explore the city, you leave it neatly folded on Joel’s doorstep. You don’t bother to knock, you’re certain you might combust from embarrassment if you did.

Shortly after, on his way to work, Joel opens the door and notices the shirt by his boot, a little envelope placed on top of it.

“You could have told me it was your shirt, Captain Miller.”

Joel smirks. The cat’s out of the bag on that little secret then. He places it inside and lets out a little sigh. The image of your perky nipples, exposed legs, and messy paint-riddled hair flashes in his brain.

God, he wishes you would have kept it.

S U M M E R

As spring transitions into summer, the city experiences a gradual warming trend. Cherry blossoms and tulips from spring slowly give way to vibrant green foliage. Parks become lively with people enjoying the pleasant weather, and outdoor events become more frequent. The temperature rises, and there's a noticeable shift towards a warmer atmosphere with longer days.

It’s a shift you also feel in yourself, having found your niche, carving out your place in the ecosystem of the city. You’ve gradually adjusted, figured out how to successfully navigate the complexities of the subway system, and are starting to rely less and less on Google Maps to get around. You frequent a bodega around the corner from you, know where to find a decent bagel, and are a recognizable regular at Sang Garden.

Your new job keeps you busy. It’s tough work being a bartender in the city, but it’s granted you more than one opportunity to meet people from all walks of life, people you’d never get the opportunity to meet back in your hometown.

People like the gregarious and charismatic trader, who’s more than happy to make it clear he works in the financial district, even when nobody asks. People like the countless young professionals unwinding after a long day with their colleagues; some with sexual tension so obvious you can taste it. Designers. Architects. Engineers. Writers. Musicians. Actors. You don’t like them all, but you don’t have to, you’ll never see most of them more than once anyway.

You quickly learn the art of making a good martini, one you think would make Samantha proud. It’s all so posh. So far from your usual. But the money is good, and without having to pay rent – a luxury you now realize; having almost fainted when your coworker told you how much he pays in rent – it allows you to pocket most of it.

Your first few months in New York have been good, although a tad lonely. Making friends was never really a strong suit of yours, and you’re finding the city to be a particularly hard place to get to know people in any real way. Most of your free time is spent curled up with a good book or watching Friends for the millionth time, wishing Central Perk was a real place.

You see Joel in passing now and then, the in-between times when he’s coming home from work, and you’re just leaving for yours. Sometimes you pass each other on the stairs, and you have to angle your bodies side-to-side just to fit on the narrow stairs as you navigate around one another. You sometimes have to collect your composure when you leave for work and notice the faint smell of his cologne still in the hallway, it smells so good it makes you dizzy.

You find excuses to talk to him every now and then – a squeaky fire detector, to hand him his mail, or even for a stupid cup of sugar. Every time you find yourself knocking on his door, the butterflies congregate in masses as if preparing to migrate. You feel like a school girl with a crush for the first time, but as far as you can tell, Joel doesn’t feel the same, and you’re okay with that. At least that’s what you try to tell yourself.

The exchanges are always short; little blips in the grand scene of time, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling like you might faint under the intensity of his scorching gaze. Which doesn’t help, considering it’s already sweltering outside.

You severely underestimated how hot summer would be. Of course, you’re used to the oppressive Texas sun, but something about the way the buildings and concrete reflect the rays makes it feel like New York is at least 10x hotter.

The temperature in your apartment isn’t much better than outside. The air hangs heavy inside as you lay on your mattress, clad in only a bra and underwear, on crisp white sheets, attempting to cool yourself with a damp towel on your forehead. You listen to the feeble hum of the wall crying out for help.

As luck would have it, the overworked unit decides to give in to the heat. Beads of sweat form on your forehead as you attempt to fix it, but it’s pointless. You stare at the lifeless unit, realizing that the city’s relentless heat has claimed it as a victim. Time for a new one.

Once the sun dips past the skyline, you venture out to your local hardware store to grab a new one. You wish you would have had some forethought to bring a cart or something, not thinking about the fact that you were going to have to carry the heavy unit eight city blocks. Coulda, shoulda, woulda, you think to yourself. Once back to your apartment, you balance the quirky box on your hip, holding it steady with one arm as you fumble to grab the key from your purse outside the entrance of the building. Your cheeks are warm, you’re drenched in sweat even at this hour, and your hair is starting to stick to the nape of your neck. You manage to grab it, but inadvertently drop it, your fingers clammy.

“Shit,” you mutter, frustrated and hot.

“Need some help there, Darlin’?” Joel asks, making his way up the stoop. You turn to face him and oh.

Of all the times you’ve seen Joel, you’ve never seen him in uniform. The sight catches you off guard. His crisp, navy blue uniform emphasizes his broad shoulders and neatly tucked shirt, the shiny FDNY badge on his chest. He flashes a charming smile, revealing a hint of dimples, as he picks up your fallen key with ease. You’re not sure how he always manages to look so put together, a stark contrast to the way you always seem to look in front of him.

"Rough day?" he asks, unlocking the door, and for a moment, you forget the oppressive heat, captivated by his charm. “Here, lemme take that for you,” he offers, and you kindly accept. You shift the box out of your arms into his, and your stomach swoops when you watch the way his biceps flex as he grabs the unit with ease.

Grateful for the assistance, you offer a sheepish smile, “Yeah, you could say that” you reply, opening the door, holding it open for him. He begins to ascend the staircase ahead of you, giving you a full view of his ass in his uniform pants; it’s toned, and his thick thighs match. You walk behind him, trying to ignore the stickiness that’s beginning to pool in your underwear. You allow yourself to perv out for a moment, at least while his back is to you. He’s just helping you out, stop being weird.

Joel waits at the top of the steps for you to open your door. Once unlocked, you enter and he follows behind you. “Oh shit, it’s hotter than hell in here,” he says once inside, the irony is not lost on you that a literal man who fights fires for a living thinks it’s hotter than hell. He bends to place the box down near the front door and rises to full height, bringing both hands to his hips. You notice the little sheen of sweat that has now collected on his thick neck, fighting the impulse to lap up the perspiration. “You’re telling me, I’m rendering lard,” you say, letting your Southern roots shine through. You cringe a little at yourself, watering your accent down to not stick out as much, but you’re reminded of the age-old saying you can take the girl out of the country…

You wipe the back of your hand on your forehead to push away the sweat that’s been collecting there all day and look at him. “Thanks for the help carrying it up,” you say, offering him a kind smile.

“No problem at all, need some help installing it? These units can be tricky,” he asks, trying his best to ignore the fact that your white shirt has gone see-through from your sweat, allowing him a perfect view of your breasts. No bra again, he notes. He shifts his stance a little, trying to prevent his cock from hardening at the sight.

“Are you sure?” you ask, a little unsure, but deep down you know you need the help. As much as you’d like to think of yourself as an independent and capable woman, you’ve never been one to be good with anything mechanical, and the heat has left your brain feeling like the static of a T.V. channel with no reception.

“Course. I’m a servant to public safety. Can’t have you accidentally pushing it out the window and crushing a person below, it’d be a lot of paperwork” he chuckles and takes out a knife from his pocket to undo the tape on the box. It’s an ordinary act, yet somehow you’re mesmerized by his dexterity and competency.

Midway through the process, Joel pauses, feeling the heat, and glances at you with a lighthearted grin. “Mind if I take this off?” he asks, tugging at the collar of the uniform shirt. You nod, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Sure, go ahead.”

His large fingers fumble with the buttons on the shirt, eventually revealing a white tank top underneath. The fabric clings to him, highlighting his defined chest, and a little bit of belly. You practically drool at the sight, once again resisting an impulse to want to sink your flesh into the softness above his belt.

He has an awful farmer's tan, but he wears it well; his forearms are a nice shade of golden and his shoulders are pale. You see from the lack of collar on the tank that he has a bare chest. He throws the uniform shirt onto a nearby chair and goes back to work installing the unit. You watch as he works to position it in the window, stealing glances at his glistening skin as he does. You think you’re being sly about it, but Joel can tell, he can feel your eyes heavy like bowling balls on him.

“So, how long have you been a firefighter?” you ask.

“About 15 years,” he responds. “Sorta always knew I wanted to do it, I was a contractor for a while, but wasn’t my thing.”

“Oh no? You seem like you’re pretty good with your hands,” you reply, your words suggestive.

“Never said I wasn’t, Darlin,’” he replies, shooting you a wink.

He plugs the unit in, and the screen comes to life. He sets the temperature as low as it will go, and the fan on high; the unit is about to put in overtime to make the air tolerable again.

“Well, that should do it,” straightening back up from his bent-over position, clapping his hands together as if to dust the task off. “Probably gonna take a while for it to cool down in here. You’re uh, more than welcome to hang out at mine for the time being. Don’t need you overheating on me,” trying to mask his excitement at you being in his space by carding his fingers through his salt and pepper curls.

You glance at the unit, and you can tell he’s right. “Alright, why not,” you say, offering him a smile. “Just gonna use the restroom fast,” you say, looking for an excuse to make yourself at least somewhat presentable and confirm that you don’t smell like a sweaty subway car.

Inspecting yourself in the harsh, exposing light of the bathroom, you grimace at your appearance. Not that you’d been expecting to look your best, but still. You pat the extra moisture off your skin with a clean towel, when you notice that nipples are straining against the fabric of your wet t-shirt, leaving nothing to the imagination. You briefly consider changing shirts, but the cheeky side of you decides to leave it be. You give yourself a quick smile and internal encouragement in the mirror and you step out of the bathroom.

Joel waits in the foyer by the door for you, taking the opportunity to learn a little more about you, drinking in the details of your space for any glimmers of insight it might give him about your life.

He’s been in the space before, but it’s different this time – updated. It still has many of the same things your aunt had put up, but you’ve added new additions to the walls; photos of you with friends, and family, and vinyl covers in frames. His eyes gravitate to a photo of you at your college graduation; your smile ear to ear, a bottle of champagne in your hands. You always seem happy. He likes that about you. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t look for a photo of you with another guy, a hint that you might already be taken, but he’s relieved when he doesn’t find one.

The bathroom door opens with a soft creak, and you stroll out, shooting him a casual but confident smile. As you do, you casually tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, giving off an easygoing vibe. It's a simple move, but there's a certain charm to it that doesn't go unnoticed by Joel.

“Ready?” you ask, and he clears his throat, trying to hide his pleasure that you opted not to change your still slightly transparent shirt. “Let’s get outta here,” he says, yanking on the handle, the door groans and opens with a loud creak. “Don’t wanna hit traffic.” Oh god, that’s a dad joke if you’ve ever heard one. You try to hide the stupid smile that graces your face, but Joel sees it, and matches it. Your shoulder brushes against his chest as you walk through the door, and Joel straightens in response, a little tingle shooting up his spine from the brief touch. Get a fucking grip, Miller, he thinks to himself, pulling the door closed behind him.

++++

Once inside his apartment, you gasp. It’s not at all what you expected.

If his front doorstep was any indication, you expected his apartment to be full of Ikea furniture, bare walls, and maybe a fake plant in the corner somewhere. You’re pleasantly surprised when you find that it’s the exact opposite; you feel like you’ve just wanted into some swanky bar. The air smells like palo santo, but above all, it’s cool. You let out a sigh of relief.

“Can I get you a beer” he asks, and you nod your head in response. He walks into the kitchen, and you’re mesmerized by his space. It’s a similar layout to your apartment, but somehow it feels bigger, even a tad cozier, plus he has exposed brick, a detail you wish your apartment had.

“Your apartment is amazing,” you tell him, spinning around to get a full 360 view of the space. You hear him yell something like thanks from the kitchen.

You find your seat on the cognac-colored couch and run your hand up and down the texture of it. The leather is cool on your skin, and your body temperature slowly begins to return to normal.

Joel returns from the kitchen, and hands you a Bud Light. And for once, you don’t wish for it to turn into a martini. Now having spent a few months in the city, you’re starting to realize that you’re more of a bud girl than a cocktail girl, and that fairy godmothers are a tad overrated.

You’re not sure when he did it, but your ear tunes to the classic sound of Beast of Burden by the Rolling Stones playing in the background at a low volume, adding a funk you adore to the moment.

He finds a seat on the couch next to you and throws his arm behind you on the ledge. He crosses his legs over one another, and you squirm, not out of discomfort, but nerves.

“I am impressed with your apartment, it’s well decorated,” you compliment him, bringing the bottle of beer to your lips.

“Had a bit of help, ‘f I’m being honest,” he replies. Your stomach flips.

“Oh?” you say, a bit breathless, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of course, he would have a girlfriend. You see it plain as day now, the feminine touches built into the apartment, hanging on the walls in plain sight, taunting you with the obvious. He even has like ten live plants for fucks sake. Joel Miller is taken.

“My daughter, Sarah,” he replies, bringing the beer to his mouth for another swig. You try not to make your sigh of relief too obvious. “Oh!” you squeak and turn your body to face him. You don’t know if you’ve scooted closer or if he did, but your thighs are now touching.

“She’s studying interior design. Begged me this past year to let her fix up my apartment, and well…I didn’t have the heart ta say no,” he replies. “Said my apartment resembled a frat boys bachelor pad,” he lets out a gruff little chuckle and you smile at him.

His arm drifts close to you, his hand nearly touching your shoulder. It’s not quite there, but you can feel the heat, the electricity, his fingertips shoot to your skin. So much for cooling down.

“Well, if you didn’t decorate the space, what’s your favorite part about it then?” you ask, taking another swig at the bottle. Joel stares at your lips as they latch around the glass, admiring how plush and warm they look. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t wonder what they might look like around his cock.

“Ah, good question,” he says, bringing his hand to cover his crotch with the bottle, all while subtly trying to adjust himself from his previous thought. He’s surprised he even heard your question at all. “Probably the table over there,” he says, nodding his head back to signal to the dining room.

“Made it myself,” he says, a bit of pride in his voice.

You crane your neck to look, but can’t get a good view with how plush the cushions are. You slightly angle your body upwards, coming onto your knee on the couch to look, bringing your chest closer to Joel’s face.

“Well I’ll be damned, you really must be good with your hands,” you playfully tease, letting your body sink by his side once more, feeling the warmth he exudes. Your words cause his gaze to go dark. “Mhmm,” he murmurs, taking another sip of his beer, sure if he said any more he might regret it.

You notice the music switches to Kings of Leon, a favorite tune of yours echoing through the air. “Oh shit, I love this song,” you exclaim, barely able to contain your excitement, much to Joel’s delight.

“Yeaaaaaah, your sex is on fireeeee,” you belt, and you inadvertently tilt your beer bottle a little too far down in the process of your solo, and a splash of beer pours out onto Joel’s lap. The action abruptly causes you to stop.

“Ah, I’m so sorry,” you apologize profusely, setting the nearly empty bottle on the coffee table in front of you, noticing the box of tissues as you do.

“Don’t worry about it, Darlin’,” he says, voice mellow, placing his beer on the table, too.

You frantically grab a handful of tissues and bring them over to the wet spot pooling on Joel’s crotch. “Here, let me,” you say, dabbing at the liquid, the realization not fully hitting you that your hands are literally on his crotch until – oh.

Joel’s been walking the fine line of a stiff one all night, and your simple gesture throws him over the edge, the dabbing causing blood to rush to his cock.

You continue to blot at the liquid and notice him stiffening underneath you. A heavy rush of arousal courses through you, and heats your core. Joel’s hand darts to grab your wrist, the size of it completely swallowing up your entirety of it, his fingers wrapped around it, and you’re certain he feels your pulse quicken under his touch.

You look up at him with big doe eyes, only to find his own pupils are blown open wide with lust, his jaw tense. His other hand finds the side of your face, and he holds you up to look at him. You both pause there, letting the tension of the moment swallow you whole. He looks at you like you're a juicy summer peach, ripe for the picking.

His grip on your wrist softens, and you flatten your hand to palm at his growing bulge. Joel lets out a deep groan in response to the full contact. “Shit darlin’,” he says, voice wrecked. His hand drifts to the column of your neck, and he begins to pull you up so you’re face-to-face with him.

The anticipation builds, and just as your lips are about to meet, a sudden shrill sound shatters the moment – the fire alarm.

“Fuck.” Joel groans.

TO BE CONTINUED - READ PART 2

Tagging moots and those who I think might like this: @endlessthxxghts @theoasisofthings @bastardmandennis @untamedheart81@lavema @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @dugiioh @nervoushottee @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings@josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @peachmy @survivingandenduring@darkheartgatita @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @dins-riduur-anthe @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro As always, feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list, or removed (even if we're moots, no hard feelings). Might transition to a notifs blog soon.xx

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ON AN AUGUST night in 2003, a young woman who went by the name Paulina sank into the sofa of her modest, rented apartment, opened up her laptop, and began talking about sex with a man she’d recently met in a Yahoo chat group. His name was Stephen Bolen. His first communications had been terse, but he soon warmed to Paulina. It didn’t take long for both of them to begin to open up.

Paulina had told Bolen she lived in the Atlanta area, that she had a three-year-old daughter, that her daughter’s father was no longer in the picture. Soon, she was sharing more intimate details: what it was like growing up a skinny white girl in a rough neighborhood outside of D.C.; how her dad, a Marine, had died by suicide two weeks before she was born; how her mom had been emotionally and physically abusive, and had never really shown her love. How she’d had a sexual relationship with her stepfather.

Paulina would put her daughter to bed and then she and Bolen would chat throughout the night, over Yahoo and sometimes on the phone. The back-and-forth could feel like dating, but with an added element of danger and risk: Both Paulina and Bolen knew they were tiptoeing up to a line to see if they trusted each other enough to cross it. It could take a while to figure that out.

Eventually, Bolen asked Paulina to send pictures of her daughter, and she agreed to do so, though the ones she’d shared were chaste — the little girl clothed and her face turned away from the camera or obscured behind an untamable halo of blond curls. After seeing the pictures, Bolen asked to meet. While a lot of the men Paulina had encountered in chatrooms like “Sex With Younger” just wanted to trade images and videos of children, to expand their illicit collections, Bolen was a “traveler,” someone looking to act upon his obsessions.

On Sept. 17, just as they’d arranged, Paulina sat on a bench outside Perimeter Mall with a stroller parked in front of her, scanning the parking lot nervously. Part of her hoped Bolen wouldn’t show. When he did, she could see he was handsome, a preppy guy in a pink polo shirt and khakis. “Paulina?” he asked eagerly. She nodded. As he smiled and pulled back the blanket draped across the stroller, he found himself surrounded, handcuffs slipped around his wrists.

“Paulina” watched his face fall, his confusion giving way to distress as FBI agents took him into custody. It was her first undercover arrest. It would be the first of many.

[long read]

IF ONE WANTED to hide in plain sight, one could do no better than the tidy, suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of St. Louis, where FBI Special Agent Nikki Badolato now resides. The well-tended, two-story homes are so pleasantly indistinct that I could hardly tell you what hers looks like, even if it were safe for me to do so, which it is not. Suffice to say that Midwestern comfort and conformity unspool around every gently winding curve. Here Badolato has raised her two children, a daughter who is now in college and a son who is a junior at a local high school. When planning a neighborhood scavenger hunt or tending the community garden, Badolato does not often mention her many years as head of the Child Exploitation Task Force, a joint effort between the feds and local law enforcement that targets some of the country’s most heinous crimes. Open a cabinet in her kitchen, however, and a government-issued Glock 42 can be found stowed away between the vitamins and mixing bowls.

On a sunny morning this past October, Badolato sat at her dining room table, scrapbooks and albums spread out before her on the dark wood. There was the acceptance letter she’d received from the bureau the spring of her senior year of high school, after a representative had shown up to administer a test in the typewriting room. “I chose to wear a red dress and red heels,” she says of her first day as an FBI mail clerk, two weeks after her 18th birthday. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I guess maybe I was trying to go in bold?” She pauses at a picture of herself on the gun range at Quantico almost 10 years later, her shoulders squared and her caramel hair pulled back into a ponytail as she fires off rounds. By then, she’d married a man she met just after high school, had a little girl, completed college at night, and been accepted into agent training in the heady days after 9/11. She’d seen her first dead body only a few weeks into the job, after the pursuit of a bank robber ended with a shootout in a Walmart. When Badolato got to the scene, the body was still warm, and the perp’s head was resting on a bag of cookies. “It was surreal,” she says. “How many times have you been in a Walmart and walked down Aisle 4, not really expecting there to be a dead person with his head lying on a bag of Chips Ahoy?”

Badolato wasn’t deterred. She felt like the bureau saved her, plucked her out of a shitty home life, and gave her prospects and purpose. As a new agent, she was intent on proving herself worthy. “My training agent told me, ‘You know, Nikki, it’s a marathon, not a sprint,’ ” she says. “I was like, ‘That’s ridiculous. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.’ ” She turned a few pages to show a picture of the 391 kilos of cocaine and 140 pounds of meth she’d recovered on a single raid during a stint with a cartel squad, then pointed out another in which she poses with a five-year-old child she’d rescued, the little girl’s hair cut short because the kidnapper had wanted her to look like a boy. But the keepsake she really wants to find is the card that Bolen’s wife had pressed into her hand at his sentencing, the one with the picture of their children — a blond girl of about three years and a tiny baby — and the words “These are the faces of the children you protect each day.” Bolen’s wife had been the only one she’d ever encountered who had lobbied for her husband to receive the maximum sentence. Some wives accused the FBI of planting evidence inside computers. Most seemed intent on clinging to their delusions. (Attempts to reach Bolen for comment were unsuccessful.)

“Right now some little girl is being dropped off in the parking lot of a motel. There are four girls holed up in a hotel next to a McDonald’s. It is happening all the time.”

Which, Badolato has come to understand, is the way it goes with child trafficking and sexual abuse. She had invited me into her home — had agreed to speak on the record about her decades-long career working undercover — because when it comes to the crimes she’s spent her career fighting, she has had enough of the delusions people are under. She’s had enough of the way movies like Sound of Freedom both glamorize and trivialize the work she and her colleagues do, enough of the idea that swashbuckling white men burst through doors and rescue trafficked children with a Bible in one hand and a firearm in the other, enough of conspiracy theories about Hollywood and Washington that detract from the real root causes of why children are trafficked and abused. “Human trafficking is not the movie Pretty Woman — the girl doesn’t get the guy — and it’s not the movie Taken, where people are kidnapped in a foreign country and sold on the black market, or shipped in a container across the world,” one of the detectives who worked on Badolato’s task force tells me. “I’m not saying that doesn’t ever happen, but it’s not what we’re seeing.”

What they are seeing is a lot more insidious and a lot more homegrown. A report released in 2018 by the State Department ranked the U.S. as one of the worst countries in the world for human trafficking. While the Department of Justice has estimated that between 14,500 and 17,500 foreign nationals are trafficked into this country every year, this number pales in comparison to the number of American minors who are trafficked within it: A 2009 Department of Health and Human Services review of human trafficking into and within the United States found that roughly 199,000 American minors are sexually exploited each year, and that between 244,000 and 325,000 American youths are considered to be at risk of being trafficked specifically in the sex industry. Heartbreakingly, many of these children are victimized not by strangers who’ve abducted them from mall parking lots but rather by people they know and trust: Studies have found that as much as 44 percent of victims are trafficked by family members, most often parents (and not infrequently parents who were trafficked themselves). Between 2011 and 2020, there was an 84 percent increase in the number of people prosecuted for a federal human-trafficking offense. Of the defendants charged in 2020, 92 percent were male, 63 percent were white, 66 percent had no prior convictions, and 95 percent were U.S. citizens.

Badolato started her career as an FBI agent in some of the earliest days that children could be bought, sold, and traded online. As the internet-porn industry mushroomed, its most lucrative branch turned out to be that of child sexual-abuse materials (the term “child pornography” is no longer used by those in the field, as it implies consent). And as demand for these images increased, so did the abuse that led to their creation.

In 2003, just a few months after Badolato graduated from Quantico, a Crimes Against Children squad was formed in the Atlanta office where she’d been stationed. By then, the FBI was starting to get a handle on the extent of the problem — if not exactly what to do about it. At a weeklong training in Baltimore, Badolato was given a tour of the darkest underbelly of fetish chat groups and then instructed to figure out how to infiltrate. “Everyone was a little nervous,” she explains of the directive. “It was a process, a direction that was new.” Agents were told that they would need to come up with a “persona” and a “story,” and that they would likely have to provide images of children to “prove” they had a minor on offer. They were also told that they could use images of their own children, if they were comfortable doing so (the FBI no longer endorses this policy).

Badolato’s unit with a kidnapping victim after her recovery in 2011. A Health and Human Services review found that roughly 199,000 American minors are sexually exploited each year, and that as many as 325,000 American youths are considered to be at risk of being trafficked in the sex industry.

Badolato developed “Paulina” based on her understanding that any persona would need to share most of her own backstory and traits. “That’s the only way you can really do undercover work,” Badolato says. “People can tell the sincerity in what you’re saying, so there has to be a level of genuineness, but then you just add this criminal element to it.” Most of the things Badolato had told Bolen were true: where she was from, her family background, the monstrousness of her mother, a woman who she says would pass out cigarettes and beers to Badolato’s 13-year-old friends in a state of manic permissiveness one minute and fly into a violent rage about a piece of lint on the floor the next. (Badolato’s mother declined to comment for this article, but a childhood friend corroborated Badolato’s account.) It was true that growing up in an unstable home with a string of stepdads, she had never really felt loved, true that she had divorced her first husband, true that she was raising their three-year-old daughter on her own. The only thing that wasn’t true was her tale of being molested, her initiation into the “lifestyle” — to use the chatroom parlance — that Paulina said she now wanted for her daughter. As Badolato had familiarized herself with the language and behaviors of the chatrooms, she’d honed that added criminal element, imagining what psychological conditions might believably lead a parent to traffic their own child and how those conditions could be grafted onto her real life story. She already had a history of abuse; it was not hard to extrapolate to a fictional stepfather who had seemed to provide a gentle counterpoint, showing her love and making her feel special when no one else had, even if others couldn’t understand. From there, it was easy to convince the chatroom participants that she shared their belief — or justification — that most people had it all wrong and that “child love” was natural, and could even be beneficial for the child.

Badolato estimates that she has arrested more than a thousand people; not one of those arrests has failed to end in a conviction. She didn’t know until she was in the thick of it that most agents refuse this sort of work, that most can’t even pretend to forge a relationship with someone looking to victimize a child. But she could. “Paulina,” she points out, is not a name she chose at random; it’s similar to her own mother’s name. Badolato says she had grown up learning to compartmentalize for the sake of her own emotional survival. She’d perfected the art of engaging with someone whose actions she couldn’t stand. Doing this work had felt like a way of taking her trauma and putting it to good use, of leveraging her past as a safeguard against her daughter’s and other children’s futures.

Of course there were moments that were hard to take — when suspects mentioned which brands of lubrication were best or whether or not a parent might hold a child down. There were times when she knew that even talking about these things was a turn-on for these men, times when the conversations made her nauseous, times when she’d lie awake all night or play back a recording and think, “Holy shit, I listened to this? I said these words?” But she kept faith in the mission. She reminded herself that the pictures she sent of her daughter — the beautiful, little girl sleeping in the next room — did not represent a real child on offer. “I was thinking, ‘If I send this obscure picture of my daughter and he acts on it, then he’s never going to harm my daughter or anybody else’s,’ ” Badolato says now. “I was presenting a fake girl to save a real one.”

KYLE PARKS SEEMED to think he could get away with anything. He seemed to think, for instance, that he could get away with running a brothel, a 1-900 sex line, and a housecleaning company out of the same Columbus, Ohio, office park and under the same oxy-moronic name, XXXREC and Hygiene Services. He seemed to think he could invite one young woman and five teenagers (four of whom he had only just met) on a road trip to Florida, but instead deposit them in two rooms of a Red Roof Inn in St. Charles, Missouri. When they piled out of the minivan — high on the drugs he’d given them — saw snow falling and asked to be taken home, he thought he could make a little money off them first. All it took was a few ads in Backpage — the Craigslist of sex advertisements — and men began showing up.

Even after things started going south for him, Parks couldn’t fathom that he wouldn’t prevail. When someone alerted law enforcement as to what was going on, Parks (who, according to legal documents, had been out getting food when the police showed up) burst into the precinct the next morning looking to bail his “friend” out. When questioned about the 88 condoms found in the back of his van, he said they had been prescribed to him by a doctor. After being taken into custody, he protested that he was being set up. Most people would have cut their losses and pleaded guilty, but not Parks. He thought he could take his case to court and win.

And it wasn’t impossible to imagine that he might. Badolato knew that even the tightest cases could go sideways when put before 12 people who would inevitably enter the courtroom with a cinematic sense of what sex trafficking was supposed to be. In fact, it wasn’t just the jury that Badolato knew she would need to convince; it was also often the victims themselves, young people who had internalized the exact same misconceptions about trafficking that the jury had — along with any number of other judgments society had thrown their way — and who were loath to submit themselves to a courtroom full of more judgment.

Of all of Parks’ underage victims, the hardest to pin down had been a 17-year-old we’ll call Sierra. Once she returned to Columbus, Sierra seemed to basically disappear. Calls to her mother’s number went unanswered. When one of the other victims managed to track her down in December 2016, a month before the case was to go to trial, Sierra agreed to meet Badolato on a blighted Columbus block with a string of dilapidated homes, climbing into the bureau’s Chevy Malibu with matted hair, dirty clothes, and a wary expression.

By this time, Badolato had remarried, had a second child, relocated to St. Louis, and taken over as head of the Child Exploitation Joint Task Force, which had become one of the most productive FBI teams in the country in terms of arrests and convictions. Meanwhile, as the internet streamlined the process of buying or selling any good or service, trafficking had become one of the fastest-growing criminal enterprises, estimated by the Department of Homeland Security to bring in $150 billion globally and considered by many criminals to be a superior business model: If caught, the sentences were often lighter than those for peddling drugs; and unlike crack or heroin, the same product could be “used” again and again and again.

Badolato taught her team of 20 how to do the online undercover work she’d trailblazed in Atlanta, tracking the movements of child-abuse material through the online underworld and then prosecuting those who distributed and produced it. Her new squad also initiated her in the type of undercover work it had been doing before her arrival: covert sting operations in which a detective would pose as a john, set up a “date,” and then meet said date in a hotel room fitted out with hidden recording devices while, in the next room over, a taskforce team listened in, waiting for the code word that would let them know that enough evidence had been gathered for them to swoop in and shut the op down. This had proved a very effective technique for getting convictions, but Badolato’s arrival coincided with both a growing sentiment that consensual sex work had been over-criminalized and an increasing awareness that what looked like consensual sex work might actually be trafficking, no matter what the “date” professed in that hotel room.

Badolato has a tendency to say aloud the things she notices — about you, about others, about situations — observations that are not at all unkind but are perceptive enough that most people would keep them to themselves. She points out when someone deflects, and she has a sharp eye for defense mechanisms. She once casually mentions my tendency to mirror other people’s vocal and speech patterns. She is not shy about bringing up the emotional and physical abuse she says she experienced as a child, and she is quick to comment when someone is making excuses for someone else’s behavior. It was soon clear to her colleagues that Badolato brought a trauma-informed mentality to the work, a tendency to look beyond what someone was doing and instead try to parse why they were doing it. And she was relentless: While some squads did one or two trafficking sting ops a year, her team was doing four or five a month. In addition to the hotel rooms reserved for the john and the team, they would have a social worker set up in a third room, ready to offer services to the victims. They would have lookouts stationed to see who might be dropping the date off. If that date was found to be underage, the case was automatically classified as trafficking. But even if they weren’t, Badolato’s team was primed to get to the bottom of what was going on, to figure out whether they were being manipulated or coerced, and by whom.

“If I could put my hands on a pimp, that’s what I wanted,” says Jeff Roediger, a St. Louis county detective who was the “john” for many of Badolato’s sting ops and who makes clear that the team was not interested in policing voluntary sex work. “When I had those types of cases, and I knew they were being sincere with me, I wouldn’t book them,” he says. “It was all about talking to the girls. It’s not like in the movies where they come running to you. You know, ‘Thanks, you rescued me!’ It’s not like that. A lot of them try to bullshit you at first — ‘That’s my boyfriend, blah blah blah’— but once I talked to them for a while, they would become more forthcoming.”

Badolato’s unit was one of the first in the country to take on this “progressive and proactive” approach, as she puts it. Soon, St. Louis looked like a sex-trafficking capital — not because it was actually trafficking more victims than other cities but because the task force was so aggressively pursuing those cases, and classifying them as what they were. “I mean, I was working in vice for years,” says Roediger. “Back in the day, it was always ‘prostitution,’ ‘prostitution,’ ‘prostitution’ — until we started to figure it out a little bit, until we started digging a little deeper.”

Once they did, the task force found that roughly a third of the sex-trafficking victims they recovered were under the age of 17 — and they began to see the reach of the problem. Kids were being trafficked out of every hotel in the area, from the seediest roach motel to the fanciest Ritz-Carlton. They were being trafficked every time of day and by every socioeconomic group (“Before you go do brain surgery, you got to bust a nut real quick,” one underage victim told Badolato of her high-end clientele). Some of the victims were girls. Some were boys. Some were LGBTQ kids who’d been kicked out of their homes. Some were straight cis kids from the suburbs. “I tell people that I could probably name two or three [kids] in the school district they live in that have been trafficked,” Roediger says. “And they just can’t comprehend it.”

“If I can be perfectly honest, I truly don’t believe that the FBI realizes what they put their agents through doing that kind of work.”

There were kids who were about to age out of foster care (a particularly at-risk group, according to those who work in the field), kids who’d run away, kids who were being sold to pay their family’s rent, or to buy their family member’s drugs. There were kids who’d sit in the hotel room, backpack at their feet, dutifully working on their math homework while agents and social workers tried to figure out what to do with them. Was their home life safe enough that they could be returned to it? Would a residential program take them? Of all the imperfect options, which would make them least likely to be trafficked again?

The one common denominator was this: They all had a vulnerability that could be preyed upon. They all lacked a safety net — societal, familial, emotional, or some combination thereof — that might have broken their fall. Mostly, their stories weren’t dramatic; they were typical American tales of neglect, of abuse doled out casually, of a steady stream of letdowns by people and institutions who should have propped them up. Badolato found that she had a knack for getting them to talk about this, for getting them to open up to her. She didn’t look like an FBI agent — at least not what they’d imagined. She spoke softly, but with authority and a slight vocal fry. And she thinks that, at some level, they could probably sense that she’d once been a vulnerable kid too, that with only a few slightly different twists of fate, she could have become a trafficking victim herself — and that she knew it. “My trauma looks different than theirs, but it’s trauma nonetheless,” she says.

“And I think victims can feel that.”

AS THE TASK force learned more about the psychology of victims, they also learned more about the ways in which their vulnerability was being manipulated, and how those ways were evolving. It was known in law-enforcement circles that once a skilled trafficker set his or her sights on a vulnerable young person, they could be groomed in a matter of days: one day for an introduction, a day or two to make the victim feel special and cared for, and then the day when a “friend” comes over and he needs to be “cared for” as well. Sometimes violence was involved at that point; sometimes drug use was involved throughout. But emotional manipulation was the key element, which is why it was so easy for grooming to move online, for groomers to take advantage of the false senses of connection fostered on social media.

Of the victims who are not being trafficked by family members, the majority are being groomed in this way. “I would say that probably 75 percent of the initial grooming is happening online now,” says Cindy Malott, the director of U.S. Safe Programs at Crisis Aid International. “Recruiters used to have to work really, really hard to get access to kids, but now they’re practically sitting in a child’s bedroom. And kids put everything out there — what’s going on in their life, who they’re angry about, parents are going through a divorce, their insecurities about their body, about themselves, what they do, how they spend their time — so it’s like a gift to these predators.”

The ways to manipulate are legion: Get a kid to send a compromising photo, and she’ll do almost anything to keep you from sending it out to all her Facebook friends; find out a gay kid is still closeted, and the threat of outing him gives you incredible power. And predators aren’t just on Instagram and Snapchat; they lurk in the chat functions of Roblox, Minecraft, Grand Theft Auto. “They’re everywhere,” says Malott. “People think, ‘Oh, I just got to keep my kids away from those porn sites, those horrible places.’ Well, no, predators are gonna go where the kids are.” And once there, they’re going to zero in on the kids who are most vulnerable.

That’s what got to Badolato. In her online undercover work, she’d plumbed the psychology of pedophiles, but now she wasn’t just dealing with suspects; she was spending time with victims and seeing the same vulnerabilities in them that the traffickers had seen: the instability or poverty, the addiction or mental health issues or abuse that had been normalized in their lives long before the traffickers entered them. Sometimes Badolato couldn’t help but feel that all the conspiracies and misconceptions weren’t just a distraction from the truth of trafficking but rather some sick attempt to let society off the hook for trying to solve the much more intractable problems at trafficking’s root.

“People would rather stick their head in the sand than address the real problem, because then you have to face and talk about the societal issues,” she says. “With a movie like Sound of Freedom, it’s like, ‘Oh, this is in a jungle in South America. This isn’t actually in [my neighborhood].’ You know? It’s easier for people to ignore the problem than deal with the issues on a societal level.”

BY THE TIME Badolato was sitting in that Chevy with Sierra, on that blighted Ohio block, she knew that the rate of revictimization for children who are trafficked was as high as 95 percent, according to FBI reports. She knew that 90 percent of sex-trafficking victims have a history of child sexual abuse, that more than 75 percent had lived in foster or adoptive care. She knew that she could arrest one perpetrator, and another would pop up in his place, that she could send one pimp to prison and the same victims would show up to stings some short time later, run by a different crew. She knew that testifying was a way for Sierra to psychologically push back against what had happened to her, and she was right: After the young woman took the stand on Jan. 10, 2017, Parks was found guilty and sentenced to 25 years; while testifying, Sierra had seemed to transform, to channel and embody a sort of empowerment. But Badolato also knew that once her testimony was over, Sierra would go back to that blighted block. She wondered how long that empowerment would last.

She also wondered about her own trajectory, her own ability to continue doing this work. The youngest trafficking victim she’d ever recovered from a sting op — an 11-year-old who’d been recruited through Facebook — had been returned to her family in a house that had no heat (Badolato had used an FBI slush fund to get it turned back on). One did not become immune to the human misery of such things. They compounded, became harder and harder to compartmentalize. “It’s just a combination of all of those years — and it’s all awful,” she says. “But there are particular moments that, for one reason or another, you can’t get out of your head. I just don’t think it’s in human nature to be exposed to that for so long and it not start changing who you are.”

One night, at a restaurant near where Badolato lives, I ask her whether she thinks children are being sex-trafficked right then, in that very moment, in just the mile or two radius around us. She’s quiet for a long time, her gaze fixed downward at her glass of wine. By the time she looks up, her whole body is trembling. “It’s happening right now,” she says quietly. “Right now some little girl is being dropped off in the parking lot of a motel. There are three or four girls holed up in a hotel next to a McDonald’s. It’s not only when we think about it. It is happening all the time. And if I’m just sitting here, present, having dinner, not thinking about it, that means I’m ignoring a problem that I know is real.” Tears stream down her face.

“Many images have never left my mind,” she says. “It’s really hard to have worked your entire life in law enforcement with a lot of child crime victims and be at the end of your career looking at the situation where you realize you can only do so much to make a difference.” Badolato wipes back the tears with the palm of her hand and shudders her head, as if she can shake the thoughts away. “Damn,” she says. “Fuck. I shouldn’t be the one crying. I’m not the victim of this.” The veteran agent steels herself and repeats, “I am not the victim.”

THE HOUSE WHERE Korina Ellison says she was first sex-trafficked no longer exists. It once stood on an unassuming lot in a residential suburb of Portland, Oregon, that stumbles down to the banks of the Willamette River. Now, Ellison can’t quite bring the house’s features to mind. She was so young back then, maybe four or five. There is so much she’s repressed, or only pieced together after the fact. As a child, she wouldn’t have known what she now believes to be true: that her grandmother scored her drugs by offering up her youngest daughter, Ellison’s mom. Or that, once her mom was hooked on the meth cooked by the man who’d lived in that house, she’d known just what to do to get more. But Ellison does remember being inside the house, unclothed. She does remember how the man would touch her.

Her life unspooled from there. Her father died of a heroin overdose when she was six. Her mom lost custody for good. She bounced around foster care, then various residential institutions, then whatever shelter she could find. In the story she tells of how she was sex-trafficked again in her teenage years, there’s no moment of drama, no kidnapping, no clear coercion. There was just a random, rainy afternoon when she had no place to go and was alone in the street and a car pulled up. The man inside took her home with him, fed her, introduced her to his girlfriend. They took her shopping. They let her stay. When men showed up at the home to have sex with the woman, Ellison was invited to watch, but she wasn’t expected to participate — not at first, anyway. According to a statement Ellison later made to law enforcement, she just “realized that people aren’t going to take care of [me] for free.” Soon, the woman was posting Ellison’s services on Backpage — $150 for half an hour, $200 for a full one — and the trio were traveling the Midwest. For a long time, it didn’t even occur to Ellison, then 16, to leave. “Where would I have gone?” she asks. “I’d been missing for over a year. Nobody was looking for me.” When the man told her to call him “Daddy,” she complied.

That was more than a decade ago, near the beginning of Badolato’s tenure as head of the Child Exploitation Task Force. But by 2021, leaving it had seemed a necessary form of self-preservation. One of her last cases had gone well legally: The perp, a retired police officer from California who had produced child sex-abuse materials of three sisters in Manila, had pleaded guilty to such charges when he learned that Badolato had brought the girls to the states to testify against him. But the experience had been emotionally devastating for Badolato, who had wanted the sisters, then 16, 13, and 11, to have memories of the U.S that consisted of more than reliving their trauma in a courtroom. She took them shopping and to the zoo, invited them to her home to have dinner with her own family, saw them slowly start to open up and laugh and behave like the children they were. Then she’d had to put them on a flight back to Manila, back to the aunt who had allowed the man to abuse them and who Badolato had been unable to extradite. Fortunately, she says, their estranged father ended up intervening and taking custody of the girls, but that feeling of futility in the fight lingered.

“I stayed for a little bit longer after that trial, but it really was when I should have been able to look myself in the mirror and say, ‘Nikki, you’re done,’ ” Badolato had told me in St. Louis. “It became clear that I had been doing it too long.” She’d spend the last couple of years working national security, a position without the immediacy of child-exploitation work, but also without the heartache. “If I can be perfectly honest, I truly don’t believe that the FBI realizes what they put their agents through doing that kind of work. I just don’t,” she says.

And yet, here Badolato was in Portland, leading Ellison, now 30, up to her hotel room, telling her about all the announcements she’d heard in the Atlanta airport instructing travelers to be on the lookout for sex trafficking. “It’s like white noise in the background,” she says as Ellison settles into the sofa. “It’s a false sense of doing something to help.”

“Here’s the thing: Nobody knows what to look for,” Ellison agrees.

“And what about the victims who are in that airport, who are walking around and listening?” Badolato asks.

“I wouldn’t have even heard that announcement,” Ellison replies. “Because I didn’t feel like a victim. It goes a lot, lot, lot deeper than anybody realizes.”

That’s what she and Badolato both understand. That’s why they started talking eight months ago. Of all the teenage victims Badolato’s task force recovered, Ellison is one of the few who she knows has permanently extricated herself from being prostituted, though it took years for her to get to that point, years for her to see that what happened to her was not her fault but rather a fault in the system, a fault in many systems over the course of generations. Neither she nor Badolato can fix that.

Yet they can’t help feeling like there’s something they can fix — or at least try to. Under the umbrella of an organization she’s founded called Innocent Warriors, Badolato created a program for schools, instructing educators on the signs that might indicate a student is being trafficked and teaching kids how to avoid getting groomed online, which, she believes, is not about stranger danger but rather an awareness of subtle manipulation. Ellison has been working with trafficked youth through nonprofits like Children of the Night, the residential program where Badolato’s team sent her when she was 17. Together, they’ve been talking about having Ellison help train undercovers who are learning to do trafficking sting ops. They’ve also discussed starting a mentorship program in which children who are still being sex-trafficked are paired with young adults like Ellison who once were, providing a way for victims to begin to envision a different future for themselves and a path toward it even while being prostituted. Such a program may be retroactive rather than proactive, but it would capitalize on Badolato’s and Ellison’s experience and expertise — and it could help in the healing of mentors and mentees alike.

Badolato had traveled to Portland for the two to talk face-to-face about how the program might work. “You have to understand how they’ve been traumatized because sometimes, to a child, relating doesn’t sound like you’re relating. It sounds like you’re pointing out all the bad things in them,” says Ellison from the driver’s seat of her Nissan Pathfinder as she drives Badolato around to show her certain landmarks of her past after she’d left Children of the Night: the bridge she’d slept under for over a year after a boyfriend had gotten her hooked on heroin, the blocks downtown where she’d bounced between a children’s shelter and the needle exchange. It had taken a prison sentence for her to finally break her addiction and commit to a different kind of life, though that evolution had had less to do with not having access to drugs than with seeing her own mother cycle in and out of the same facility — like looking into her own future and witnessing how bleak it would be. Maybe, she thought, she could provide the inverse of that for kids in Innocent Warriors. Maybe she could reverse engineer her own escape.

“I just want to make it very clear that if you were a victim, you are a victim, and just to not have any shame in that,” she tells Badolato as they drive through Portland’s misty streets.

“What I anticipate and hope is that then we get survivors that are like, ‘They get it,’ ” Badolato replies. “And that it opens up doors to help, for people to recognize that there are people who get what’s really going on.”

“It took a really long time for me,” Ellison says of coming to terms with her own victimhood.

“It’s like reworking your thought process about some of those things,” Badolato agrees. “And that’s hard, and it happens slowly over time, and it looks different for everybody.”

Ellison grips the wheel tightly. “The truth does matter. It does. The truth is the fucking truth. And it’s been empowering to be able to talk about it because that’s another way that I’ve realized, like, ‘Man, I was a victim,’ is re-going over all of this. Because when it happens so many times, you do blame yourself. It’s a lot easier to just continue to live in a lie than believe that you were lied to.”

Still, Ellison and Badolato agree that the impressionability that makes children vulnerable is also what makes them open to guidance and mentorship if a relationship of trust can be established. “What do you think a parent does? They groom you. I’d been waiting to be guided and groomed,” Ellison says.

It’s been instructive to see that potential from another perspective, as a mother doing the guiding. As the afternoon wears on, Ellison stops to pick up her then-15-month-old son, who was being watched by a social-worker friend. She buckles the little boy into his car seat, ruffles his hair, and passes him a bottle. He grins widely and begins removing his shoes and socks, throwing them gleefully onto the floor of the car and then kicking his tiny feet in time with the music as Ellison glances back at him and smiles. “Kids are so perfect,” she says.

The last stop of the day is the large plot of land where the drug dealer’s house once stood. Now, it’s been turned into a playground, with brightly-colored jungle gyms, a covered picnic area, and a large lawn, where a couple leisurely walks their dog. Ellison and Badolato climb down from the car and stand at the park’s edge, as Ellison’s son toddles around the grass, oblivious to what had transpired in that very spot. There is some form of poetic justice in the land being earmarked for children’s enjoyment, but neither woman voices it. Mostly, they’re quiet. Night is falling, the air growing cooler, and the gray sky fading into dusk.

“You would never think a park could hide what it used to be,” Ellison says at last. And yet it did. Driving off with Badolato at her side and her son babbling happily in the back seat, Ellison glances in the rear-view mirror, but only for a moment. Badolato keeps her eyes fixed only on the road ahead.

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actiniumwrites · 9 months

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hiya! if your requests are still open could i request a scenario any of the “immortal” characters (e.x: the archons & adepti) with a mortal!reader who exchanges a part of them to become immortal so that they don’t have to worry about leaving the character? the reader’s gender is up to you!

𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 (𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄)

synopsis: in which you exchange your vision for immortality, determined to live an eternity with your lover

characters: venti, zhongli, scaramouche, and dainsleif x gn!reader

warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, crying, mentions of death and mortality, fear of death, mentions of morbid conversations, scaramouche might be a little ooc here, purposefully inaccurate depictions of how celestia and visions work

notes: um so this request was sent to me back in november of 2022, so, anon, i am very sorry it took me so long to write this. i loved the idea a lot so i hope you enjoy this. also i’m not 100% sure scaramouche is immortal, but he’s been around for centuries and isn’t human so we’re just going to assume he is 👍

Venti:

The wind was blowing softly as you walked up to the giant tree, Vennessa’s Tree. You could hear the faint sounds of a lyre playing an alluring tune among it. If your boyfriend was anywhere, it was here…or the bar.

An off key note made your eyes snap up from where you were watching the ground, not expecting him to have heard you so easily.

“Hello, my love!” Venti cheered.

“Hi, Venti,” you lovingly spoke softly, moving to sit down next to him. Your head carefully moved to rest upon his shoulder and he continued to play softly, although this time around, it was a different song — one of your favorites.

A smile pulled at the sides of your lips. It was the first one since you’d gotten back from your journey. The very same journey your boyfriend was unaware of.

When he finished playing it, Venti set the lyre down next to him against a tree root. His face turned serious, “Something’s wrong.”

“Is there?” you played dumb, unsure of how to bring up the topic at hand. Venti didn’t fall for it. He never did.

He began to scan over your body for any sign of injuries, afraid something bad happened. When he saw there was nothing there, his hands gently placed themselves on the sides of your cheeks so he could rotate your head. He smiled the whole time, but you knew he was just masking his concern.

“I can feel it,” he said slowly, eyes squinting as he looked far off into the distance, “something’s different.”

You tried to hold it back, but tears sprung to your eyes. There was no hiding it now, “Venti, I…”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he hurriedly wiped your tears as you looked up at him, “it’s okay, I swear! You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s just,” you sniffled. The tears weren’t from injuries or hurt feelings, but simply because you were overwhelmed. The entirety of your future was now uncertain aside from the fact that you could no longer face death. You had centuries ahead of you, and it wasn’t something you had before, “my vision. I traded it.”

“What? Why would you…” he mumbled, mind racing back and forth. You loved your vision. It was something you had worked so hard for as a child, a representation of your dedication. It wasn’t like you needed money or anything, so why would you get rid of it?

Through your tear filled eyes, you smiled, “You don’t have to worry anymore, Ven. All those years ahead, we can spend them together.”

“You…you’re…?” he breathed out heavily, realization hitting him all at once. A smile broke through his lips, happy tears of his own were beginning to form, “you did that for me?”

You nodded and he threw himself against you, embracing you tightly. In all the years he had been alive, Venti was sure he would be alone forever. But in life and death, you were with him forever.

Zhongli:

Zhongli hadn’t noticed right away.

He was perceptive, yes, but there didn’t seem to be anything amiss with you at first. You often hid things very well. It was one of the only things he didn’t like about you. If something were to go wrong because he wasn’t observant enough with you, Zhongli would feel perpetually guilty.

It wasn’t until weeks after your journey that he had finally realized something had changed.

You seemed normal for the past few weeks. There were a few moments where you were oddly fidgety or anxious, but he chalked it up to the fact that you had just gotten back from a work trip. Perhaps you were tired out from it. Plenty of people came back a little on edge from trips, he had seen it first hand.

When it became continuous, worries began to whisper in his ear. No, he hadn’t thought you cheated or did something bad. Zhongli knew you well enough to know you weren’t that kind of person. If anything, he was worried that something bad had happened to you. That maybe someone hurt you or there was something you couldn’t tell him.

So, he brought it up at dinner one day.

His hand reached across the table, warmly cupping it around yours. His thumb gently traced over the back of it, a soothing action he knew you loved. He inhaled and pursed his lips before bluntly asking, “Did someone hurt you? Because if they did, I want you to know you can tell me and I will take care of it.”

Your face morphed into confusion, awkwardly laughing at his wild assumptions, “I’m sorry, what? Where’d you get that idea?”

Zhongli retracted his hand from yours slowly. His face was now equally as confused as yours, “I apologize, my love. You have been acting rather off since your trip. I thought maybe something bad had happened or someone may have hurt you. Am I incorrect?”

Another awkward laugh fell from your lips before you sighed and averted your eyes to look out the window of the restaurant, “Yes, but nothing bad happened. I’ve just been a little…down about something.”

He furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head a bit to the side, “If you were feeling upset, you could have come to me. You know I hate to see you like that.”

“I know, I just,” you started hesitantly, “I wasn’t ready to tell you yet.”

“Tell me…what?”

The whirlwind of emotions you had been feeling over the past few weeks began to hit you harshly and you couldn’t stop the tears from forming in your eyes, “I traded my vision, Zhongli.”

He took a few seconds to process, but his hand grabbed yours again. He wasn’t sure what you were talking about, but the fact that you were crying was enough to scare him, “I…I am afraid I do not understand.”

“I made a deal with Celestia…to be come immortal. In exchange for immortality, they took my vision,” you explained slowly, staring down at the table.

Zhongli rose from his seat slowly before walking to your side of the table. He kneeled down beside you, a few tears springing at his own eyes as he looked directly into yours, “Why would you do that?”

“For you,” you breathed out happily, cupping his face as the tears fell from your eyes “I want to be with you forever, Zhongli.”

Zhongli rose a bit from his place on the floor. Cupping your face with his hands, he kissed you softly, yet eagerly. You could feel the love and passion with in it. All the sadness melted away in an instant.

He had witnessed so many of his friends and past lovers parish before him. Victims to time and mortality. But here you were, willing to sacrifice something you cared for so much to spend an eternity with him.

And in that moment, Zhongli realized he’s never loved someone as much as he’s loved you.

Scaramouche:

You were used to Scaramouche pushing you away when things got rough. Not because he was angry with you or tired of you, but because his emotions were too much to handle. The sadness was too much to bear.

The conversation of immortality had come up very often. A worry of his that he just couldn’t seem to shake.

What would happen when you were gone?

How was he supposed to move on?

Love someone else?

If Scaramouche was being honest, he knew there was no way he could love another. Not after you, the one person he’s ever truly loved and the only one he hasn’t lost. You understood and cared for him in a way that no one else ever had or ever could. Despite not having a real heart, his love for you was so strong enough to make him feel like he did.

When you left for some sort of trip, Scaramouche hadn’t been suspicious of anything. You claimed it was for your job — just a week long trip out of Sumeru to take care of some business. It seemed urgent, according to you at least. He understood and didn’t question any part of your story, even if it did have holes in it.

Although he didn’t show it outwardly, the week without you was rather miserable for him. Anytime you were gone, everything seemed to remind him of the centuries that he had been alone. The people he had watched die or turn on him and how weak he felt. It made him wonder, once again, how he could ever live without you.

When you returned days later, it was late at night. The lights to your shared home were turned off and everything was silent. You dropped your things inside, but before you could head to your room, you caught a glimpse of your boyfriend through the window. His hat was cast aside on the grass next to him where he was lying down. The wind was blowing his hair softly across his face as he gazed up at the stars, something you frequently did together.

Coincidentally, it was during those times that the topic of immortality would come up. The stars made Scaramouche sad when he peered up at them. Despite not believing in their genuine existence, he would hate to look up one day and find you among them. Far away from him. Mortality permanently holding you in its grasp.

You silently walked outside to where he was lying down, careful not to disturb him. You laid down next to him, gently taking his hand in yours. His fingers interlocked themselves with yours, but he didn’t bother to turn and look at you, already knowing who it was. When you looked to him, however, his eyes were glistening with small tears, the stars reflecting in them. He looked ethereal, but you hated how sad he looked — eyebrows furrowed, a frown pulling his lips downward.

“I’m not ready for you to leave,” he whispered painfully, voice cracking a bit as his eyes finally met yours.

You send him a fond smile, eyebrows turning upwards, “I’m not leaving anytime soon. You don’t have to worry.”

“But you will,” he started, a hint of anger laced his voice, directed at those who dared to take away the one thing he loved, “You’ll leave eventually. Just like everyone I’ve ever known. It’s only a matter of time.”

You sat up slowly, reaching into the pocket of your pants and grabbing something out. A flash of metal caught Scaramouche’s eye. He sat up instantly, recognizing what the mysterious object was.

It was your vision. The bright shining blue light it normally had was entirely gone, drained of power. Wordlessly, you handed it to him. He grabbed it, but looked up into your eyes with confusion. When he did, he finally noticed the exhaustion and dried tears all over your face.

“What is this?” He angrily inspected the grayed vision in his hands, “What happened to you? If someone hurt you, I swear to you, I’m going to kill them.”

“No!” you quickly exclaimed, interrupting his oncoming burst of anger, “No one hurt me. I did this myself.”

“Start explaining,” he demanded. Although he looked angry, you could see the worry and fear in his eyes.

“I’m tired of these conversations,” you hesitantly started, averting your eyes to a tree in the distance. You could feel your own sad frown pulling at your lips as you fidgeted with the vision he had returned to you. Inhaling, you continued, “If I’m being honest, I’m not okay with leaving you either. It tears me apart to see you like this, Scaramouche. It sounds selfish, but I…I don’t want to think of your life without me. Not when it’s already hurting you this much and I’m not even dead yet.”

You paused to wipe the tears that had unknowingly began to fall from your eyes. Gesturing to the vision, you explained, “The trip I went on wasn’t for work, and I’m sorry for lying to you about it. It was to make an exchange. By trading this with Celestia, I’m no longer mortal.”

Scaramouche’s eyes flickered back and forth between yours and the lifeless vision rested in your hands. A mix of anger, sadness, and relief hit him all at once. Years of memories flashed in his head from all the mistreatment in Inazuma, the Harbingers, and to his newfound life in Sumeru. But most importantly, he saw you and all the ways you’ve loved him ever since you found each other. His voice wobbled a bit, dancing between the lines of neutrality and sadness, “Why would you do that for me?”

You tossed the vision to the side and held his hand again, “My vision may have meant a lot to me, but nothing will ever mean as much to me as you do. I would trade everything I’ve ever owned to be with you forever if that’s how it had to be.”

The two of you laid back down together against the cool grass, staring back up at the stars. This time, however, his arms embraced you tightly. The stars seemed to shine a little more brightly, a little more beautifully. There was no chance for them to take you away from him anymore, and Scaramouche was forever grateful for that.

Dainsleif:

The burden of immortality sat heavily on Dainsleif’s shoulders. It was a curse he bore, but not one he would wish onto anyone else. It was painful, unkind, and often struck those who deserved it the least.

When you had found him, you were not originally aware of the fact that he had been among those who were affected by it. You knew he originated from Khaenri’ah, but you supposed he was like your old friend Kaeya, who was also from there, but was not a bearer of the curse.

Admittedly, it was difficult to be in relationship with Dainsleif at times because of it. He trusted you wholeheartedly, but there was always this lingering sense of doom in his eyes. There were times when he would get close with you, share his past and his deepest desires, but then he would pull away. It was a constant game of back and forth with him.

You were aware it was because he was scared, terrified even. Dainsleif had lived a long life of loss and sadness. He had failed in his duties as the Twilight Sword and, because of that, he was forced to witness the death and destruction of everyone and everything he loved around him. Anyone he had ever loved he had lost, and he couldn’t stand to watch that happen to you too.

You couldn’t bear it equally as much. Dainsleif was the best person to ever have come into your life. Someone you knew could never hurt you. Someone who showed you more love than anyone else ever had. Your love for each other was like no other. The only thing that could truly separate you from him would be death, and he would love you until that day came.

As painfully beautiful as that was, it saddened you to a degree that nothing else could. You did not want to lose him as much as he did not want to lose you. And so, you decided to lessen his punishment. Immortality was supposed to curse him with loneliness and suffering, but that loneliness wouldn’t exist if you were by his side for the rest of time.

You left as soon as possible, vision stored away in your satchel and a notebook in hand. It was your notebook that held your recipes. As a chef, there were all sorts of ingredients across Teyvat that you had to often import or travel to obtain. It was the perfect excuse to leave without him raising suspicion. Because, although Dainlsleif detested the Gods and Celestia, he would never let you do what you were about to do. Not for him, and not for anyone else. Not even for yourself.

It took you about a week to return.

Dainsleif noticed instantly something was different when you returned. It was a little past midnight. He was sitting at the table of your home, window open to his left to let the cool breeze sift through the house. He had been scribbling away at a map when the door walked open, and in walked you.

There were dark circles around your eyes, a conflicting look swirling within them. Part of you looked relieved, while the other part looked saddened. His eyebrows furrowed as you stumbled in through the doorway, whispering a small greeting to him. Quickly, he was by your side and hugging you dearly.

“Are you okay?” he asked worriedly, voice just barely above a whisper. You leaned against him, head tucked gently into his shoulder as you wrapped your arms around his abdomen. Silently, you nodded.

Dainsleif carefully brought you to the couch in the living room, sitting you down gently and setting your belongings on the small table in front of you. The breeze from the window drafted through again, strong enough to make you shiver. In an instant, Dainsleif was up and moving to shut it quickly so you could be warm and comfortable.

“Something’s wrong,” he started, hand moving to cup your face as you gazed into his eyes tiredly, “I know you aren’t just tired. So please, tell me what happened on your trip.”

You crumbled in an instant, unable to lie to his face, “I traded my vision. I’m sorry, I wasn’t actually going to get ingredients.”

Confusion settled even deeper into his blood as he stared at you, unable to comprehend what you were talking about, “Trade your vision for…what? Why would you need to trade your…oh.”

When he realized, you nodded carefully. The silence that followed suit scared you. You often had a hard time reading him, especially now.

His next reaction shocked you, however. Tiny traces of tears sprung to his eyes, threatening to pour over at any second. Your eyebrows furrowed, but before you could say anything, Dainsleif quickly leaned in and kissed you. Your eyes closed and you returned it, feeling the sadness, desperation, and love behind it. When he pulled away, you could see two or three tears had fallen from his eyes.

Gently, you wiped them away and hugged him tightly. He held you tightly in return, and silently, you both laid back against the couch. Exhaustion hit the two of you at once, knocking you out as you slept within each other’s arms. You had been exhausted from your trip and all the emotions you had felt from it. As for Dainsleif, his exhaustion from being cursed had eased up a bit on him. It him all at once, the realization and the lack of loneliness or worries he would have to deal with from now on. There was no more till death due you part, because finally, Dainsleif had you for forever and you had him.

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sweetmoonlight7 · 29 days

Text

30. Diamond

@jegulus-microfic | March 30: diamond | word count: 619

If there was one thing that Regulus Black was known for it was being picky.

James has been thinking about this for months, even now as he walks back to their apartment he can't help but think about it.

Regulus had grown up in a fancy house in London with butlers and people who were willing to adhere to his every whim. This of course makes him, frankly at times, a very spoiled boy. While he had grown out of some of his habits from childhood, one thing neither of the Black brothers could ever outgrow was their expensive taste.

James has never minded this, he knew about all of the things that Regulus liked well before they got together. He loves Regulus and is more than happy to indulge him with all of those things.

This all tied into his dilemma.

Since he has never shied away from buying Regulus gifts. It's one of his many love languages. If he sees something that Regulus might like he will immediately buy it and give it to him, he won't even wait for a birthday or special occasion.

One of the things he will often buy for Regulus is jewelry. His boyfriend loves it, he trades out rings, necklaces, and earrings.

So what do you give your significant other that has a large assortment of rings (a lot of which) you buy for him yourself) each just as fancy as the next for an engagement ring?

This has been driving him crazy.

There are of course a few things that he knows. Like that he wants to get it engraved so that even if it is not custom-made it will be special, he knows it has to be silver, and he knows that it should not be overly flashy.

At the moment his biggest dilemma is what stone he will use. A diamond? no, too classic and boring. Pearl? too simple. Alexandirat? no blue wasn't either of their colors. Birth month stone? Basic. Opal, Emerald, Topaz… nothing seemed right. Nothing screamed, “Regulus Black I love you, marry me”.

He has seen hundreds of rings by now. Passed by so many jewelry stores, and had seen rings that Regulus would love…so why can't he seem to pick one?

Realistically James is aware that regardless of the ring that he gets him he will say yes. But how could he propose if he doesn't even know what stone Regulus would want? Isn't there some sort of guide or rule that says they should know?

The longer he waits the more reasons he comes up with as to why Regulus might say no and it becomes all too clear why he is having a hard time picking a stone. If he doesn't ask he doesn't get rejected.

Maybe taking the long way home wasn't doing any good to his overthinking. But Regulus had said that he would be home late and he thought the day was nice enough to go out.

The thoughts lay heavy on his stomach as he opened the door to their apartment.. and then almost like they had never even existed they vanished as he stepped in.

In the middle of their living room with flowers scattered around him and the light from the dining room hitting his face stood Regulus with a small box in his hand. He was smiling, a full real smile. Something that had been so rare when they met but he was now blessed with every day.

When he looks down at the ring in the box, he sees the complementary ring to the first one he had gotten Regulus, he knows that there is no world where Reg would've said no, or even hesitated.

#james potter #regulus black #jegulus #marauders #starchaser #james potter x regulus black #sunseeker #jegulus microfic #jegulus fanfiction

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kindledrose · 4 months

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LIFESTUCK ?!?! (pt 2 here!) (pt 3)

i was sick a couple days ago and spent like 12 hours straight doing nothing but classpecting life series characters and then was like Yeah i have to draw this now. so here's some sillies 👍 (super long classpect ramble under cut because i spent far too long on it not to share hfshjf)

quick note: i really really love @/classpect-navelgazing's theories and used them for a lot of the ideas here. go check their blog out it rules :]

ok you guys flower ranchers (scott tango jimmy) are making me so insane for this au specifically because of this idea i had about doom/life players. doom in true canon is related to inevitability, fate, and knowledge of the specific rules that keep the characters trapped within their story, right. and life is sort of related to healing, physically and mentally, within the confines of the game. so within this au, the aspect of life refers to the rules within the game that the players can see and are aware of (last life’s trading lives system + boogeyman, third life’s soulmate mechanic, secret life’s tasks, etc.). life players have some amount of dominion over these elements (depending on their class, of course). doom on the other hand refers to everything surrounding the games (stuff like admin powers, the world barrier, and whatever happens to the players after they die).

as a mage of doom, scot (his name is so funny to me. like yeah he sure is) has a bunch of intrinsic knowledge about the way the games function on a logistical level. he’s like a guy who read the script a while ago and forgot all the characters’ names but knows the basic plot and how it’s going to end. or who knows all the ins and outs of tech crew and for whom the apparent magic of the show for the audience is lost on, since he knows how it’s being done. the thing is, scot isn't especially able to act on this knowledge during the game. what director wants someone in the audience — or one of the actors — taking all the magic out of the show, spoiling how it works and how it ends? no, it’s best if they keep that knowledge to themselves — and so scot’s narratively unable to affect the stories of those around him, even his close friends who he’d want to help. he’s aware of this, of course, which makes him more than a little depressed, as he can see the futility of it all and can’t even explain to anyone what’s going on and how the game works. (the only story he’s able to affect, of course, is his own. which. depressed doom player + mage martyr complex + guy who Really cares about his friends is not necessarily a good combination.)

the amount of stock i put in the idea of gendered classes is close to zero so tangoe gets to be a maid of life because ohh my goodness. i like the theory (thanks classpect-navelgazing) of life as “the aspect of affluence,” where life players usually enter the game with some kind of material wealth or status that helps their position in some way. i also like the idea that maid players start the game with a surplus of their aspect but often end up feeling as if they’re only seen as a provider of that specific thing as a result of this, and so end up longing for something else instead. this primarily applies to last life tango because that’s the season i’m most familiar with lol, but i thought the way he started out with so many lives there and quickly dwindled as a result of everyone taking from him and only him was Really interesting. mans has all the luck of the game he could need, but only wants friends to actually be able to live with. being a life player also ties into his little gambling games and things (again, dominion over stuff within the overarching game/story, but nothing beyond that).

then we get to jimi (again fantastic name). the basic premise of an heir is that they’re played by their aspect, right and Oh Boy is jimmy played by life in the life series. i don’t personally know much about anything he’s done other than heehoo canary guy but along with the previously stated points it’s So fun to see him as a life player because it allows for some really clearly contrast between the way he interacts with tangoe and scot based on their aspects. i really like the idea of scot being like “you’re a life player jimi. it's in your name. the game is not going to let you die” and jimi like “you really think so? aw thanks man” neither of them knowing that dying as a life player in this game is literally like in the job description. (ok. i kind of feel like i’m letting jimi down by basing his story so far around other people.. but this is just for fun and i can always change it later)

(also i could easily have put tangoe and jimi as doom players too but for the fact that i don’t think they necessarily see through the game as much as scot does (or at all). and so life it is.)

feel free to ask me questions abt them!!! i have so many thoughts about this bro

#looks at you with my big ol eyes... please read about them i spent So Long thinking about them pfff #scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #tangotek #trafficblr #secret life #life series #hs #doodles #also disclaimer i haven't read homestuck in over a year and do not have the time currently so sorry-#-if smth is blatantly wrong but this is just for the funsies :P #lifestuck au

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owl68 · 3 months

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Husk/Al and Angel/Val Comparison

Both Husker and Angel Dust are living in the same shit sandwich, but how are their situations different?

The chains

Whenever the chain that Val has on Angel is depicted, it’s always short and misty. It’s usually around Angel’s hand

Al’s chain on Husk is long, clear, and around Husker’s neck

Woah, definite contrast.

Chain length:

Husk’s chain is long, showing that he can usually do as he pleases. Alastor only occasionally needs Husk, but in general, Husk can be independent. In addition, Al usually lets a lot slide with Husk in terms of sass, sarcasm, and attitude.

Angel’s chain is short and easily tugged upon by Valentino. Angel has a nearly 24/7 obligation to Val and to his job. Angel can’t really step even slightly out of line, except for outside of work (but even then, the very next day Val will punish Angel at work).

Chain opaqueness:

Defined and structured, Husk’s leash-like chain is impossible to break out of. Interestingly, this also suggests that the deal/contract Alastor crafted was much more loophole-proof and solid than Val’s. Husk’s entrapment is physical and undeniable.

Angel’s misty chain has more flexibility to it, and we even occasionally see Angel try to tug himself out of it. Although it’s definitely there (as Val often likes to remind Angel of), it’s more so symbolic, as above all, Val has emotional control over Angel.

Chain placement:

Husk’s chain is around his neck, like a collar of ownership. Ownership not only of his body, but of his soul. This points back to the fact that Husk literally traded his soul to Alastor. However, it’s also a bit easier to forget about the collar-like placement, especially if he’s grown used to it, that is at least until it’s tugged upon.

The placement of Angel’s chain being around his hand provides a much higher emphasis on Angel’s body, as that is what Val “owns”. The chain is always there (whether physically or metaphorically), right in front of Angel, and he can’t ignore it.

Bonus:

Angel’s chain is red/pink, symbolizing emotions and (to an extent forced) lust. Whereas Husk’s is green, symbolizing the greed that drove Husk to trade his soul in the first place.

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t34-mt · 1 year

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kyhuine live jewlery: spider-like insectoid, there are many variants of them that are all the same species (like how dogs have many breeds). Kyhuines have domesticated "spiders" for silk and even have dedicated houses to them, they have spiders for show off like this one that is specialized to crampon on the head, and others that wrap around the wrist like a wrap-around-spider. they have another species of insectoid that are like centipedes and stand on a necklace if not almost wrap around the host for the longest specimens.

a little info chart

live jewelry is not something they will use every day. They are worn during special events, and they will not dance or do wide movements that could scare off their beloved bug, domesticated spider-like ones are called "buikarbutuh" (kyhuine word), i haven't gotten a name for the centipede-like insect ones yet.

The breeding of spiders was firstly done to have their silk, bred to be docile and accepting of manipulation but also tolerable/accepting to each other so a big colony could be put in the same place without them just cannibalizing their spider neighbors every day. spider houses can be rounded domes made out of dirt/clay, or more casual houses, there are special ones mostly found in salt desert that are build like long cones, the outside is bright white. Like the two previous the walls are made out of dirt/clay. The inside of spider houses are full of dead trunks, dead and live plants, sticks, build in pillars and anything to give their bugs a lot of surface to build against and hide into.

While this took a while (like any domestication), they did succeed to have chill spiders. Family homes often have one or multiple spiders at home so they eat nuisances, it's their little guar dog against undesirable animals. With that base started other more specific breeding types, pet spiders came first!

There weren't really any changes to do, just taking a calm one and giving it to a child so they take care of it and also get desensitized of bugs, both species learn to not fear bugs at a very young age, recognize potentially dangerous that they should stay away from and how to handle x type, know which is safe to eat and so on. Bug desensitization is done at an even earlier age for kyhuines. Kyhuines will trade their spiders and other bugs to each other, bug trading in kids is also seen in maanuls tho maanuls do not have domesticated bug pets.

after pet spiders, came the idea of using them for live jewelry to show their appreciation to their all-mighty mother. So started the breeding of spiders that would stay on their head/wrist. Taking in consideration their health when doing it they eventually ended up with these, calm critters that would sit down where they're placed for several hours, having color/pattern variation was a thing that came after.

Like ive said, theyre rarely worn, and are mostly just fancy pet spiders for adults, buikarbutuh keeping is a job (whenever its the pet ones, silk or jewl ones)

#altuyur #digital art #worldbuilding #kyhuine #my art #2023 #speculative zoology #xenobiology #xenofiction #buikarbutuh #artist on tumblr #ms paint #txt

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blegh-110 · 2 years

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Have I found you, flightless bird? (1/?)

Pairing: Soft!Dark!Tangerine x Fem!Reader

Summary: A compulsive psychopath takes an interest in you and will do anything to have you all to himself.

Chapter Warnings: Stalking, bullying, obsessive behavior, criminal activity, murder, violence, bad parents (let me know if I missed anything)

Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: Yeah so I thought I wasn’t going to be able to finish this until Wednesday, but I was surprisingly able to write. This is the very first time I am writing a fan fictions, so I’m begging on my knees for you to be nice and respectful. This first chapter is really going to be backstory and setting the scene. And please keep in mind Tangerine’s accent, it makes the reading fun. It’s also unedited. Happy reading! :)

There were no words to describe the ache and tiredness in your body as you slowly walked towards the train station. Your day at work was awful to say the least, with the amount of extremely rude customers and your masochist co-workers, you had broken down in the freezer of the fancy restaurant three times. Each silent cry had made you increasingly tired, both mind and body, so you wanted nothing more than to crawl into your bed and let it all out.

Unfortunately, that would not happen for a while, as you lived a long distance away from your workplace. The reminder of this had almost made the tears in your eyes fall in frustration, but by some miracle, you took a deep breath and kept them at bay.

You breathed a sigh of happiness as you spotted the Bullet Train and almost started crying again, but out of relief instead of tiredness. You were excited when the train was first built, it was marketed as the fastest train in the world, which meant you would get to your small apartment in about an hour instead of two. The train was also incredibly nicer than the one before it; the seats were more comfortable with the hard plastic traded in for fabric, there was a nice woman who served snacks and drinks every thirty minutes, it was cleaner, and just overall better.

One perk about your job was that all workers received a Bullet Train card with unlimited rides, which you were thankful for. The regular cost of going back and forth between your work and home everyday was far too expensive. There was also a discount for the snacks and drinks the woman brings around, which you would often take advantage of to keep yourself awake for the ride home.

You quickened your steps as you got closer to the train, wanting to sit down, eat a fish-shaped biscuit, and get out of the harsh, cold wind. Which reminded you of another thing; you needed to get another jacket, the one who had on was doing absolutely nothing to shield you from the weather.

Although there were many negatives for you living on your own in Japan, the one positive was that you were away from your family, as harsh as that may sound. Your mother and father weren’t particularly happy to hear that you were studying abroad in Japan, then again, they were never happy nor satisfied with anything you did. No matter how hard you tried at anything, they never showed any interest or care, they were always too caught up in each other.

They fought. A lot. And that messed you up badly. From the shouting and door slamming, to one of them being gone for days at a time because they couldn’t stand the other. It all took place at night, which made you nervous to fall asleep. You were awakened countless times in the middle of the night to your mother and father shouting at one another, it had made you anxious to fall asleep and frightened of loud noises. Then the morning would come, where they would act like nothing had happened and like they did not just traumatize their child. And it would start all over again the next week.

The worst part was that you didn’t know how not normal all that was. After complaining to your mother that you don’t like them fighting and going away, she would respond with, “Couples fight, it’s normal.”

No comfort or solace to your distress and anxiety. And you went on with your day, shaken up from the events but it was ingrained into your head that there was nothing to be upset about because couples screaming and throwing things and leaving is normal.

As you stepped onto the train, the warm air and clean smell made you feel better emotionally. Only an hour of waiting, and you would be in your apartment and mattress on the floor. You sat down and got comfortable, not noticing the blue eyes staring at the back of your head from the door.

—

Two Months Prior

You sat motionless in your seat, getting lost in the blur of the world through the window. It was an easy way to turn off your brain for a small while and just stare at the many lights and people, it was nice. But you were pulled back to reality when you heard another voice with a thick accent.

“Fuckin’ hell, stupid asshole. I can’t get a fuckin’ break with this prick, I swear.”

Your eyes widened at the man’s language as you heard his heavy footsteps come closer, only for him to stop abruptly when he noticed you.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I–” The man paused when he got a good look at you, and you didn’t notice it, but he was transfixed by you. And the feeling was mutual. You had never seen such a gorgeous and handsome man as the one standing in front of your seat. His frame was huge, covered by a pretty blue suit and eyes, his hair was medium length and slicked back. But what really got your attention, surprisingly, was his thick mustache. You were never really attracted to mustaches, much less the 90’s pornstache, but it was the cherry on top of all his good looks. While you were mesmerized by him, he had gotten a hold of his words and continued.

“I didn’t see there was a lady in here, my apologies for my language, love.” He said softly and walked away quickly, leaving you in a small daze. The combination of his looks and change from a harsh to a gentle tone gave you butterflies, the thought of someone changing their whole demeanor to make you comfortable was nice.

And love. He had called you love. Love. Love. Love

Although the interaction lasted not even fifteen seconds, you were replaying it all in your head and analyzing every small detail, not wanting to forget the small amount of time that someone extremely attractive gave you the tiniest amount of attention, respectfully.

You had forgotten about him throughout the next few days as you had more important things to think about. The same could not be said for him.

He had the tendency to be compulsive and take stuff, taking what he wanted as soon as he saw it without asking and no apologies. He liked the thrill of stealing, it gave him a sense of accomplishment for outsmarting the owner or the system, it was an addicting feeling for his ego.

And other times, most times, it was for no reason and his body worked faster than his brain, going immediately for the item without thinking. Soon enough his brain turns on and he asks himself why he did it, which is then followed by a short scolding from his brother. Through it all, he never really regrets taking what he wants, it was just another thing for him to mess with and kill time, and maybe be of use.

But this was said for small, unimportant items; snacks, toys, pens. But never was he interested in taking a person. In fact, he was really never interested in people anyway, the only exception was his brother. And now, apparently you ever since that first interaction.

It was very late in the night when that happened. Someone had taken the suitcase filled with money from him and his brother, and their stress would only increase when their employer would check up on them and make sure they had the money. So he was on the lookout for the one who had taken it.

His focus should’ve solely been on the job, and murdering the thief with his bare hands, but his mind would wander to the pretty girl he saw earlier. He had seen many different people in his life, but something inside, the compulsive part, wanted you. And like the previous times he’d taken something, there really was no reason why he wanted you, he just did.

As he walked away, his mind and body were screaming to go back, toss you over his shoulder and continue on. But he was on a very serious mission, and he didn’t want anything to happen to you. He eventually got the suitcase back, shooting the man who had taken it. Before going back to the carriage he was sitting in, he would have to pass you again. He quickly went to the small bathroom, wiped the blood off his face, fixed his hair, and smoothed out his suit.

To say he was disappointed when you didn’t notice him the second time around would be an understatement. He was livid. How could your attention be through the window and not him? Especially when he went out of his way to look decent for you? That would need to change, he thought to himself as he slammed the briefcase on the table and sat down. The carriage he was in was next to yours, so he had the perfect view of the back of your head if he looked through the glass window of the door. As he was thinking of different ways to snatch you without anybody noticing, his brother came into view, sitting across from him.

“Oh, good. You’ve got the case. I was getting worried there for a second. You really are a right Thomas, Tangerine. Hardworking and cheeky and all that, you know, you should try to watch it sometime. You barely sat through the fir–”

“Lemon, could you shut the fuck up right now? I can hardly hear myself think with that shit your talking about-”

“How could I forget your kindness and compassion? Jesus, I don’t remember Thomas being a massive dickhead-”

“And I don’t remember giving a fuck about Thomas the Tank Engine. Now, shut your mouth before I shoot m’own head off, fuckin’ twat.” Tangerine rolled his eyes and stared at you again like you would vanish into thin air if he took his eyes off you.

Lemon smiled mischievously, he loved to push Tangerine’s buttons. It was a good way to pass time and amuse himself, and he knew Tangerine didn’t mean any of the harsh words he said. Not about killing himself at least. While thinking of his next choice of words to piss him off more, he noticed that look in his brother’s eyes. The one where he was ready to pounce, attack, then kill.

He got nervous, wondering if Tangerine hadn’t finished the job and failed to kill whoever took the briefcase. Lemon followed his eyes and they landed on you in the next carriage.

“That the one who took the briefcase?” Lemon asked, ready to put a bullet in your head, he was already standing up. “What, no-”

“Don’t worry, you sit tight and I’ll get the fucker.” Lemon whipped out his gun and almost made it to the door when he was suddenly tugged back down so roughly that he almost fell to the ground. “What the fuck are you doin’? Sit back down, you wanker. She didn’t take the case.” Tangerine hissed and released his deathly grip on Lemon’s jacket with a shove.

“I said sit back down, asshole. God, do you ever think before pulling out a gun and shooting the first person you see?”

“I don’t know, do you ever stop and think before you take something and shove it up your ass? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were ready to kidnap that woman.” One thing Lemon was exceptional at was reading people like they were an open book, a skill taught to him by Thomas the Tank Engine. Which meant he could easily see that that was what Tangerine was currently planning on.

“C’mon, mate. You can’t be seri– you better be pulling my dick.” Lemon whispered, taken aback by his brother’s actions. He knew very well of Tangerine’s compulsive stealing, and he knew he was good at it. It came in handy when they needed to steal something important for their missions. And despite slapping Tangerine’s wrist when he would commit petty theft or larceny, it was slightly entertaining. And the times he did kidnap someone, they would plan it together and execute it together, but only if they were relevant to their missions. And you were not relevant to them at all.

“No, I know, I know.” Tangerine sat back down with surrending hands in the air, knowing what he was thinking was fucked up. That didn’t mean Lemon wasn’t going to put salt in the wound and rub it in.

“That is a real fuckin’ person right there, not one of your stupid bubbly waters or Momomon stuffed animals.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Tangerine defeatdly said and put his head in his hands, disappointed in his own thoughts and wants. Lemon sighed, he knew Tangerine didn’t want to feel this way, but he couldn’t help it. So he decided to save time and do what he always did, help his brother.

“Why do you want this girl?” Lemon knew he wouldn’t receive a proper and detailed answer. Therefore, the shrug he got was no surprise. But he wouldn’t let Tangerine go through with the kidnapping without properly processing his thoughts.

“I don’t know, mate. You should’ve seen her. She looked so wretched and miserable and sad, I just want the poor little thing. It was like staring at a bunny that was run over and shot at.”

“Well, this could just be a bad day for her. Maybe she isn’t so sad all the time.”

“But what if she is?”

“Then she’ll get through it like all the adults in the world.”

“What if it’s too much for her?”

“What if what’s too much for her?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know!”

“And that’s the issue, Tangerine. You don’t know fuck about her and you want to save her or some shit. See if you really want her and you’re not going to toss her aside when the thrill is over, then you can be a fuckin’ hero or whatever.” Tangerine nodded his head as he watched you buy a fish shaped biscuit and a strawberry soda.

Lemon made some good points. Tangerine would need to know if what he was feeling wasn’t temporary, so he waited a week to see if his feelings had changed for you. And they hadn’t, they had only gotten stronger.

He woke up alone thinking of you wrapped up safely in his arms, to feeding you a healthy breakfast when he ate by himself, to jumping in his arms when he came back home from work, to fucking you when he was back in bed with his hand wrapped around his cock. And all these thoughts only increased when he saw the state of your life.

After Tangerine realized he wanted to keep you, he shamelessly watched your every move for the next two months. He followed you to your apartment and to the exact number you were staying at. Because of your long hours at work and staying awake on the train, you were too sleepy to use all your senses to their full capacity. Tangerine shook his head at how you didn’t notice him following you, anyone could just come up to you and shove you into their room. Silly girl, he thought, you won’t have to feel this way anymore when I get my hands on you.

Next, after Tangerine found out your living place, he actually broke his way in after you had left for work, this time with Lemon. Your apartment was easy to get into, all he had to do was jiggle the knob a few times and roughly kick it open.

“What a fuckin’ shit hole, mate, she really lives here?” Lemon scrunched his nose at the stained brown walls and dirty carpet. He was also surprised at how small your place was and how little furniture you had. “Good god, her fuckin’ couch is missing a two of its feet and a cushion. This is no way to live, tsk, tsk.”

“Lemon, you’ve amputated limbs and killed people, and this has you shocked? I’d appreciate it if you’d shut the fuck up and help me out, yeah?” Tangerine said, making his way to your room.

“What exactly am I helping you out with?” He asked, turning around to the tiny kitchen and opening the fridge.

“Anything about her really, I just want to get to know her.” Tangerine shouted while studying your bedroom, trying to get a feel for your personality and what you like. A butterfly comforter with matching pillows but the mattress was on the floor, I’ll buy a similar bed set and you’ll sleep in my arms in an actual bed. Lots of books piled in the corner, I’ll get you the biggest bookshelf I can and I’ll start reading as well. Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury. The Awakening, Kate Chopin. A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf. Tangerine focused on memorizing each novel and its authors.

Next to your books were your CD’s. Tangerine did the same thing, taking the time to memorize your favorite artists and their albums. Next, he opened your closet, not much was there except five plain t-shirts and two pairs of jeans. And that was it. There wasn’t much else to do in your room as there were literally only a few items. And it took everything in him to stop himself from taking anything.

“And you think breaking into her house and snooping around is the way to do that?” Lemon snorted, snapping Tangerine out of thoughts. “Shit, man, does she eat? There’s nothing in here but water, butter, and tangerines-... tangerines. It must be fate.” His brother ignored him, heading to the bathroom where he found a toothbrush, toothpaste, cleanser, deoderant, shampoo, conditioner, and bodywash.

“Oh, I know why now. Her job doesn’t pay shit.” At this, Tangerine walked back to the living room to find Lemon holding what he assumed to be your paycheck.

“Lemme set that,” And he snatched the paper from his hand, “Y/N L/N. She works at Kaiseki Ryori. That’s like two hours away from here, what is she doing there?” Tangerine asked himself. That’s why you looked so tired. After a whole day of work you had to wait another two hours before getting home, wait no, one hour because of the Bullet Train.

After snooping around some more, Lemon reminded Tangerine that they had some business to attend to, some people to assassinate. On the way there, Tangerine was thinking of his next move, and he decided that going to your workplace would be good.

But he would have to wait another week as him and Lemon were piled with work to do. But that didn’t stop Tangerine from making sure you got home safely. Only a few nights allowed him to get on the Bullet Train and sit a few seats behind you, where he noticed you really enjoyed eating fish shaped biscuits and some sort of fruity soda, the flavor always changed.

Alternatively, if he didn’t have enough time to ride with you, he would break into your apartment in the middle of the night, to again, make sure you got back safely. But he could hardly do either because he had his own work to do and he couldn't afford to check in on you every night. So he installed a tiny camera in your living room, which was difficult to hide because you had barely anything in your apartment. He was about to put the second camera in your bedroom, but decided against it, he didn’t want to be too invasive.

A month had passed and he was glad he installed the cameras, it really was much easier to see if you were in your apartment through his phone. He smiled at your sleepy state going to the kitchen and eating a tangerine, thinking you were the most adorable person he had ever seen.

He was sitting outside across from your complex. He had finally had a day off and planned on watching you some more, this time at your workplace, Kaiseki Ryori. While waiting, he watched you get ready through the phone.

Although Tangerine found your tiredness cute, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for you having to get up extremely early for work. And also the fact that you don’t eat much for breakfast because you couldn't afford anything else besides fruit and water.

This will change soon when you have me, darling. I’ll have a nice, big breakfast ready for you when you wake up every morning.

He had also made up his mind about you working in your soon to be relationship, you simply were not going to. You weren’t going to do anything but be his and only his. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious about your job.

He watched as you walked through your apartment door. Tangerine turned his phone off and waited for you to exit the complex. Just then, his phone had alerted him that he had gotten a message from Lemon.

🍋: how’s it going? Did you get your ticket

🍊: pretty good, just waiting for her to come out of her building. Then I’m following her to Kaiseki Ryori. And yes I got my ticket

🍋: how romantic, just don't let her see you

🍊: no fucking shit, I’d be stupid to let that happen

He rolled his eyes and put his phone away when he heard the doors open, his heart stuttering at the sight of you as well as hurting when he saw that you were obviously freezing cold in your thin jacket. Tangerine didn’t want to get too close in fear of being seen by you, so he waited until you turned a corner to start trailing behind.

Various bakeries and cafes were open, one of them he saw you going into for the first time, staring wide eyed at the fresh pastries. You were in there for only a few minutes, chatting with the male barista behind the counter. Whom, Tangerine will admit, was quite attractive and way too close to you and smiling way too much. He watched as you laughed at something the man said, Tangerine’s anger was increasing as the seconds went by. Shouldn’t your fucking drink be ready by now? How can you even afford that shit anyway with your pay?

Just as he was about to enter the cafe and shoot the barista between his eyes, Tangerine’s phone range. Fucking Lemon again.

“What the fuck do need that’s so fuckin’ important?” Tangerine hissed into the phone and placed his gun back into his pocket as he continued to stare at the two of you having a lovely time talking about whatever. He started to calm down as he saw the barista finally give you your food and drink. You walked out of the cafe with a small smile as the hot drink warmed up your hands.

“Calm down, mate. I was calling to tell you about her boss, it’s not good.” At this, Tangerine‘s full attention was on his brother. But as soon as you were a good distance away, he walked into the cafe. “Hold on.”

“Good morning, what can I get for you?” The barista, Axel, his nametag wrote, said with a smile. Stupid fuckin’ name.

“I’ll just have whatever the last person had.” Tangerine said, rolling his eyes, his anger and annoyance rising again for having to talk to Axel.

“Okay, that’s a chocolate croissant and a small caramel macchiato, is that goo-”

“Yes, that’s fuckin’ fine,” He couldn’t stand hearing him talk, he wished Lemon hadn’t called so he could’ve shot Axel and his stupid face. He spoke to Lemon “Alright, what did you find?”

“Who are you talking to? Do you need me to come down there?”

“No, Lemon, I’m fine. I won’t fuckin’ ask again, what did you find on her boss?” Tangerine was full-on irritated. And swearing in every sentence he said showed that. He just wanted to get to you as quickly as possible, but what's-his-face and Lemon were in the way of that. Even though they really weren’t doing anything. When Tangerine was mad, he took it out on everything.

“Shit, alright. I found that this man, Akihito, has a criminal record. Robbery, grand theft auto, harrassment, fucking manslaughter, and the list goes on, mate.”

“Jesus fucking christ, alright. I’ll deal with the asshole later. Can you hurry the fuck up, please? I’ve got shit to do.” He yelled at the worker, who scrambled to pour milk in his caramel macchiato.

“It’s ironic since the guy’s name means brightness and compassion, I’ll tell you Tangerine, he’s no Thom-”

“Lemon, if you mention that shit show again, I swear the next time I see you, I’ll shove my gun up your ass and shoot. And I’ll do it with a fuckin’ smile on my face.” Then he hung up with an annoyed groan.

“H-here you go, sir.”

“Where the fuck is my croissant, I swear to god-” Tangerine wanted to smash this guy’s head onto the counter as he watched the man hurriedly grab his pastry and place it in a bag. Can he do anything right, what do you see in him? It better be nothing, love.

“Thank you for takin’ your sweet fuckin’ time, mate, I really appreciate it, ya cunt.” Tangerine snatched the bag and drink, surely crushing his croissant, and quickly made his way out the door before he heard a quiet mutter. “Asshole.”

Tangerine froze with his hand on the door and snapped inside, he was filled with so much rage that he could feel his face flush and heart beat. He slowly took his hand off the bar of the door and turned around, seeking just a small bit of joy out of the pure terror on Axel’s face.

“I beg your pardon… what did you call me? Because if I heard your correct, you called me an asshole. And that’s a lot of nerve for someone who works minimum fuckin’ wage, how about you do your fuckin’ job right and I won’t shoot you, hm?” Tangerine pulled out his gun and held it to Axel’s forehead.

At this point, Tangerine’s words were shot to kill. He didn’t care if Axel or another customer would call the cops. His patience had quickly worn thin and he wanted to make Axel pay for it.

Axel nodded his head with tears in eyes and violently shook from fear. Tangerine hummed, satisfied, but still held the gun up.

“What’s that right there?” Tangerine motioned his head to the glass cabinet. “T-that’s daifuku, sir.”

Tangerine shook his head, urging him to continue while he cocked his gun, “Yeah, and what the fuck is it, c’mon I already told you I don’t have all day.”

Axel’s tears flowed down his face and his breathing stuttered as he tried to keep himself composed, “it’s m-mochi stuffed with anko and d-different fillings including, strawberries, jam, or coffee-flavored filling.”

“Gimme the coffee-flavored one,” Tangerine said and kept his eyes on Axel the entire time, he wanted to pressure him more in case he messed up again. Then he’ll have more reason to keep on torturing him. When he got his treat, he put his gun back into his jacket pocket, but not before taking the stack of napkins on the counter.

“I’m not paying for it, asshole,” And he walked out and looked at his surroundings, making sure no one saw the whole exchange, “miracle no one saw that.” And he finally made his way to the Bullet Train.

When he got there, he noticed you sitting through one of the windows, eating your croissant and sipping your drink, still with tired eyes. And once again, Tangerine was swooning. His bad mood slipped away with every step he took.

Tangerine did what he always did when he got on the train with you, stay far away enough to keep an eye on you. And that was it. For the whole hour the train traveled, all he did was watch you. And while he felt happy to see you, you dreaded going to work.

For the whole time you worked there, the ride to Kaiseki Ryori filled your stomach with an anxious burn that stayed there until you clocked out. Then you would sit back on the train, exhausted but thankful that the day was over. But then reminded that you would have to go in the next day, and then the next, and then the next. And the anxiousness as well as the depression would return.

You often wondered when your life would change for the better. When would you finally save enough money to buy a new, bigger, cleaner place? When would you find a new job that didn’t make you cry everyday in the bathroom? When would you meet a group of people that could be your friends?

You just wanted to feel content when you woke up. But you awake thinking God, I have to do this all again?

You thrived on praise, on people telling you that you were doing a great job. It gave you a small push of confidence that led to you feeling good about yourself and made you willingly work harder. But with no friends or decent people around you to give you support, it was impossible to feel positive and optimistic.

Along with this, you were incredibly lonely in the love department. Not only did you want someone to love and appreciate you, you wanted to give love to someone else so desperately. Someone who would do anything and everything just to see you. This would also give you another reason to be happy. Since you came to Japan, there has been an empty hole in your chest waiting to be fulfilled with the love you felt for someone.

This combination of low self-esteem and loneliness, as well as the lack of money, made it difficult for you to go out and enjoy yourself. There were a few times when you mustered up the courage to get out of the safety and familiarity of your apartment and go to one or two shops, but that was only two or three times a month. You would go straight back to your small apartment after seeing a group of friends that were your age eating and laughing together, happy together. The same thing was said when you saw a happy couple walking down the street, holding hands and staring at another with so much love that you felt a mixture of jealousy and nausea.

If these didn’t make you feel bad about yourself, then going to your favorite shops and seeing that you couldn’t afford anything made you go back. You would get overwhelmed seeing a beautiful dress or a cute t-shirt, and knowing you didn’t have enough money for it. Or a book you’ve been wanting to read or the newest phone or a better stereo for your cd’s or a flat screen tv.

There were even times when you didn’t even make it to the next street because you felt as if everyone knew how pitiful your life was and they were laughing at your misery. Those days were especially bad. You would go back to your apartment, crawl into bed and cry for hours. Crying because you felt pathetic for not even being able to walk down the street, crying because you had no one to wrap their arms around you, crying because there was no one in your life to tell you that it will eventually get better and that you were a strong person to get out of bed everyday and face a mean world.

Tangerine knew of your many crying sessions, it shattered his heart into a million pieces everytime he heard your choked sobs and stuttered breathing. It somehow hurt even more not being able to see you, as you were in your room, he couldn’t even see the state of your agony and pretend he was there. Lemon would have to hold him down and stop him from running to your complex, breaking in, and giving you the love you craved.

You sighed heavily when you realized the train had slowed down at your stop. The mental preparation on the way there was never enough, you could already feel the headache on its way and the exhaustion deep in your bones.

The walk to Kaiseki Ryori was hard. You knew what was to come in about ten minutes, that’s why you took your time walking. But you always felt guilty for this. Although you weren’t treated nicely at work, something inside your head reprimanded you if you decided to give yourself a break. It was your brain telling you that you didn’t deserve to be selfish for even a few minutes, maybe it was the pressure you and others put upon yourself in highschool to always work to your fullest extent. And that no one got anywhere in life if they decided to take a minute for themselves.

You arrived at the restaurant and you saw two of the cooks walking together. They saw you and you immediately wanted the ground to swallow you.

“Hey, Y/N. Really cold out today, huh? I really like your jacket by the way.” One of them said with a smile on their face while the other one snickered. You gave them a tight lipped smile. You weren’t stupid, you knew they were actually making fun of you. And it sucked knowing you couldn’t call them out on it because they were being passive aggressive. If you dared talk back, they would make themselves a victim and say they were only giving you a compliment and that you should be thankful, and you would look like the asshole.

Then they would run to the boss and say you were being rude to them, and you would get called into his office for a little chat about your future working at Kaiseki Ryori. This chat included Akihito telling you that you need to be nicer to your co-workers or you would be fired. He also told you the first time that you needed to be a better waitress, and he sent you on your way back with no advice on how to become better.

“I’ll get the door for you, Y/N, there you go.” The other cook smiled and held it open for you and you knew what they were about to do. “No, thanks. I’ve got it.”

“Y/N, you’ve had this talk before, don’t be ungrateful and I won’t tell Akihito.” God, they were like fourth graders that never grew up, you thought. How could they be so immature and nasty at their age, they were older than you and acted this way.

You sighed in defeat and walked through the door. Even though they have done this countless times, your heart always stopped when one of them stepped on the back of your shoe roughly and made you fall on your hands and knees on the dirty floor of the kitchen. This time, your boss had walked by. You were hopeful he saw the whole situation and would finally believe your claims that your co-workers bullied and messed with you on the daily. But the two cooks squeezed the tops of your arms in tight grip that made you wince, and pulled you back up on your feet.

“Y/N, oh my, god! You need to be careful or you're really going to hurt yourself one of these days.” One of them said with a faux pout and a worried voice that was too realistic. You huffed with tears in your eyes from the pain of landing on the hard ground and because of the humiliation. Your knees still hadn’t healed from the last time they did this a few days ago, and because they do this so often, your knees were always a shade of dark blue and purple.

Tangerine was fuming at his spot across the street. He had watched the whole thing unfold and wanted to go up to the two cooks and kill them. Drag a blade across their neck and watch as they bled to death and choked on their own blood. Maybe kidnap them and set them on fire, have them die slowly and painfully. Then he thought of a better idea, one that required a certain venomous snake. He decided he had seen enough and left to begin executing his plan. But it had killed him to walk away from you.

“You two are very kind to help her, now get to cleaning. The one who closed last night didn’t properly clean the place and I need you three to do it.” Akihito didn’t even bother to ask if you were alright, focusing his attention and gratitude to the two on either side of you. Sometimes you thought that he was in on the harassment, turning a blind eye at first, maybe giving the bare minimum of care, then laughing in private.

“But we need to prepare the food, Akihito! And you know how long that takes!” The one on your left whined in a way that hurt your ears. He nodded his head before he said, “Yes, I understand. Go on then.”

The two released their bruising grip and walked away, leaving you alone with the boss. He looked at you in irritation, “Well get to work miss L/N! I’m not paying you to be absolutely useless.” And he walked away. Although he left, you nodded your head.

The next thirty minutes were spent with you, once again, trying to keep your hot tears from falling. Which made it even more difficult to wipe down the counters and sweep the floor because the tears blurred your vision. And you didn’t want to wipe them away because it would give it away that you were crying, even though a few people already knew. And some of them did feel bad for you, but they didn’t want to risk being another victim alongside you.

You sighed heavily before putting on your apron with shaky arms. Kaiseki Ryori had opened barely ten minutes ago and tables were already filled with customers. You felt an extra long day hurdling at you and there was nothing you could do but get through it with as little damage as possible.

Surprisingly, it was not as bad as other days, it was pretty normal. Your co-workers, especially the cooks, liked to mess with you for entertainment; giving you the wrong meals and purposely messing up the food because they knew the customer always blamed the waitress and not the cooks. In the end, the customers always cursed you out for not doing your job correctly.

As soon as your very long shift was over, you bolted through the kitchen, shoved the door open, and started your journey back to the bullet train. Before you left, you had wanted to steal a small bag of ice to put on your bruised knees, but the first time you tried that, you were stopped by one of the cooks because according to them, “We can’t waste any food.”

While you got comfortable on the train, Tangerine was in the middle of buying some Boomslang venom from The Hornet. Who was as annoying and difficult to negotiate with as others say. But he eventually got the venom and quickly made his way back to Kaiseki Ryori, where he saw the two cooks leaving. Perfect.

The next few days at work were great. The two cooks who participated the most in making your life miserable had not shown up, which made your days significantly easier to get through. But you couldn’t help but feel a little strange. As horrible as they were, they took their work seriously and would rather die than miss a day of work at Kaiseki Ryori.

Your relief was soon taken away and replaced with terror when Akihito informed the staff why they had been missing. According to him, they were just found dead in their homes. You felt sick as he gave the gruesome details; blood had come out of their eyes, nose, and mouth. And their throats were swollen and closed up. Your mind had begged him to stop talking when he kept going, “Yeah, I guess one of them fell down and completely broke their neck and cracked their skull. It’s horrible.”

What happened next made you scared to even come out of your apartment. Akihito was murdered the same way as the cooks.

Your emotions were everywhere. How were you supposed to feel? You were ecstatic to never work with them ever again, but that was only because they were dead. You felt guilty and disgusting for even being just a little bit joyful to never see them again.

Kaiseki Ryori got a new boss immediately and he gave everyone a day off. Which was not enough. How could anyone go back after they had just found out their co-workers died grotesquely? But they did, and it scared you how normal they seemed. You were still shaken up and had questions and concerns.

Who did this to them? Why? Am I a target? I need to be more careful when going back home. And I really need to get a new lock for my door. But I don’t have the money for that.

Also, when you say things went back to normal, that also meant they still continued tormenting you as well. You thought the murder of the two cooks would for some reason stop them.

Through all of this, you just felt confused and lost. What made it worse was that you had no idea what to do and had no way to communicate your jumbled thoughts. On top of that, your parents kept trying to call you, but you would let the phone ring until they got the hint that you were “busy”, and they would stop calling. It was always hard to get through their calls, but at the moment, you were in no state of mind to deal with them. But with each call you chose to ignore, the more anxious you got because you knew their anger increased each time they couldn’t get a hold of you. It had finally got to the point where you couldn’t let it go on anymore, so you picked up your phone and dialed your father’s number with shaky hands.

“God, please don’t pick up, please don’t pick up, please.” You hoped and prayed they were actually busy, unlike you.

“Wow, she finally has some goddamn time to talk to her parents.” Your father said with an annoyed tone. You wanted to throw yourself out of your window.

“Yeah, sorry. I’ve just been a little busy with stuff. Sorry, dad.”

“Busy with what? Last time we talked, you were a waitress not someone of importance to the world.”

“I know, but I’ve just had stuff to do-”

“Stuff more important than your parents?”

“No, I-”

“Is that Y/N? Give me the phone” You heard your mother yell and you cringed. Not ready for her unwanted subtle views and judgements of your life. The conversation went smoothly at first, but you tensely waited for some sort of remark from her.

“You know, I really don’t like the choices you’ve made, you’ve seriously messed everything up.” Your mother said bluntly. This surprised you, she usually only made a small comment that you could easily bounce off from. But she never downright told you how she felt, you only had a strong feeling.

“I really don’t want to talk about it, please.”

“Well, I surely want to talk about it, right now.”

“Mom, please, I don’t feel comfortable-”

“No, this is where you zip it and listen, Y/N. Your father and I raised you to be outstanding and extraordinary. You had the perfect grades and the ambition and the attitude. What happened to my daughter?” You had no clue what to say. What would someone reply with if their mother just told them they were no good anymore?

“I don’t know, I just got a little tired I guess.” You uttered, feeling the formation of the ball in your throat and the stinging in your eyes. You took a deep breath as quietly as possible, you didn’t want your mother to hear you crying.

“No, you got lazy and incompetent. And it was such a shame and an embarrassment to witness all your capability go down the drain. I had to- we had to watch as other parents celebrated their own children head off to college and get amazing opportunities. And what were you doing? Packing your stuff and running off without a second thought. You wasted all your potential to be a waitress? In Japan?”

“Mom, please-” Your voice wavered, the ball in your throat becoming bigger as well as the tightness in your chest. You felt yourself about to shatter with no one but you to pick up the pieces after.

“No, no, you don’t get to be upset and cry. I’m the one that should be upset! My only child left me for god knows what. Tell me.”

“What?” You whispered. You hoped you had heard wrong. This was a conversation you were not ready to have, ever.

“I said tell me. What was so wrong with your life or what you lacked in your life that you had to move away from your father and I?”

It was silent for such a long time, or maybe that’s how long it felt and it had only been a few seconds. Memories you repressed deep into your mind had floated to the surface and swallowed you whole, adding more fuel to the anxious burn in your stomach.

“I don’t know, you and dad just fought a lot and it scared me. Dad would always leave, too. I-I just became anxious around the house, a-and the pressure I felt on me made it worse. I couldn’t handle it anymore, I just had to leave, mom. I’m so sorry.” You sniffled. It hurt to talk when you wanted to let it out and cry.

“Honestly, Y/N, this is just ridiculous. I have had more than enough. Come back home right now, I mean it.” The tone in her voice was the same one she used when she wanted something done immediately. But you would rather work with the two cooks again than go back.

“Mom.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to.” You said quietly.

It was silent for a minute, then you heard some muffled noises, as well as your dad calling out for your mom. You assumed she had dropped the phone and walked away.

“Well, you’ve really hurt your mother and I, Y/N. I hope this little trip was worth the pain you have caused us.”

“Dad, please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” And he hung up.

You sat frozen on the couch and tried to keep yourself together. But you didn’t go very long and you let out a pained wail that devastated Tangerine through the camera. He had seen enough of your life and was officially done waiting, he needed to get you out of there now.

Once he had you, he would be the one who treated you like you deserved to be treated. He would hold you in his arms as you cried and with the most gentle touch, wipe away your tears. He would whisper that everything is going to be okay, comfort you with so much love that you felt safe.

He would take care of you, make you never have to worry about a single thing ever again. He also wanted to be the one who made you smile. He had only seen it a few times and your lit up face was ingrained into his brain. He wanted to read your books to you and listen to your music with you. Things Tangerine never thought he would do, he wanted to do with you. He would be that person who did anything for you, and all you had to do in return is love him. And if you didn’t, he’ll show you that he’s the one for you and vice versa.

You unknowingly owned all of Tangerine’s heart. And he wanted to own yours.

~~~

A/N: First chapter done! The next one we’ll actually see them interacting which I’m so excited to write. Comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated, they are what fuel me to keep doing this. I’ll also shave your eyebrows off if you don’t comment/reblog :)

#tangerine #tangerine x reader #tangerine x fem!reader #tangerine imagine #tangerine fanfiction #bullet train #bullet train imagine

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vanessagillings · 26 days

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Please talk about your favorite animated movies and what makes them special to you! I'm really curious about what you enjoyed about them both in the past and now?

haha, okay you asked!

I LOVE animated movies. My theory on this is that it took me a long time to emotionally relate to most media growing up, where I felt next to nothing watching most movies and shows as a young kid, and didn't relate to books until I was quite a lot older (I read picture books until I was around 10, and then suddenly in middle school, I hopped right to adult novels like 1984 and the entire Darkover series by Marion Zimmer Bradley, ha). But even before I emotionally related to fiction, I really enjoyed watching animation. It was nice to look at, and I enjoyed watching everything move and change. I grew up in the 90's where animated movies were largely 2D, and I spent hours watching and re-watching my favorite movies just studying how the characters moved -- it's definitely a lot of where I got my understanding of human expressions from. But I also think as I got older and started to relate more to fiction, animation was easier to parse emotionally than live action. The body language is clear. The stories are direct and not as forgiving of bad human behavior (I get frustrated sometimes with the defeatism in adult media, that assumes that People Just Act Badly, and that just needs to be accepted). Facial expressions are also exaggerated and more stylized -- think of a single arched eyebrow, for example, an expression that's commonly drawn to express one particular emotion in animation/illustration but which you next to never see on a real human face. My first introduction into serious reading was also manga -- a highly visual medium -- which uses a lot of the same tactics stylistically as western animation: big, expressive faces, bold gestures and big stories. Compare manga with western comics being printed at the time and it's even more obvious to me why I didn't particularly like comics until I was given manga as an option -- and thankfully I lived close to a kinokuniya, so I could spend all my allowance on untranslated books and magazines, which is also where I learned Japanese (もうたくさん忘れてしまいましたけど).

As far as my favorite movies? THAT IS SO HARD. The first animated movie that BLEW MY MIND was The Lion King. I saw it in theaters when I was eight and I was obsessed; it was definitely one of my first special interests. I know that entire movie line by line, frame by frame, and I had the stuffed animals and the trading cards and the clothes (man, was I teased for those clothes!). My other favorite movies as a kid were The Land Before Time, American Tale, and The Secret of NIMH (I was a big Don Bluth fan!) which have left deep impressions on how to approach storytelling for children; I warn you, I go hard on emotions for kids, because I needed that as a kid, and I know I'm not alone. Some of my other favorites are anything Miyazaki but especially Howl's Moving Castle (I relate to Sophie a lot), Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs (what I watch when I'm In A Mood), Ratatouille (a huge source of echolalia for my husband and me, we often detect nuttiness, let me tell you), Wallace and Gromit and Fantastic Mr Fox, which I watch every fall as an autumnal tradition. Even as an adult who likes live action, too, I still tend to like slightly over the top directors like Wes Anderson and Guy Ritchie, or movies that are highly cinematic like Road to Perdition, which is still one of my favorite films of all time.

In my opinion, animation is a super important medium outside of it being a very beautiful one. I truly believe it helped me access and understand emotion better as a child, and as an adult, it's a massive source of inspiration in my own work 💛

(Sorry for length, but you did ask!)

#actually autistic #asks

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trippingontheescalator · 5 months

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Snape Headcanons

He's bad at geography. Sure, he knows this super rare, obscure potion ingredient can only be found in this one area in Laos, but ask him to find Laos on a map he won't have a clue. There was a time he dreamed about seeing world, but he quickly realized he would never get the opportunity and so doesn't see any purpose in learning geography.

A lot of the Marauders' claims about him, like knowing curses as a first year, are exaggerated, but the one thing they're right about is Snape was very nosy. Part of it was because it was useful; knowledge is power, after all. He could trade gossip with his fellow Slytherins, or use it to keep one step ahead of the Marauders (or taunt them with it). But most of it is just his natural curiosity. He's a people watcher. He doesn't often understand people, is bad at human interaction, so he watches from a distance.

Severus knows half the first years think he's some sort of vampire and he revels in it. He knows exactly the kind of image he creates, dressing up in those long black, swishing robes, the spooky dungeons with the jars full of animal body parts. His taste is 33% Mad-Scientist-Run-Amuck, 33% Sad-Victorian-Boy-Dying-of-Tuberculosis, 33% Tacky-Post-Halloween-Discounted-Decor, and 1% Lucius's-Increasing-Despair-to-Make-Severus-Into-a-Functional-Human-Being.

In addition to potions and reading, Severus also does a lot of writing. He's been working on-and-off on a novel since he was fifteen. At this point, it's almost 500,000 words long. One of the few ways he's able to express his thoughts and feelings is through fiction. The main character was heavily based on Lily, especially in the early stages when they were still friends, but as he grew older he put more of himself into the character and now she's become the version of himself he wishes he could be. The night before he kills Dumbledore he burns the entire thing.

Severus knows the DADA position is cursed. Everyone knows it's cursed. He still asks to teach it every year because he also knows that it's the only way he can escape Hogwarts, and he's willing to risk death to do it.

His feelings for Lily have gone through the entire spectrum. At times, she was a sister to him, especially the years before Hogwarts. He used to be incredibly jealous of Petunia, wished he could be Lily's sibling and live in their house and have their parents. It became romantic as a young teenager, especially since she was the only person he felt safe enough with for his pubescent mind to fixate on and explore his budding sexuality. Later, as he became friends with the other Slytherins in his year, it was strictly platonic but nonetheless a very deep friendship. They were both trying to control the other, and Severus was especially worried that Lily would end up like Eileen if she gave into Potter's charms. After his failed apology, he grew angry and resentful and he tried very much to hate her (but he couldn't, not even after she married Potter). And then, after her death, it circled back around to brotherly. He liked to remember those early years best of all, and his devotion to a better cause after her death parallels that of Dumbledore's after Ariana died.

Look I know there's a lot of confusion about godparents, and HP didn't help by being coy about religion, but a godparent isn't a legally appointed guardian. Like, they definitely can be if the parents want that (as it appears to be the case with Sirius Black), but that's not the default. A godparent sponsors a child's baptism and is in charge of their spiritual upbringing, making sure they know their catechism, etc (hence the god part of godparent, its a Catholic/Anglican thing). And the most widespread religion in HP does seem to be Christianity with Christmas being celebrated and whatnot (though I do headcanon the purebloods have their own Druidic/Christian hybrid religion going on). With that being said-- Severus Snape is Draco's godfather. He's also Merula Snyde's godfather. And Pansy Parkinson's godfather. And, like, the godfather of 10 other kids of former Death Eaters. Severus Snape climbed the Death Eater ladder; he was one of Voldemort's favourites during the First War and these other Death Eaters were like, "Damn. I got to get on his good side. Please sponsor my child's baptism."

#severus snape #pro snape #pro severus snape #snapedom

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mamamittens · 11 months

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Oh Sweet Child of Mine (Luffy AU End)

The Main series presumes platonic feelings all around. This is specifically an end shipping the reader with Yandere Luffy.

Because I didn't get clarification on what the original requestor (an anon) wanted, I assumed romantic but no smut.

Oh! Slight spoilers for Gear 5 and Wano.

Warnings: General yandere vibes and... technically kidnapping. Fluff.

You know the drill about yandere behavior in real life.

Stay safe and have fun!

Word Count: 1,205

You’d heard about Wano a lot over the past few years. Even before officially becoming a pirate you’d heard about the country in lockdown and it’s many fanciful resources and history. About Kaido and Oden. It seems… strange to be in it now.

Celebrating it’s liberation that you helped only a little, the bulk being taken care of by Luffy, Law, and Kid. Mostly you’d been helping Marco and Ace run interference and patching up those that needed help.

The idea that Luffy—Straw Hat Luffy—took down Kaido, King of the Beasts, was strange. But you’d seen it with your own eyes (from a safe distance) and it was a sight to behold. Gear 5, as Luffy called it, something else as well. Finally falling into sync with the true potential of his devil fruit though he’d still need to work at it.

Oyaji had organized a large feast for the occasion, incredibly happy that his brother had been avenged at long last. Thatch and Sanji working together to provide an incredible array of food alongside the now free citizens. The two chefs getting along well as they traded recipes and ideas as they worked. And honestly, it took all their attention to ensure that there was enough food for everyone—even Ace and Luffy who ate enough on a regular basis to astound literal giants.

Wrapped in bandages and as lively as ever, Luffy crowed to Ace at every opportunity that he beat out his big brother for liberating Wano. Ace would, naturally, pause with a mouthful of food to wrestle his brother into the ground for his insolence. Sabo—unexpectedly a third brother—cutting in every so often when they got too rowdy.

After eating dirt and a hunk of meat bigger than your head, Luffy paused, eyes fixing on you as he grinned.

“Hey! Join my crew!”

Your brothers choked and coughed beside you, several cackling at the audacity and muttering about Akagami being a bad influence. You smiled wryly, flashing your right wrist where Oyaji’s mark was boldly inked in a light blue.

“I’m already apart of another crew, Luffy.” You reminded him and he pouted.

“You said to ask you again when I found the drums! I did! It’s in Gear 5!”

Ah. You did say that, didn’t you?

Marco threw his arm over your shoulder, his smile a bit wry and sharp for the occasion.

“You’re getting a little bold there after taking down one Yonko, you really think you’re ready to take on another?” Marco asked. Luffy huffed, Ace watching him with an amused grin.

“It’s not about your dad! It’s about them! And I want them on my crew!” Luffy protested. Marco narrowed his eyes.

“Oi. You making plans for their devil fruit? You really think we’ll just give them up because you said so?”

Luffy frowned, confused as he tilted his head.

“What’s their fruit got anything to do with it? They’d make a good fit for my crew and that’s that.” You smiled, chuckling a little as Luffy looked right at you. “I don’t mind that you’re part of Banana-Stache’s crew right now. I just want to be the Pirate King with you.”

You blinked in surprise.

“You’re bold, Straw Hat.” You muttered, taking a sip of your drink. “Why would I leave Oyaji to go with you?”

Luffy huffed, brows scrunching as he tried to think of how to phrase his reasoning.

“I wanted you to join my crew when we first met but you weren’t ready yet. Not to join anyone’s crew. But now you are!” Luffy whined, nose crinkling. “And my crew is strong enough now that no one would need your fruit anyway…”

Ace laughed, shoving down Luffy’s head and ruffling his hat roughly.

“You’re such a persistent shit, Lu! C’mon, what’s the real reason you want them on your crew? I know it’s not their fruit—and they are pretty great—but what’s your real aim here?” Ace demanded loudly.

Luffy smacked Ace’s hands away with a cry of complaint.

“I wanna take them on an adventure they’ll never forget! With my whole crew! I want to show them everything! Anything they want to see!” Luffy declared, much to the shock of everyone there. Ace looked stunned, lips twitching into a smile as he narrowed his eyes at his little brother. “I want to give them the world!”

“Y-You… you sound like you’ve got a crush?!” Ace breathed in disbelief.

Luffy paused, almost as surprised as everyone else. Wide eyes turning to you as you could almost see the gears turning in his head.

The air grew heavy as your crew started to grow restless and a little unhappy with the new possible revelation.

Then, just as suddenly, it stopped, Luffy sitting up with a relaxed smile.

“Huh. Yeah.” Luffy looked at Ace with a wide grin. “I guess I do, shishishishishi~!”

There was an immediate outcry of denial around you, Marco pulling you behind him as you heard the offended gasps around you.

A stretchy limb snaked around the bodies between you and pulled you through the crowd until you stumbled into Luffy. Eager and laughing loudly, he hugged you, much to the protest of your crew.

The drums of liberation in your ear as you reeled in shock.

That was… really unexpected.

“You’re a cocky brat Straw Hat!” Oyaji declared with a sharp smile. “Do you really think you could make them take back my mark? That I’d let you?”

Luffy pulled back from nuzzling your cheek, grinning over your shoulder.

“I wouldn’t make them get rid of your mark, old man! Your family!” Luffy lowered his voice, hand reaching down to press his thumb over the thundering pulse in your left wrist. “I’d want your left hand anyway.”

You gasped, face red at the implications.

“WHAT! WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO THEM?!” Ace screamed, reaching over to try and pry Luffy off of you. Luffy cackled, wrapping his arms around you in tight circles as he danced away. Keeping you firmly pressed against his chest.

“Don’t worry, Ace! You’re invited!”

“Invited to WHAT?! Luffy!” Ace screeched chasing after you both as you laughed hysterically, unsure of what to say to that. Sabo joined shortly, the two brothers chasing after as Luffy just kept laughing louder and louder, hair turning puffy and white as he rounded the bonfire in mad circles.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You huffed, a little breathless from laughing so hard. Luffy literally lit up, his smile wide and beaming with light.

“Hear that?! I’m cute!” Luffy declared happily.

“You can’t go with him just because he’s cute!”

“I thought we raised you better than that!”

“Stop corrupting them, you brat!”

“Bluebird, no!”

“That’s it! You’re grounded! Again!”

You laughed, hugging Luffy back as he launched himself into the sky, Zoro and Sanji covering his escape.

“I’m glad you’re ready for me now. I don’t think I could have waited much longer to take you with me.” Luffy admitted, eyes a bright, glowing red. He squeezed you a little harder, the threat clear.

You… don’t think you were going back to the Moby Dick after this. No matter how hard your crew protested.

#one piece yandere #yandere luffy #oh sweet child of mine #reader insert #luffy x reader

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isaacswhy · 11 months

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watching movies w/ the group

the group x gn!reader (sfw) summary: romantic headcanons of watching a movie with the members of the group. requested?: no a/n: i accidentally deleted this once while writing it entirely. second times the charm ig

isaacwhy

You originally pitched the idea of a movie night date to him. He didn't mind the idea and helped you pick something out from the catalogue you had.

You brought the party downstairs to the couch and TV, in which a few of the housemates came down occasionally throughout the movie for a couple minutes of watch time.

You generally stay cuddled into Isaac, sometimes going so far as to have him wrap his arms around you and hold you, since he's such a big guy.

Isaac is generally a quiet movie watcher, hardly ever talking if only ever to make a joke he thought hard about.

Isaac never falls asleep during movies. He's one of the few people around the house that won't.

Isaac watches a variety of movies, but won't pass up on a good romcom. An unexpected choice, but he loves things like that.

Softwilly

Nick saw a bunch of positive reviews on his twitter timeline and brought you over to see and asked, "you like it?"

Instead of going out to the big screen in the living room, the two of you stayed in his room and watched on his TV under the covers.

Nick also doesn't fall asleep hardly ever to movies. He hates missing out on the film.

Nick watches a lot of action movies. Films like Jason Bourne, Mission Impossible, etc. are right up his alley.

Nick also doesn't talk very often during movies, but he'll make small comments and interact with things you say.

He's a little subtler when it comes to cuddling, so you often just wrap your arms around his arm and put your head on his shoulder, he's very warm so it does wonders.

If anyone attempts to interrupt movie time in his room, they get something thrown at them. Nobody interrupts Nick's movie with his s/o.

BigT / Tanner

Tanner actually came running up to you with the idea to watch a movie, all giddy and excited to show you something new or something he already loved.

Tanner's a 50/50 split on watching things in the movie theater and watching things at home in the living room.

Therefore, Tanner is also a 50/50 split on whether or not he stays awake. He loves going to the theater because it's loud enough to keep him awake.

When it comes to Tanner's movie picks, he loves stupid teen dramas and old action flicks. Mean Girls and the Barbie movie are right up his alley, but so is Jaws.

Tanner often clings to you when cuddling during a movie. You'll have one arm wrapped around his shoulders but he'll have both arms clinging to your torso and pulling you in close.

Tanner likes having candies with him when he watches his movies. Red vines are his favorite movie snack.

Yumi

You originally came up with the idea of watching a movie, but by the time you were watching the film, Blake seemed giddier to watch something with you.

He brought you downstairs, but by the time you reached him at the couch, he was laid out and ready to go with all of his snacks. Because Yumi needs a shit ton of them for movies.

You wonder how he consistently eats them all, yet falls asleep before the first third of the movie is over EVERY time.

Worst part, you can't even cuddle with Blake. He hogs half of the couch single-handedly and takes all of the blankets for himself.

Blake also likes action movies, but he's a jack of all trades. He especially loves superhero movies. Though, he'll watch just about anything as long as you want to.

After the movie is over and Blake has woken up (whether it be that night or the next morning), he asks you if you liked the movie with a big ass grin on his face. It almost makes up for the fact that he was asleep the whole time. Almost.

Larry Croft

You often are the one that brings up the fact that you want to watch a movie to Larry, but almost exclusively Larry is the one that picks what you're watching.

The thing is, Larry has the weirdest movie picks. He will either put on a "so bad it's good" old horror flick that the two of you are laughing at the whole time, or you're watching some super serious, peak cinema film that drops your jaw.

Seriously, he's either looking up the top 50 worst-rated superhero movies or he's searching Letterboxd for new recommendations as to what's people's best-rated movies of all time.

Larry likes simple cuddles. Somewhat holding each other, a blanket on top of you, a really nice night.

Depending on what you're watching, Larry either talks and laughs the whole time or is quite silent, watching the movie intensely. It's kinda scary.

Even with these serious films, though, the most Larry can say about a movie after it's done is, "I liked it," or, "that was good".

His favorite movie is Parasite. Argue with the wall.

#the group chat #tgc #tgc x reader #larry croft x reader #larry croft #yumi x reader #yumi #bigt x reader #bigt #softwilly x reader #softwilly #isaacwhy x reader #isaacwhy #the group x reader

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centrally-unplanned · 7 months

Text

Gonna make this a quick one since I just don’t have the spoons for a really big effort post: Pre-CCP 20th Century China Did Not Have Feudal or Slave-like Land Tenancy Systems

Obviously what counts as “slave-like” is going to be subjective, but I think it's common, for *ahem* reasons, for people to believe that in the 1930’s Chinese agriculture was dominated by massive-scale, absentee landlords who held the large majority of peasant workers in a virtual chokehold and dictated all terms of labor.

That is not how Chinese land ownership & agricultural systems worked. I am going to pull from Chinese Agriculture in the 1930s: Investigations into John Lossing Buck’s Rediscovered ‘Land Utilization in China’ Microdata, which is some of the best ground-level data you can get on how land use functioned, in practice, in China during the "Nanjing Decade" before WW2 ruins all data collection. It looks at a series of north-central provinces, which gives you the money table of this:

On average, 4/5ths of Chinese peasants owned land, and primarily farmed land that they owned. Tenancy was, by huge margins, the minority practice. I really don’t need to say more than this, but I'm going to because there is a deeper point I want to make. And it's fair to say that while this is representative of Northern China, Southern China did have higher tenancy rates - not crazy higher, but higher.

So let's look at those part-owner farmers; sounds bad right? Like they own part of their land, but it's not enough? Well, sometimes, but sometimes not:

A huge class (about ~1/3rd) of those part-owners were farming too much land, not too little; they were enterprising households renting land to expand their businesses. They would often engage in diversified production, like cash crops on the rented land and staple crops on their owned land. Many of them would actually leave some of their owned land fallow, because it wasn’t worth the time to farm!

Meanwhile the small part-owners and the landless tenant farmers would rent out land to earn a living…sometimes. Because that wasn’t the only way to make a living - trades existed. From our data, if you are a small part-owner, you got a substantial chunk of your income from non-farm labor; if you owned no land you got the majority of your income from non-farm labor:

(Notice how that includes child labor by default, welcome to pre-modernism!)

So the amount of people actually doing full-tenancy agriculture for a living is…pretty small, less than 10% for sure. But what did it look like for those who do? The tenancy rates can be pretty steep - 50/50 splits were very common. But that is deceiving actually; this would be called “share rent”, but other systems, such as cash rents, bulk crop rents, long-term leases with combined payment structures, etc, also existed and were plentiful - and most of those had lower rent rates. However, share rent did two things; one, it hedged against risk; in the case of a crop failure you weren't out anything as the tenant, a form of insurance. And two, it implied reciprocal obligations - the land owner was providing the seed, normally the tools as well, and other inputs like fertilizer.

Whether someone chose one type of tenancy agreement or the other was based on balancing their own labor availability, other wage opportunities, the type of crop being grown, and so on. From the data we have, negotiations were common around these types of agreements; a lot of land that was share rent one year would be cash rent another, because the tenants and market conditions shifted to encourage one or the other form.

I’m doing a little trick here, by throwing all these things at you. Remember the point at the top? “Was this system like slavery?” What defines slavery? To me, its a lack of options - that is the bedrock of a slave system. Labor that you are compelled by law to do, with no claim on the output of that work. And as I hit you with eight tiers of land ownership and tenancy agreements and multi-source household incomes, as you see that the median person renting out land to a tenant farmer was himself a farmer as a profession and by no means some noble in the city, what I hope becomes apparent is that the Chinese agricultural system was a fully liquid market based on choice and expected returns. By no means am I saying that it was a nice way to live; it was an awful way to live. But nowhere in this system was state coercion the bedrock of the labor system. China’s agricultural system was in fact one of the most free, commercial, and contract-based systems on the planet in the pre-modern era, that was a big source of why China as a society was so wealthy. It was a massive, moving market of opportunities for wages, loans, land ownership, tenancy agreements, haggled contracts, everyone trying in their own way to make the living that they could.

It's a system that left many poor, and to be clear injustices, robberies, corruption, oh for sure were legion. Particularly during the Warlord Era mass armies might just sweep in and confiscate all your hard currency and fresh crops. But, even ignoring that the whole ‘poverty’ thing is 90% tech level and there was no amount of redistribution that was going to improve that very much, what is more important is that the pre-modern world was *not* equally bad in all places. The American South was also pretty poor, but richer than China in the 19th century. And being a slave in the American South was WAY worse than being a peasant in China during times of peace - because Confederate society built systems to remove choice, to short-circuit the ebb and flow of the open system to enshrine their elite ‘permanently’ at the top. If you lived in feudal Russia it was a good deal worse, with huge amounts of your yearly labor compelled by the state onto estates held by those who owned them unimpeachably by virtue of their birthright (though you were a good deal richer just due to basic agriculture productivity & population density, bit of a tradeoff there).

If you simply throw around the word “slavery” to describe every pre-modern agricultural system because it was poor and shitty, that back-doors a massive amount of apologia for past social systems that were actively worse than the benchmarks of the time. Which is something the CCP did; their diagnosis of China’s problem for the rural poor of needing massive land redistribution was wrong! It was just wrong, it was not the issue they were having. It was not why rural China was often poor and miserable. It could help, sure, I myself would support some compensated land redistribution in the post-war era as a welfare idea for a fiscally-strapped state. But that was gonna do 1% of the heavy lifting here in making the rural poor's lives better. And I don’t think we should continue to the job of spreading the CCP's propaganda for them.

There ya go @chiefaccelerator, who alas I was not permitted to compel via state force into writing this for me, you Qing Dynasty lazy peasant.

#Chinese history discourse blog #essay

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eddies-ashtray · 10 months

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SCARS ♡ Eddie Munson x GN!Reader

gif source

Main Masterlist ♡ Blurb Masterlist

Synopsis: About three months after the demo-bat attack on Eddie, the scars left on his body by the bats remain a source of great insecurity for him. You try to convince him of his beauty in any way you can.

WC: 3.0K

Category: Hurt/comfort & fluff + a dash of smut (18+, MINORS DNI).

Content: Established relationship, mentions and light description of Eddie’s scars, discussion of Eddie being insecure about his scars, reader comforts Eddie, body worship, praise, lots of kisses, teasing.

A/N: This is an AU in which they’ve succeeded in killing Vecna, Eddie still got attacked by the demo-bats, but lived and his trailer is also still intact. Happy reading!

♡*♡*♡

Eddie was like a furnace all year round. In the winter months you’d snuggle up next to him on the couch while you watched movies, often tucking your cold feet underneath his warm thighs, you’d stay tucked under his arm soaking up his warmth as you walked into school together. And when arriving at his trailer and escaping from the chilly December bite, you’d rush straight into his arms, spending a minimum of two minutes making him warm you up.

The point is, the boy ran hot. And while this was an advantage for the both of you when the temperatures dropped (though mostly you–since it gave you an excuse to glom onto him like a koala to a tree), the summer months were hell for him. To compensate, he frequently wore his frizzy hair up and sported short athletic shorts and tank tops, cut off t-shirts, and often no shirt at all if he could help it. Much like his warmth in cooler temperatures, this was also a benefit to you–albeit in a very different way.

Although he took the appropriate measures to ensure that he stayed as cool as possible throughout the summer, this did not spare you of his complaining. He really tried to resist, but when there were 90 degree days you’d spend in your friends backyards or strolling around the zoo or riding bikes to the corner store for slushies, he’d slip into the habit.

But this summer something changed. The complaining suddenly stopped. There was no dramatic sighing or fanning himself with homemade paper fans. No begging to find someplace with air conditioning, or at least a place to sit in the shade. No theatrical comments about how he was about to die any second from dehydration. Nothing.

And while you were glad of the reprieve from his complaining—which, in all honesty, didn’t bother you that much anyway—, you knew something was up. Especially since the absence of his complaints was also accompanied by an abandonment of his usual summer attire.

He traded in tank tops for long-sleeves and those tiny, red athletic shorts (that you thought made his ass look spectacular) for sweatpants or jeans. Like the weather had no effect on him anymore. But you knew it did; you could see how flushed his face would become and the beads of sweat forming on his brow even while seated in front of a fan in his trailer.

You suspected you knew what was going on, but you weren’t sure how to broach the subject.

So near the end of June, 1986 as you and Eddie are spending a lazy afternoon on his porch—Eddie reading a book on the porch couch and you making friendship bracelets at his feet—you ask him:

“Hey, where are those red shorts you have? You know, the ones that when you wear them I always make you walk in front of me.” You waggle your brows at him suggestively.

You’d tipped your head back so it rested on the sofa cushion right next to his left thigh so you could look up at him, and almost absentmindedly, Eddie’s hand had begun to stroke your cheekbone lovingly. But he didn’t catch your eyes, instead his remain glued to the page. He doesn’t react to your borderline salacious comment (just another action that’s out of character for him), but simply turns the page of his book.

“In one of my drawers…Or maybe in the closet, I don’t know,” he responds. He’s wearing a black long sleeve with tour dates on the back and a Dio logo on the front with light-coloured jeans. It was 88 degrees today and humid with absolutely no breeze, the kind of sticky heat that can make you feel like you’re suffocating if you’re outside for too long.

You frown and try again. “What about your cropped shirts? I miss those.” It’s then he stops stroking your cheek.

Eddie huffs, annoyed, and drops his folded paperback into his lap before finally looking at you. “Why are you asking me about my clothes? Worry about your own.”

Eddie rarely gets so defensive or lashes out (which is probably too harsh a phrase for what he��s done just now, but he’s clearly irritated) at you unless there’s something deeper going on. He tries to hide things if he’s ashamed or embarrassed of them, but his feelings end up coming to the surface to manifest in other ways.

A child with pigtails on a faded blue tricycle coasts by then, ringing the silver bell affixed to the handlebars, and a woman (who you presume to be her mother) strolls not more than three paces behind.

It’s then that you stand from the wood floor, abandoning your half-finished bracelet with the loose threads hanging off the end on the couch beside Eddie.

He looks up at you just as you grab his hand, and pull him inside, continuing to pull him along the hall to his bedroom where you get him to sit on the end of his bed.

Eddie has a guilty look on his face, brows knit together and eyes soft. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He drags a hand down his face, now frustrated with himself.

You tilt your head at him then and gently grab his wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. He’s warm. His eyes are apologetic and tired as they stare into yours.

“It’s okay. I think I know what’s going on.” You sit down on the bed next to him, holding his slightly sweaty hand in yours. “But I want you to tell me.”

You’re looking at him, but much like earlier he avoids your gaze. He’s focusing on a small dark spot on the carpet, likely from sometime when he’d dropped a cigarette on the floor.

He looks defeated. It makes your chest ache. You squeeze his hand.

“They’re just…they’re everywhere,” He says quietly, shamefully, and he still can’t look at you as he says it. Like it’s a dirty confession. Like you hadn’t known. Like you hadn’t seen them, hadn’t seen how he got them.

The scars, barely three months old, touch everywhere from the sensitive skin of his belly and thighs, to the muscle of his biceps and crawl down his forearm. He’s even got some hiding just beneath his collar, that creep up around his shoulders where they stop before they reach his back.

You’re formulating a response to his statement, but before you can speak, Eddie continues: “I was already so easy to pick apart. Y’know. The hair, the clothes. And I was mostly fine with it. But this-this just gives them another reason to stare, another reason to point and say, ‘hey, there’s the freak.’” He utters the insult with such venom you flinch.

With your free hand, you tenderly guide his face to look up from the carpet and at you, and your hand drops to his knee. You don’t even have to think of what to say.

“You know what I think when I see them?” You ask, and Eddie shakes his head. “I think about the fact that you survived. They’re a reminder that you still have a body that can scar…that you’re alive.”

Eddie scoffs lightly, disbelieving, and looks away again. “You can’t mean that-you-” But you cut him off, forcing him to look at you again. Your other hand moves from his knee, to cover the top of his hand that’s holding your right one.

“I would rather you be covered head to toe in scars than not be here at all,” You tell him fiercely, making sure to hold his gaze as you say it.

Something changes in his eyes then; they go glassy and tender. You’ve begun to break through, if only by a small amount. At least, he believes that you believe what you’ve said, even if he doesn’t believe it himself yet.

Still, he screws his face up slightly at the image, but then lays his head on your shoulder.

He sniffles. “Thank you.”

You wish he could see himself now how you see him, think about himself what you think about him. You try a different route.

“They’re metal,” You say, bringing the hand that was once grasping his, up his back to lightly scratch at his scalp. “Ozzy would be jealous.”

At this, Eddie gives a weak laugh, and you can feel his shoulders shaking with it.

You’re not sure how else you can convince him of his beauty. You’re not sure if that’s possible. Maybe all you can do is show him in your own way, in every way you can, that you love him, scars and all. Maybe then, over time, he’ll come to feel at least neutral about them. To not speak of them with such hatred, to simply be content that they are there and come to peace with the fact that they will never go away.

With that thought, you stand from the bed, and Eddie looks up at you, eyes shining with unshed tears. From there, you reach down and slowly begin to pull at the hem of his shirt, a question. Is this okay?

When he raises his arms, you proceed, and tug his long sleeve over his head, letting it fall to the carpet. This reveals the pale expanse of his chest and stomach, marked by rippled scars pressed into his flesh. They’re more pink than red now since they’ve mostly healed, but they take up as much space as they had the day the demo-bats sunk their teeth into him.

Then, you gently press against his chest until he gets the memo and lays back, legs hanging off the end of the bed with his feet still planted on the floor.

Climbing on top of him to straddle his hips, you lean down, hands pressed lightly against his chest and softly place your first kiss to the small-ish scar (at least in comparison to the others– which can be about the size of large dinner plates) by his collarbone.

“What’re doing?” Eddie asks the ceiling, voice cracking.

Pressing yourself up from his chest so you’re eye-to-eye, you brush his hair behind his ear lovingly and stroke the soft skin of his cheek. His hands find your hips.

“I’m kissing all your beautiful spots,” You inform him simply. Like it was obvious once you laid down the first kiss that the beautiful spots on his body are all the places marked by scars.

For a moment, Eddie’s large eyes–which are so expressive you think you could read his mind sometimes–sparkle with longing and something more sweet. A fondness.

But then, a nearly nonexistent smirk creeps its way onto his face as if he’s just thought of something ridiculous to say.

“How are you going to kiss my personality and my character?” He quips, tone thick with false authenticity.

You laugh with a short breathy sound. If he’s found the will to be his regular, annoying–yet charming–self, his heart must feel a little lighter.

It’s then you kiss him square on the mouth, allowing your tongue to indulge in the taste of his, like cigarettes and watermelon. Taken by surprise, Eddie makes a hmph sound before melting into you, his hands travelling from your hips to your back, pulling you closer.

Though his mouth was most definitely one of his most beautiful spots, you don’t linger–despite the fact that you want to–as this was not your initial intention.

When you pull away Eddie groans unhappily so you award him with one final, quick kiss before sliding down his body again.

With his shirt off and because you’re pressed close to his skin you can smell him so clearly; his lavender-scented body wash, sweat, and vaguely, his cologne. You delight in the closeness, in all it awards you.

It had taken him weeks to get used to you seeing him like this, let alone allowing you to touch him like this. But you think this is more than that as you softly kiss across the scars on his shoulders. No, you think, this is more than touch. This is worship.

Trailing your hands down his torso ever so lightly, Eddie shivers involuntarily at the ticklish, but pleasing sensation. You smile up at him, satisfied with his reaction, then place a gentle kiss on his sternum. He sighs contentedly.

Then, teasingly, you trail your mouth to the right, and up just slightly. You graze his nipple with your teeth and this is precisely when his chest begins to rise and fall rapidly, his breaths coming quicker.

He lets you tenderly kiss the scars on his pecs, allows you to trail kisses down the length of his arm, ending with a sweet kiss at his wrist. He watches with hooded eyes as you do, pupils blown so wide now they nearly swallow up the dark brown of his irises.

Eddie sighs and moans as you kiss down his belly and leave a path of spit.

He helps you wiggle off his jeans. Once they are off, you allow yourself to indulge in a sudden desire to lick a thick stripe from the waistband of his boxers where his happy trail begins, all the way up to his navel. Eddie’s hips twitch and lift off the bed just slightly as he huffs impatiently. He wants this, he wants you to touch him, to kiss him everywhere available.

You must lay down hundreds of kisses. With each one you are saying I love you, you are saying this to him, you are saying this to each and every scar. You are telling him, I love this one and this one and this one and this one. They are all my favourites. They are all your beautiful spots.

You scratch lightly along his waist, just above his waistband, tugging at the elastic where you let your fingers sneak beneath the fabric. But you don’t tug his boxers down just yet. You haven’t even reached his thighs yet. How could you forget his thighs? What a great act of neglect it would be to forget about his thighs.

Slowly, you slide off his body and onto the floor, now kneeling on the carpet between his legs, which he parted for you ever so willingly. He’s pliable, putty in your hands. You could move him wherever and however you wanted and he would let you.

You decide that you enjoy this angle; seeing him laid out, wriggling around restlessly, sighing as you drag your hands up and down his thighs. He must be half-hard in his boxers. But you ignore this for now in favour of paying attention to his gloriously thick thighs.

Pushing the fabric of his boxers up so you can get to the highest place on his legs where the scars reach without taking them off, you place a kiss there, at the very top of his left thigh.

“Sweetheart, please.” He sounds breathy and desperate.

“But I haven’t kissed everywhere yet,” You tease before placing a sweet kiss to the meat of his thigh.

This makes him whine, high and drawn out.

You rarely get him like this. You love him like this.

So you continue kissing his pinkish scarred flesh; the tops of his thighs, around his knees, his calves, then a painstakingly slow trail back up. He’s almost jittery by the time you’ve reached his thighs again. You must kiss every inch of his flesh broken by the scars. Because they’re a part of him and how could you not love every part of him?

Finally, you reach the apex of the inside of his thighs. He’s extra sensitive there. The scars are fewer and further between there. But still, you kiss each one of them, gently, softly, then tease him by licking up the inside of his thigh, feeling the ridges and bumps of the scars on the flat of your tongue. Another kiss.

“God,” Eddie groans. And then he says something else as you continue your ascent, fingers itching to grasp his waistband and pull his boxers down. You aren’t sure what he’s said at first, until he repeats himself. And then he repeats himself again, and again. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Eddie, you’re so pretty,” You whisper into his thigh before pressing another kiss to another scar, one just below his waistband which you’ve only just begun to tug down. He hears your praise, lolls his head to the side to look down at you. His eyes are glassy and pleading, lust-drunk, love-drunk. Then he reaches his hand down, and you reach up to meet him in the middle where he laces your fingers together.

It’s then you place a kiss over his boxers, kissing the very tip of him where his dick curves up towards his right hip, pressed right beneath the elastic waistband. The spot is damp and you can taste the saltiness of him on your tongue already.

You’re glad you were watching him when you did it, because his eyes rolled into the back of his head before they shut and he moaned and his hips twitched again, searching for more, more, more.

When his eyes slowly open again, he catches you watching him. Teasingly tracing your index finger over his skin, brushing over his scars, causing his stomach to tense, so riled up.

“What?” He drawls lazily.

“Feelin’ good?” You ask, though you know the answer.

“Mmh,” Eddie replies affirmatively, hips shifting again. You smile softly.

If you can give him these moments as often as possible, make him feel loved and worshipped, press all your love into him through your lips on his skin, then maybe he will start to feel it for himself. It will sink into his skin, fight its way beneath the scars and into his heart.

So you continue making him feel good. You finally pull down his boxers, allowing him to spring free. His leaking tip reaches his belly button, dark pink, clearly aching. You press your lips to the tip, once again kissing him.

You ease the ache.

♡*♡*♡

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