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Little TADC comic I made
This is my first time actually making a comic so idk how well I did it. I know I’m not very proud of the first page but I think i got better with it later in the comic. I based this off of a personal head canon that Jax’s ears will form devil horns if he gets a devious idea
The council has decided to add tiny sister Dani into this au
If I were in charge of Goosebumps 2023, I would replace Harold Biddle with Hannah Fairchild. Just, the exact same personality and story arc as Harold, but Hannah. She still has a crush on Sarah, she still possesses Mr. Bratt, she’s just a masc lesbian. Give me an unhinged, autistic lesbian ghost, you COWARDS!
Was watching Jujutsu Kaisen a few weeks ago and then this got stuck in my brain and it needed to be set free into the wild
There is one particular ship dynamic that never fails to wreck me, and I’ll call it Soulmates, But Not Like That. Not in a “some higher power has decided that we are destined to be together” way, but something that is almost the opposite of that. It’s that character who has been alone for a long time, and has maybe convinced themselves that they will be alone forever, and who has a lot of barriers to intimacy with most of the people around them, for whatever the relevant narrative reasons are. And then they just happen to cross paths with this ONE FUCKING PERSON who works for them, through some very specific combination of personality and circumstance and life experience and mutually compatible damage. And there is always the shock of what are the fucking odds, and underneath everything the terror of what if this doesn’t last. what if there’s no one else. I would just go back to being alone. I don’t know if I could do that after knowing this. Because when you finally let down that wall of emotional self-sufficiency the thought of having to put it back up again is painful. And in real life I don’t at all believe that there is only One Designated Person for anyone, but in fiction I do tend to gravitate toward characters who believe themselves to be The Only One in some way, and I will always be emotionally compromised by that dawning sense of oh. You are like me.
i love you mirror versions i love you possession i love you cloning i love you simulacrums i love you shadow selves i love you digital copies of a mind i love you alternate timeline versions i love you tropes that play with identity and what it means to be a certain person
celesteal (adventure forward 2) for @supercoolcattttt ! 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 divi + der 0_o ⤷ 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 🪽
i know it when i see it - part 3
series masterlist | part one | ao3
pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader
rating: explicit 18+ minors dni
word count: 10.3k
warnings: sex work, exhibitionism, voyeurism, literal porn, dirty talk, thigh riding, mutual pining, mild angst, coercive sexual encounters, references to sexual violence, discussions of advocacy and autonomy
summary: unfortunately, it's very hard to stay angry at joel miller.
Fuck Joel Miller.
Fuck his condescension. Fuck his good intentions. Fuck his stupid, sexy voice.
You can’t shake the conversation in the car, so you seethe with it for days. On edge and agitated, his words replaying in an endless, infuriating loop. You’re restless with it — pacing the length of your room, stubbing out unfinished cigarettes only to light a new one, picking at your nail beds until they bleed.
It's more than just anger. It would be so easy if you were just angry at him, if he inspired something as simple and clean as rage. You could handle that — could let it run its course, blackening the edges of any softer feeling you might have had for him.
But there’s something else underneath the anger. A low burn of embarrassment, a snaking thread of shame that winds its way up your spine, settles at the base of your throat.
Because you fucked up. You froze in that scene, in front of Joel, the broken yolk of yourself spilling over into his more capable hands.
You want this so badly, and maybe he had seen that. Something wanting and raw — a desire for approval that made you weak, made you reckless. Maybe he understood that you would endure more than a little hurt to make it happen.
But you weren’t some stupid kid. You didn’t need him to show you how the world worked. And you sort of resented the insinuation otherwise.
There are so many things that you like about the business.
The camaraderie of it all; the girls in their strange silky get ups, standing at the edge of set, swapping stories about all the different ways they fucked. There was none of the competition that characterized those conversations when you were younger, no snarl of possession or jealousy. There was a kindness to it, a warmth. Like you had been granted membership to an unlikely club.
You like the attention, the eyes on you, the heat of desire that settles on your skin. You like revealing the parts of yourself that had once seemed so shameful, reclaiming every inch of skin in front of the camera. You like the way the praise drowns out the whisper of your mother’s disdain, the way your skin seems to thicken with every scene, scar tissue smoothing over. You like the way you can give the grip a stiffy with just a wink, smiling through white streaks of semen.
But that didn’t mean you couldn't see the darker side of things.
Closed casting offices. Rug burns and ripped tights. Cigar smoke sticking to some girl’s skin. The bruises and bloody underwear. Offers that couldn’t be refused.
Even if you wanted to ignore it, you couldn’t. It was everywhere; insidious in its omnipresence, the inescapable reminders that this was a business made by men for men.
But growing up a girl meant getting used to the idea that sometimes sex was painful. You’re so used to men moving with violence, with contempt. In real life, so much of fucking felt like hate, it’s not exactly a surprise to find that sometimes the same thing is true in porn.
You adapt. You deal. You suck it up because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
Big girls grin and bear it. If you bitch, you’ll get cut. And you didn’t come this far to flame out in your first few months. You can’t risk whining when it’s all so delicate, so breakable. Your success is built on spit and prayer, smudged lipstick and a one-way bus ticket.
That’s something Joel would never understand.
You didn’t have the security of being Texas, the safety net of so many titles under your belt. There were still so many girls waiting in hallways to take your place, slipping easily into the space you vacated by being difficult.
That was why you hadn’t stopped the scene. Why you hadn’t said anything about the room being too hot, the pressure reaching a fever pitch.
And maybe you should have said something before Joel ever felt like he had to intervene.
But once he did —
You didn’t want to stop.
You liked the way he talked to you. Liked how he made you feel, seemed to know what you needed without ever having to ask. You had lost yourself in the moment, the soothing lull of his voice. You trusted he would take you where you needed to go.
And maybe that was the real mistake.
This thing — the blurry, misshapen something between you — is going to get you in trouble.
You don’t know what it is about him, what makes you hold him apart from all your other co-stars. Why you care so badly what he thinks, why his disapproval still smarts and aches so many days later. But it scares the shit out of you.
The life you have here feels so tenuous, so fragile. A single thread pulled could unravel the whole thing.
Joel could not be that thread.
You keep working, keep saying yes to scene after scene. Even if you’re tired, even if Tess says maybe you should slow down. Even if you’re sort of losing count of all the cocks and cunts, the sea of flesh that surrounds you.
Because if you fuck this up, there’s nothing left for you. Nowhere to go, no soft place to land.
You can’t go home. You know they’d never take you back, even if you could swallow the shame of it. It wouldn’t matter if they never saw the movies, you know they would be able to smell it on you. Some part of you essentially tainted, impure, the ungodly girl they always suspected you were.
And you’re not sure you can stomach staying here if you fail. You refuse to become one of the many vacant faces at the bus stops, all sunken eyes and stolen dreams. You can’t let yourself become submerged in the sometimes cruel tide of this city, sinking beneath the scud of soured ambition.
So even if it sucks sometimes, you stick it out.
Even if your jaw aches and your knees bruise. Even though sometimes your throat is so sore it hurts to swallow for a few days. Even if you’re not always ready, not always wet, and the stretch is more than you can take.
You won’t look weak.
You won’t risk it.
It's late on a Saturday after a long shoot, the sky a muddy purple as the sun sinks below the horizon. You’re sitting in the living room, a bag of frozen peas between your legs, listening to a Janis Ian record and trying not to cry. You’ve smoked the last cigarette in your pack, the foil wrinkled and disappointing, but you’re too tired to trek all the way to the store on the corner.
So you sit and sulk and try not to feel too sorry for yourself.
There’s the faint scratch of keys in the lock and your roommate stumbles in. Her eyes are soft with smeared liner, mouth a wine blur of red, her limbs soft and loose. She stands in the doorway, and you stare at each other for a long moment. You’re pretty sure you look pathetic.
She doesn’t say anything, just eases the door shut and sits on the sofa, curling into your side. She takes a joint from a tin of altoids and lights it, sucking in a deep breath before gently slipping it into your hand.
The smoke soothes some of the ache, eases the tight coil in your chest. The room gets hazy, and everything hurts a little less.
You get so high that you can’t stop laughing. And then you can’t stop crying. And then you’re doing both at the same time, these sort of wheezing little gasps, hiccuping sobs.
Your roommate holds your hand and pets your hair and promises that you are not going to die, even if it might feel like it at this second. She changes the record to something less maudlin, and settles back on the sofa. You lay your head in her lap and stare up at her through damp lashes. She smells sweet, all smoke and citrus.
You tell her about Joel. About what he said, and how you think he might be right. About the bruises and the bad men and the crying in bathroom stalls. How you think you’re close to something special, but you’re so scared that you’re going to fuck it all up and break it before it happens.
“You won’t break it,” she says. Like it’s obvious. Like it's a fact.
You grimace.
“Nobody likes a whiner.”
She taps your nose affectionately, her smile soft and endlessly understanding.
“It’s not whining if something’s really wrong.”
And you want to believe her, but a stubborn anxiety sinks its teeth into you, an animal sort of fear cornered in the cage of your chest.
“I'm replaceable,” you murmur, “There are so many other girls. If I can't handle it, someone else can.”
She shakes her head, a curtain of hair coming loose, shielding you from the outside world, so all you can see is her smile.
“No one else is you.”
Tears fill your eyes, stinging your lash line. When you blink they streak down your cheeks, dripping onto her bare thigh. She doesn’t seem to mind.
“I don't want to go home,” you whisper.
She coos and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“You are home.”
You stay like that for a long while, curled together, a swell of easy music drifting over you. Your tears dry eventually, leaving a trail of salt on her skin.
You eat an entire sleeve of saltines and start to feel normal again.
Some time after midnight, the other girls come home from the bar, tipsy and giggling. They pile onto the sofa, skin warm and damp and still glittery. Their night is regaled in gasps of laughter, disjointed and jabbering, a giddy squawk. Someone kissed someone, and someone else fell out of an open cab door, but it’s not clear who. No one was hurt, everyone is happy. You fall asleep like that, twined together.
The next morning, you wake up to laughter and the smell of burning eggs. And you think that maybe this is something you won’t lose. Something you couldn’t break even if you tried.
The next time you get a request for a rough scene, you turn it down.
And nothing bad happens.
No one calls you a failure or a fraud. No one shows up to punch your ticket and send you packing.
A few days later, a different request comes in. A softer scene that you say yes to.
You pull the thread and nothing unravels. Everything stays put.
The world still wants you.
x x x x x x
Tess brings you to the bar at the Beverly Wilshire, with its moody low lighting and emerald green booths. The drinks are expensive and terrible, a martini that’s too much vermouth, so you take small sips, lipstick stamped along the rim.
Tess wants to set you up for a feature. Your solo tape hasn't been released yet, but she’s convinced that it’s going to attract a lot of attention, leave an audience hungry for more.
A feature would be the natural follow-up. You would join the illustrious ranks of other infamous women: Marilyn Chambers, Linda Lovelace, Barbara Bourbon.
But that means playing nice with some producers, smiling at the money men. Letting their hands linger a little too long, batting your eyes at their blatant flirtations, the oozing euphemisms.
Softening your rougher edges into the shape of someone they want. Someone who would never nag or needle, never ask for anything especially inconvenient, never begrudge another game of golf. Who was always willing — eager even — for the low, grunting heave of disappointing sex.
It was easy to make men’s hatred of women work against them.
You stare into their sallow, waxy faces and think of the wives they hate waiting at home for them.
There’s an uncomfortable pang of memory: your mother scrubbing the kitchen floors until they shone with bleach, your father coming home with muddy boots. Acid rises in your stomach at the thought, and you swallow it down with a mouthful of champagne.
Tess directs the conversation with an artful sort of precision, leading them around the topic of financing without ever arriving at the point, letting them wander up to it in their own time, making them think it was their idea all along. The men nod and chuckle and sip at their scotch. You can see the derision in the thin pull of their papery lips.
They don’t take her seriously. She’ll bleed them dry anyways.
One of the men takes a clumsy step closer to you.
“I recognize you from something,” he says, breath heavy with brandy. “The naughty school girl — was that you?”
You force yourself to smile, “I only had a small part in that one.”
He sucks his teeth in disappointment. His eyes have a hint of jaundice, a tinge of yellow at the edge that makes him look vaguely reptilian.
“A shame,” he leans in even closer, “Pretty little thing like you. You should be the star.”
He leers in lieu of a smile, and you feel his hand brush the side of your breast as it slides to your lower back. You bristle and take a step back —
— and collide with someone else. A tall, solid someone who smells like cedar smoke and whisky, warm and welcoming. The hand that catches your waist is careful, the grip steady and sure.
Joel glances down at you, dark eyes flickering over your face.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” you say, slightly breathless.
You take a step back and his hand falls from your waist. You can feel the heat lingering on your skin.
Joel turns back to the man.
“You were just leaving. Ain’t that right?”
His voice is low, all menace, as he glowers down at the other, much smaller man.
The suit takes a step back, wilting a little. He looks small and shriveled in his pinstripes. You imagine his wrinkled balls drawn up and quivering between his legs. It’s sort of hard to remember that you’re supposed to be angry at Joel.
Tess appears then, stepping in to diffuse the tensions. She claps the other man on the shoulder.
“Sorry, Todd. Forgot to put my dog on a leash.”
He laughs, relief flooding his wane face, before he turns back to his equally flaccid friends.
Tess gives Joel a disapproving look.
“Can’t play nice for five minutes, can you?”
He raises an eyebrow at the drink in Tess’s hand.
“Thought you were working.”
“I am working,” she says, “This is a people business, Joel. Gotta shake a few hands, take a few shots. You could learn a thing or two.”
Joel gives her a skeptical look.
“Doin’ just fine on my own, thanks.”
Tess scoffs, “Lucky for you, your dick does most of the talking.”
He grimaces, and looks like he might say something else, but then Tess is turning to you, giving you a wary once-over.
“You okay, kid?”
You nod. And you are, really. You could stomach a lot worse than a wandering hand.
But you sort of don’t want to be near Joel right now, so you make a weak excuse.
“I’m going for a smoke.”
You know that if she read any real anxiety in your expression she would have offered to come with you. She told you from the beginning, before all of this, that everything is at your discretion. If anyone overstepped, took the flirting too far, she would handle it.
As it is, she lets you step away, slipping through the crowd of models and suits, hearts and spades, until you reach the exit.
The boulevard is busy, crowded with traffic and tourists, the haze of headlights. Neon signs burn against the black sky, blinking out the stars and staining the skyline in garish pinks and greens.
You step into the side alley for some quiet. The door to the kitchens is propped open, spilling tepid light onto the bricks and cement. You can hear the clatter of silverware, the hiss of oil, a voice shouting out the order to eighty-six the sirloin.
You lean against the wall, the bricks cool against your bare back, the low dip of your dress designed to entice the men inside.
That’s the business. It only bothers you sometimes.
You close your eyes, inhaling the damp, smokey air. It helps a little. Clears your head.
The air shifts, and you can sense someone standing at the mouth of the alley. Which would maybe be alarming, except you feel that inexplicable pull, that tug just behind your navel, and you know who it is before you open your eyes.
Joel stands with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, silhouetted in the glow of a streetlight.
“You alright?” he asks.
You frown at him.
“I’m fine. Just needed some air.”
When he steps into the shadow of the alley, the light softens his features. The cut of his jaw isn’t as harsh, the set of his brow not so severe. You can see the warmer tones in his dark eyes, that smooth amber you like so much.
Fuck.
When he’s standing this close and he looks that good, it’s very hard to remember you sort of hate him.
Then he says —
“You oughta be careful with guys like that.”
And you stiffen, spine snapping into place, because he can’t be fucking serious. You glare at him.
“I’m not really in the mood for another lecture.”
He frowns, “Wasn’t tryin’ to lecture you —”
“No?” you interrupt, “‘Cause you really nailed it last time.”
He sighs heavily, folding his arms over his chest, scuffing the heel of his boot against the ground.
“You’re new at this,” he says, “There’s shit you don’t know.”
You scoff. Sharp, derisive.
“You think I don't know what men are like?” you say, “Maybe I’m new to this city, but I'll tell you something — not all the bad guys are here.”
Joel looks at you, and for a second there’s something else behind his gaze. A sort of sadness. Like he’s sorry for whatever might have happened to you before, all the shit that brought you here.
But he has no right to that history.
“I’m just sayin’,” he says gruffly, “Tess should know better than dragging you into shit like this.”
You glare at him.
“Tess knows I can take care of myself.”
“Jus’ want you to be careful,” he mutters, shaking his head, “That’s all.”
And you should leave it there, should go back inside, slip into that circle of men, let them look at you.
But you can’t — you can’t play nice when you’re pissed, can’t simper and smile with the burn of fury beneath your skin.
And it’s his fucking fault.
You take a step closer, glaring up at him.
“You think I’d let that guy fuck me?” you hiss.
Joel doesn’t rise to it.
“I think it ain’t always easy to say no.”
You narrow your eyes. “I can say no.”
He looks down at you, and then something shifts in his gaze. Subtle. A shadow passing over the sun, just a shade darker. But it’s there.
You feel it.
He takes a step closer, and you can feel the heat coming off of him, how it warms the night air around you.
“Is that right?” he murmurs.
You freeze when you feel his hand wrap around your wrist, the careful brush of his rough calluses. His thumb strokes the thin skin over your veins, and you wonder if he can feel the way your pulse skips.
He meets your eyes, and his are burning.
“What if he touched you like this?” he asks.
His hand slides up your arm to your shoulder, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He toys with the strap of your dress, teasing it against your skin.
You swallow, fighting to keep your voice steady.
“I’d tell him to fuck off.”
Joel nods.
“Yeah, I reckon you would.”
His hand drifts down the bare skin of your chest, until his fingertips catch against the smooth fabric of your dress. He brushes his knuckles along the side of your breast, settling his hand on your ribs.
He raises an eyebrow, “And if he touched you like this?”
You glare at him, baring your teeth.
“I’d rip his dick off.”
Joel chuckles, “‘Atta girl.”
He leans forward. So close you have to tip your face up to hold his gaze, so close you can feel his breath against your lips.
“And what about me?”
You stare at him.
“What — what about you?”
It was sort of hard to focus through the sudden haze of arousal, the heat flooding through you.
“What if I touched you like this?” he says, voice low.
His thumb swipes across the swell of your breast, just below your nipple. Your breath catches.
“Fuck off,” you mutter, but it’s weak, there’s no real bite.
He lowers his head to your neck, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat.
“Come on, darlin’,” he murmurs, “You can do better than that.”
You feel the soft press of his lips against your pulse, the way his tongue darts out to taste the sweat of your skin.
You bite back a moan.
“You’re pissed at me — remember?” he says, coaxing, “You were about ready to rip my head off.”
His teeth drag up the side of your neck and you shiver.
“Yeah,” you say weakly, “I hate you.”
He sucks a mark below the line of your jaw and you whine, twisting your hands into the fabric of his shirt.
He laughs, a low rasp. His breath cools the damp patch of skin his mouth left behind.
“Not sure I believe you, sweetheart. Not when you’re making all those sweet sounds for me.”
Drags his hand up to cup your breast, thumb stroking over your nipple, it stiffens against his touch. You can’t help it — you lean into his touch. Aching for more.
All you can think about is the feel of his mouth on your skin, his hand firm and heavy on your breast.
“You gonna let me fuck you here? Right in this alley, where anyone could see you.”
And honestly — you would.
You definitely would. You want more of him, all of him.
But you’re supposed to be proving a point here.
So you force yourself to pull away slightly, pressing the heel of your hand against his chest. His hand starts to slide down toward the apex of your thighs, where you want him so badly. And you know if you let him touch you there, you’re a goner.
You grit your teeth to get the word out —
“No.”
You shove him back with enough force that his head thuds against the brick wall. You keep your hand pressed against his chest, his heartbeat hammering against your palm.
You stare at him, breathing hard.
“I said fuck off.”
He looks at you. His pupils are blown out, irises almost entirely swallowed by the black. He looks almost as fucked out as you feel, but there’s something else burning in the heat of his gaze. Something like pride.
“Yeah,” he nods, “You did.”
You swallow.
Suddenly it’s all too much. This closeness, the warmth of him, the way he’s looking at you, his broad chest beneath your hand. You think you’re in danger of doing something really stupid if you stay any longer.
You steady yourself and take a step back.
“Tell Tess I took a cab home.”
He nods.
“Alright.”
And you turn before he can say anything that might convince you to stay, that might trick you into thinking this meant something.
It didn’t, you decide as you slide into the back of a cab. It was nothing. An anomaly, a blip, a freaking fucking accident.
You do not like Joel Miller.
So you’re not sure why you dream about him that night.
x x x x x
Tess bought her house in Topanga directly from the architect after he went bankrupt at the end of the sixties. You would have believed it was built for her, it's so well-suited. A split-level at the crest of the canyon, all oak paneling and sloped ceilings.
You like coming up here, how it feels like the smog of the city slides off your skin.
She lets you hang around while she works, taking calls from the tiny home office, her voice carrying out to where you sit in the kitchen, smearing peanut butter onto white bread.
You end up in the living room most evenings, after Tess says she’s gotten sick of hearing her own voice. She leaves the sliding door open so a breeze comes in off the canyon. Bluebonnets sway on their stalks, the sweet smell of them drifting in, mingling with the smoke from Tess’s cigarette.
The low hooting of an owl is drowned out by the slow turn of a record on the player. Tess sits in her leather armchair, head leaned back, exhaling her smoke to the ceiling.
You lay sprawled across her thick shag carpet, the burgundy fur of it soft against your bare legs. You’re flipping through a stack of negatives from your last photoshoot, trying to select one for the cover of your solo tape.
You’re not sure you can really call it a solo, since Joel played as much a role as you did.
Either way, it still doesn’t have a name, mostly because you don’t have a name. Something Tess insists you have to remedy now that the release is approaching.
“I think it oughta be something soft,” Tess says thoughtfully, “You know, pretty.”
“Like what?”
You’ve been through this a dozen times, but never settle on anything specific. It feels weighty in a way that you can’t quite articulate. The scenes you’ve done so far are so small in comparison. This is something that belongs to you, and by naming yourself, you’re claiming it — everything that has come before, and everything that will come after.
“Maybe something floral,” she suggests, “Poppy or Posey?”
You think of weddings and funerals, flowers wilting in their vases. Everything with an expiration date. You wrinkle your nose.
“Maybe a little too soft.”
Despite the sweet, simpering role you’ve played plenty of times, you’ve never really felt like that person — even in porn. You like to think there’s a little more bite to you.
Tess smirks, “We could always go with Mary.”
You roll your eyes.
“I can only be a virgin so many times.”
She takes a long drag, expression thoughtful. Smoke curls out of the corner of her mouth.
“How about Honey?”
You look up sharply.
“What?”
“Honey,” Tess repeats, “As your name. That’s what Joel called you, right?”
You drop your gaze back at the negatives.
“Maybe.”
It was a lie. A bad one. You remembered every name he called you. Baby. Honey. Pretty girl. The way his accent warmed the words, how they seeped into your skin.
You haven’t told her about the conversation you had in the car or what happened after you left the bar. Why the mention of him gets you all tangled up.
“It’s not awful,” Tess muses, “Sort of sweet.”
And she’s right, it’s a nice name. But the thought stirs something in you, some sort of strange possessiveness. You want to keep that between you, want Joel to be the only one that calls you all those soft, affectionate things. Even if it’s just for a scene. Even if he never says it again.
Whatever it is, this thing between you, you want to keep it separate.
You make a sort of noncommittal noise, looking down at the film strips in your hands. You can feel Tess’s eyes on you, shrewd and dissecting. You never feel quite so legible as you do with her.
“So,” Tess says, exhaling a stream of smoke, “Did you fuck him?
You’re careful to keep your expression neutral as you look up, raising an eyebrow.
“You were there, remember?”
Tess rolls her eyes.
“Not what I meant.”
She holds your gaze until you feel a blush burn on your cheeks and you look away.
“No — not other than that scene.”
It’s not technically a lie. You haven’t fucked other than that first scene together. And you don’t really have a name for what happened the other night in the alley, but it wasn’t fucking. You’re still not sure what it means, and you’re not ready to tell Tess about it.
Tess shrugs, “Wouldn’t be the first time someone mixed business and pleasure.”
And you know that. That on-screen chemistry can bleed over, become something more behind the scenes. You’ve received your fair share of overtures and invitations, offers for a night cap from someone who’s just shot a load all over your lower back. But you’ve never been interested.
At least, not in any of them.
You sigh and roll over onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. Your shirt rides up and you splay your hand over your ribs, feeling the phantom touch of Joel’s fingertips.
“Pretty sure he’s not interested.”
Because he would have said something, is what you don’t say.
Tess scoffs, “Doubt that.”
You press up onto your elbows, staring at her. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, kid,” she shakes her head, “I was there. All that baby, honey, sweetheart shit?”
“What about it?”
“I’m just saying, that’s not what he calls the other girls,” she says, “God knows he never called me that.”
You tilt your head, looking up at her.
“You two —?”
She flicks her wrist, “Ages ago. When we were both starting out.”
“Oh.”
You consider this new information, rolling it over in your head. It’s not a surprise, not really.
“And was he always…” you trail off, unable to put into words exactly what Joel is.
“A hard ass?” Tess finishes with a laugh, “Yeah, he was. Pretty sure he’s been scowling since the day he was born.”
She taps her ash into its ceramic dish.
“But I know him. And trust me, he’s a lot worse when he doesn’t like someone.”
You’re not sure what to say. You can’t unriddle the mystery of Joel Miller and you’ve sort of given up on trying.
You look back at the negatives in front of you and select one. In it, your eyes are heavy-lidden, lips parted slightly, shining with suggestion. You stretch your arm out to offer it to Tess.
“I think this is the one.”
She tucks her cigarette in the corner of her mouth, taking the negative from your hand and holding it up to the light so the shadow of your silhouette is illuminated.
“Perfect,” she nods, sliding it into the pocket of her shirt, “Now you just need the name.”
You think back to that first tape. The casting call. The bus ticket that brought you here. Every risk and roll of dice, the twists of fate you trusted enough to take you here, to this moment.
“What about Lucky?” you suggest, “Like, lucky number seven?”
The way that Tess had referred to you on that first day of the cheerleader film. Your first encounter with Joel, the first scene that made you feel like this was something you could be good at.
“Not bad,” she muses, thinking it over, “I could work with that.”
Lucky.
You like the way it sounds, the way it feels. Sexy without showing too much of your hand. A flash, a wink. All suggestion and subtext. Something to play with.
You roll onto your knees, tilt your head, wet your lips, and in a low, lilting voice say —
“Feeling Lucky tonight?”
Tess grins, bemused, and points at you with the glowing tip of her cigarette.
“You’re good, kid. I think I’ll keep you around.”
x x x x x x
The first Lucky tape sells so well that Tess takes you to Chateau Marmont to celebrate. You get a sunburn drinking Dom Perignon out by the pool, ankles dipped in the water, eating a dish of olives.
You bring home a copy of the tape, along with a new record player for the apartment since the old one skipped so much. Your roommates pass the cover between them with giddy interjections of — your hair looks amazing — you’re such a babe — christ, your tits! —
You refuse to stay in the room while the girls watch the scene, but you stand in the kitchen, listening to your own moans through the thin walls. You bite down on your fist, grinning at the girls’ little gasps and shrieks of delight. Afterwards, they pull you back into the living room, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, effusive in their praise.
They don’t mention Joel’s voice, but later one of them tugs you aside, a knowing look in her eyes, and says —
“So that’s him.”
When you get a copy of a dirty magazine with the advert in the back, the other girls cut it out with nail scissors and tape it carefully to the fridge. You can’t so much as get a glass of milk without seeing your face — the coquettish curl of your lip, your legs splayed just so — with the order info below.
It sells out on the first run.
Tess tells you that people are starting to pay attention.
Your name is starting to end up on lists, whatever that means. But you know that she’s getting calls about you, offers instead of auditions. And it isn’t much, it’s barely a ripple in the churning sea of smut, but it’s something.
It’s more than you had yesterday.
Maybe less than you’ll have tomorrow.
You decide to write out a new rider. And it has nothing to do with Joel. Nothing.
But Tess says you can be choosier now, so you will be.
You’ve always liked sex, in sort of a general way. You’ve never had to dissect it before, parse the particulars and shine out which pieces you like more than the rest.
You expand your hard no’s. Asterisk others. There are new terms added, shit you’d never even heard of before you started working in the industry. For the first time, you really think about your own limits, the ways you’re willing to be pushed and where you want to draw lines.
Tess gives it an approving once-over and promises it’ll be included for all future shoots.
And it’s not much. A thin defense against a business — a world — that won’t always care what you want.
But it’s a start.
x x x x x x
You’ve never been in a house like this.
Equal parts gaudy and glamorous, tucked away in the hills near Mulholland, with a winding driveway so long you were sure you were lost on the way up.
It belongs to a French director whose first foray into American cinema was an erotic thriller in which you played a small role. It was still porn, whatever he wanted to call it, but his name carried enough prestige for the project to be taken seriously in some circles.
The house is all live edges and wood-paneled walls with strange, expensive art that all seems sort of labial. There’s music playing from some unseen speaker with a hazy, hypnotic quality.
You make your way to the center of the house, where bodies are sprawled across the low bowl of the living room, clutching leopard print cushions to their chests, speaking in slow, slurred voices. The tone is vaguely European, undeniably erotic. They’re all smoking something that smells faintly of tar. As you pass, a wrist raises delicately from the chaise, gold bangles clinking together in a soft sort of music.
You’re wearing the only expensive dress you’ve ever owned. The fabric feels like water, and it clings to the soft curves of your body. The cut is suggestive but subtle, exposing a flash off your thigh or the curve of breast with every step.
Claude, the director, descends the moment he sets eyes on you, kissing the air beside your cheeks a dozen times each.
“Come — you must meet everyone.”
And it feels like you do.
He sweeps you around the room, calling you Lucky and spilling out a ceaseless stream of praise that makes you blush. You shake hands and accept air kisses, the occasional brush of dry lips against your knuckles. You let him pull you through the tide of eager admirers, smoky eyes and benevolent smiles, manicured fingers dragging wet circles around the rim of wine glasses.
You shine with it, the warmth of their attention, let it soak into your skin.
“Ah, and yes —” Claude says, stopping suddenly, “I think you’ve already met.”
You turn and find Joel standing in front of you.
He looks — different.
And it takes you a moment to realize why, to recognize the subtle shift in his appearance. You wouldn’t go so far as to call it polished, but he’s more put-together than you’re used to seeing him. He’s in a button down shirt and dark jeans, his hair slicked back, and you can see the effort in it, the wet drag of a comb through the streaks of gray.
He looks good.
But then again, he always does. And always at the most inconvenient times.
You stare at him.
And he doesn’t shake your hand, or kiss your cheek, or offer any other overture of affection. He just nods his, tilting his head towards you.
“Lucky,” he says.
The corner of his lip twitches with something like a smile.
You step away, excusing yourself to the bathroom before the blush on your cheeks gives you away.
God, you wish so badly that you didn’t give a shit. That his presence was benign, a non-event, barely worth noting in your account of the evening.
But every time you saw him it was the same.
The aching want reopened. The ugly hope resurfaced. You’re fifteen again, rolling the waistband of your skirt, exposing another inch of thigh like some illicit offering, hoping it might be enough to entice a boy’s attention.
You need to get a grip.
When you step inside the tiled bathroom, there are two women bathing together in some strange, voyeuristic ritual: their soft, glossy bodies twined together beneath rose scented suds. Their pretty heads lean on the lip of the tub, smiling beatifically at anyone who interrupts to use the only toilet.
They make polite conversation while you pee, which is the sort of thing you probably shouldn’t get used to.
You search for Tess in the crowd, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
Eventually you find her, surrounded by the many pretty, gossamer girls that always seem to orbit around her, eager for a chance to impress. You can’t blame them. She’s a rare and impressive breed in this business; a woman who’s more than window-dressing.
Tess waves you over, a pretty brunette sliding off her lap to make room on the leather sofa.
She notices your expression and frowns.
“What's wrong?”
“Joel is here.”
Her face remains neutral, impassive. The tip of her cigarette glows as she inhales.
“He said he might come,” Tess shrugged, “Surprised he actually showed up.”
“Why is he here?” you press.
She smirks up at you. “He’s a fan.”
You frown, “Of Claude?”
You found it almost impossible to believe that Joel had any deep appreciation for the obscure filmography of the French new wave.
“Of you, kid,” she rolls her eyes, “He appreciates your body of work.”
She says it suggestively, but you’re not in the mood.
“He hasn’t even seen my shit.”
Tess takes a long drag, looking profoundly unconcerned.
“I might have sent him a few tapes.”
You stare at her.
“What?”
“He asked,” she shrugs.
There’s a faint ringing in your ears.
“When?” you ask.
“After the solo shoot.”
Un-fucking-believable.
He asked for your tapes.
You needed saving during your solo shoot, and he wanted to see the rest for himself. Like he was collecting tragic evidence of your insufficiency, proof that you really aren’t up to par.
That you don’t have what it takes.
You open your mouth to say something else, but Tess shakes her head.
“That’s all I’ve got, kid,” she says, “You want a real answer, you have to ask him.”
You think if you see him now, you really would rip his head off.
Instead, you slip out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing and looking down at the distant lights of the city. The sky is still stained from the sunset, the bright colors bleeding out from the horizon.
The city sweeps out below you, what looks like an endless expanse. If you crane your neck, you can see the spot where the lights disappear into the black stretch of ocean.
You’d never seen the ocean before coming here. The first time you stepped into it, felt the waves licking up your ankles, it was like you forgot all the hurt that sent you running in the first place. Like you came all this way just to see the beach.
The air shifts and someone leans on the balcony beside you.
And somehow you know it’s him, know it without looking, because there’s some part of you that was waiting. That knew eventually he would follow you.
You look up at him, his profile outlined against the orange sky.
“I like the name,” he says casually.
You frown at him.
“Shouldn’t you be mingling or something?”
He glances over his shoulder, watching the silhouettes move across the windows. He shakes his head.
“Not really my crowd.”
Your grip tightens on the stem of your champagne glass. You’re not sure you can swallow down much more small talk before the real question rips out of you.
“Then why are you here?”
At the party, but also here. Alone. With you.
He glances at you, and you realize that the usual hardness is gone from his gaze. He seems softer, somehow, in the rosy light and his stupid nice shirt.
“Looked like you could use some company,” he says simply.
And you want so badly to ask what he means, what he’s trying to say. Why he insists on making this thing between you even more impossible.
Instead you say —
“Did you ask Tess for my tapes?”
He’s silent for a long moment.
A breeze ruffles the fabric of his shirt, lifts his dark hair. Music drifts out from the open doors, your glass of champagne sweats in your hand.
He clears his throat. Looks down.
“Yeah. I did.”
You force out a bitter laugh, shaking your head.
“Fuck. You really don’t think I can do this, do you?”
He looks up, frowning.
“What?”
“You wanted to — what? See how bad I was fucking up?”
“No, that’s —”
He cuts himself off. Shakes his head, his hands flexing against the railing. His jaw twitches, and it looks like he has to force the words out.
“That's not why I wanted ‘em.”
His gaze flickers up to meet yours and your breath catches.
It’s scorching. All heat, burning embers, so overwhelming in its raw want that you almost take a step back.
“Oh.”
You were wrong.
You were so fucking wrong.
He’s not just the thread that’s going to unravel you. He’s not some problem that you’re going to solve. He’s the flame that’s going to burn this whole fucking thing to the ground.
He takes a step closer.
“I know you can handle yourself just fine.”
Before you can say anything, you’re interrupted by the clink of a fork against glass, Claude’s voice drifting out onto the balcony as he announces that the screening is about to begin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please make your way into the theater.”
The moment breaks.
Joel steps away, leaving a little more distance between you.
And there’s more that you want to say, to pry out of him. But the living room is emptying out with the flow of bodies from one room to the next, everyone settling in for the screening.
He tilts his head.
“You oughta go.”
You feel yourself flush.
“Right. Yeah.”
You hesitate for a moment, then head inside. You can hear his footsteps behind you, and you feel the heat of his gaze all the way into the screening room.
x x x x x x
Everyone else has already settled when you slip inside the screening room, with its low umber ceiling and plush velvet seating. You imagine the original purpose of the room was orgies, but it works well enough for the small crowd assembled now.
You perch on the back of a sofa near Tess, careful not to meet her gaze, sure that she would see something obvious written across your expression.
Claude stands at the front of the room, his cheeks red from the wine or attention or both, you can’t be sure.
“Thank you all for coming to our little gathering…”
You see Joel settle at the opposite end of the room, leaning against the wall, tucked away in the shadows. You feel a strange, tittering thrill when you realize what he’s about to see.
The lights are dim and the film begins.
It’s difficult to parse the finer details of the plot; the whole thing has a nebulous, dreamlike quality. Drifting from scene to scene without any clear objective, pausing to admire ripples on the pool or gauzy curtains fluttering in the breeze.
There is some shifting and conversation among the audience for the first twenty minutes, but they settle for the sex scene, quieting at the first flash of skin, turning their gaze forwards, watching with rapt attention.
The husband and wife tangle together in soft blue bed sheets, shedding their clothes until their skin is bare. She straddles his waist, her breasts spilling out from the cups of her bra, her hair loose and wild. He thumbs at her clit, wraps his mouth around the stiff peak of her nipple, and coaxes a low moaning climax from her.
There’s a smattering of applause as the scene shifts again. Across the room, the actress who plays the wife raises her glass in acknowledgement.
Maybe it should be strange, the way sex has become a spectator sport.
But it’s all admiring, all affectionate.
You’re almost surprised when you finally appear.
A few of the other girls cheer, casting gleeful looks in your direction. You feel a warm glow of feeling for them, but you’re distracted — hyper-aware of Joel standing at the edge of the room.
You’re the au pair, pretty in your little sundress. You arrive with a single suitcase, a book of poetry under your arm, an almost venomous shine in the red of your lips. Almost at once, you begin the slow seduction of the husband.
You lounge by the pool, your skin shining and damp, the straps of your bathing suit undone. You mouth at a peach pit, the juice slipping down your chin. You flirt and fawn and flutter your eyelashes until the husband finally succumbs to your attentions.
The husband comes behind you, whispers something in your ear. His lips drags down the side of your neck, mouthing damply at your skin. It’s lewd, lascivious, but it’s supposed to be.
His hands twitch towards your chest.
The camera follows the slow unbuttoning of your dress, your skin exposed inch by inch. Your nipples peek through the lace of your bra, and the husband pauses to cup your breasts in his heavy hands, pawing and plucking.
Your dress slips from your frame, pooling at your feet. The camera lingers on the lone line of your legs, curve of your hip. The room had been cold, but the goosebumps on your skin suggest arousal rather than a chill.
Normally, you don’t mind watching your own work. It usually becomes an analytical exercise more than an erotic one, studying the details of your performance, making note of where you might improve.
But now —
You’re almost painfully aware of Joel standing across the room, watching as you strip naked on screen.
You wonder what he sees. If he liked the white lace of your panties, the way they cut high across your ass cheeks. The husband’s hand drags over the curve of your hip, teasing at the waistband, exposing a flash of the skin beneath.
You risk a glance in Joel’s direction —
— and meet his gaze.
He’s already looking at you.
He holds your gaze for a long moment, expression unreadable, then pointedly turns his head back to the screen. Making it clear that he’s watching everything.
On screen, the husband turns you at the hip and props you up against the counter. He buries his face between your breasts, dragging his tongue down the sensitive skin between them. Your head drops back, a fluttery, girlish moan leaving your lips.
You don’t remember what it felt like.
He presses you back against the countertop, laying you down beside the crushed basil, a curl of lemon rind. Your mouth is wide with an erotic sort of wonder, watching as he bows his head between your legs.
You look good.
You can acknowledge that, at least, even when every other part of you itches with the anxiety of Joel’s presence.
There’s an undeniable sensuality in the way you raise your hips to meet the husband’s mouth, the sweet whimpers that leave your lips.
The husband straightens and unsheathes his cock from his trousers, tapping the ruddy head of himself against your entrance. There’s a breathless moment of pause — you bite your lip, brace your hands over your head — and then he slides inside.
The sound of your soft moans fill the room, accompanied by a gentle lilting score.
You glance over at Joel again, and this time he isn’t watching you. His dark eyes are focused on the screening, watching as you get fucked.
It’s strangely erotic, charged, to watch him watch you.
As if sensing your gaze, he turns his head.
It’s impossible to read his expression, only half his face is lit by the glow of the screen. But you can feel the way his gaze sweeps over you. How it lingers on the place between your legs where you can already feel yourself getting wet.
It’s like he knows.
You press your thighs together, arousal pooling in your core.
On screen, you moan, and you tear your gaze away to look back at the film.
The husband is fucking you with intent now, his shoulders bunching by his ears, but the camera’s focus is entirely on you. The wet spread of your sex around his cock, the way you writhe on the countertop.
Your eyes close, and your mouth drops open. A long moan leaves your lips.
“Fuck, I’m coming.”
You were not.
Not even close. It was rare enough in real life, by now you knew better than to expect it in porn, barring the occasional exception. The actor playing the husband had barely paid any attention to your clit, so focused on staving off his own orgasm that he made no real attempt to make you come.
It was in the script, and so you faked it.
And normally it wouldn’t matter. Most people, most men, couldn’t tell the difference anyways.
But he’s watching.
Joel — who made you come three times in your first scene together. Who talked you through three more during the solo shoot. Who had apparently watched the rest of your fucking tapes.
He could definitely tell the difference.
No one else seems to notice, or else they don’t expect anything else. There’s a friendly round of applause as your scene ends — the husband coating your chest in come — and a few people raise drinks in your direction.
You’re almost afraid to look at Joel again, afraid of what you might find in his gaze. When you risk a glance at him, he’s still looking at the screen.
But you think there’s a certain smugness to his expression, a satisfaction.
Your stomach swoops low and you swallow the last mouthful of your flat champagne, feeling a burn that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
x x x x x x
You step out somewhere in the second act.
The film isn’t very good, a little too interested in its own opaque morality, but you suspect everyone will say otherwise. You certainly will, whenever you’re asked.
You slip through the screening room door, the sound of moans cutting off as it closes behind you.
The house feels strange now that it’s empty, the hallway echoing with every step you take. You ache for a bit of privacy, a real reprieve. You wonder if those women are still in the bath, or if they’ve joined the splay of bodies inside.
You only make it a few steps down the hall before you hear the door open behind you, a bright burst of sound quickly muffled as it closes again.
You recognize the sound of his footsteps, the tread of his boots. He stops just a few paces behind you.
“Did he know?”
You turn slowly and find Joel watching you.
“What?
He takes a step closer. His eyes are dark. Hungry.
“Did he know you faked it?”
You swallow. “I — I didn’t.”
“C’mon, darlin’,” he tuts his disapproval, “Can’t lie to me. I know what the real thing looks like.”
He pauses. Tilts his head.
“Or did you forget?”
You swallow. “I didn’t forget.”
He moves slowly towards you, and you don’t back away this time, don’t deflect. He seems to be waiting for it, for you to tell him to stop. You know he would if you said so, know that some part of him must expect it. But this time you don’t.
When he reaches out to touch you, you let him.
“You get all flushed here,” he murmurs, his knuckles grazing your cheek, then drifting down to your chest, stopping just above your breasts, “And here.”
Your breath hitches. You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat beneath his hand.
He brushes your hair back, sweeping it from the side of your neck, exposing the skin there. He wraps his hand loosely around the column of your throat, holding you in place
“Know what you sound like too. All those sweet little whimpers,” his fingers flex slightly. “Can’t get ‘em out of my head.”
He holds you like that for a long moment, head tilted up toward him, his thumb stroking along your jaw. Just — looking. At you.
You swallow, and you know he can feel the movement of your throat under his hand. You can feel yourself slipping, dragged into the undertow of his voice, the current of electricity between you.
“It’s real pretty when you do it right,” he murmurs.
“Maybe,” you say, though it comes out a little ragged, “Or maybe I faked it with you too.”
His eyes go impossibly dark.
“Guess we oughta find out.”
He crowds you back, pressing you further into the dark corner of the hall. A gasp punches its way out of your lungs as he pushes you up against the wall.
He splays his hand over your chest, at the base of your throat, his fingers grazing the neckline of your dress. He stares down at the blush that rises on your skin, blossoms under his touch.
“See?” he murmurs, “Like that.”
He strokes your feverish skin, almost thoughtfully.
“Am I turning you on, darlin’? Or do you just like watching yourself?”
The sensitive tips of your breasts brush against his hard chest and a shiver wracks through you. You lean into his touch, looking up at him from under your lashes.
“I know it’s not for him,” he says, jerking his head towards the screen room, “Couldn’t even get you close. And you’re so easy, aren’t you?”
He ducks his head and drags his tongue down the sensitive skin of your neck. You choke on a moan —
“Fuck.”
He doesn’t stop, dragging his mouth along the side of your jaw, beard scraping against your skin. You can feel him smirking.
“You wet already?” he asks, “Come on, baby. I want to hear it.”
“Yes,” you gasp at another flick of his tongue, “Fuck — yes.”
He nudges your knees apart with his own, slotting his thigh between your legs. When his hips press against yours, you can feel that he’s hard. And it makes you feel a little desperate, a little light-headed, to feel how much he wants you.
“Bet you can come just like this, can’t you?” he mutters, “Rubbing up on my thigh.”
You can, you know you can. You’ve been wet from the moment your scene started, the second you saw him watching. And now the feel of him against you — his thick arms caging you against the wall, your hips trapped against his — it was all so much.
“Please,” you whine, “Joel, please.”
He rolls his hips against you and you moan at the pressure against your clit. You chase the sensation, grinding down on the thigh between your legs.
“Not right, leavin’ you unsatisfied,” he murmurs, “Pretty girl like you deserves to come whenever she wants.”
His hand scrapes up the side of your thigh, dragging up the fabric of your dress. He grips your ass in his hand, fingers teasing the wet lace of your panties .
It’s so much.
The touch of his fingers near your soaking core, the grind and drag of your clit against his thigh. And he keeps fucking talking, voice low and smooth in your ear, whiskey on his breath.
“Doesn’t know what he’s missing. Look so good like this, all fucked out.”
He tangles his hand in your hair, pulling your head back to expose more skin to his tongue and teeth.
“Fuck,” you whine, “Fuck, feels so good –”
You whimper, clutching at his shoulders as you hump his leg with increasing desperation.
“That’s right, baby, ride me,” he growls, “Use me.”
The world narrows to the places where your bodies touch. The wet drag of your panties over his denim. The scrape of his teeth down the side of your neck. His hands digging into you, bruising at your hip, on your ass.
“Fucking waste,” he mutters, “Not making this pussy come. Felt so fucking good around me.”
He hitches your leg over his hip and the angle changes. And it’s good, so fucking good. You grind down on the hard line of his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath you.
“Joel,” you gasp, unable to form words, “Joel, please –”
He’s thrusting against you, practically fucking you through your clothes.
“Want to feel it, baby. Want you to soak me.”
You’re so close, soaking wet and so sensitive, but it’s not enough. You roll your hips against him harder, faster.
“I – fuck, I can’t –”
His grip on your hips tightens and he starts to guide your frantic movements, grinding you down even harder against his thigh.
“Yes, you can,” he grunts, “Come on, pretty girl. Show me what it looks like.”
You give a few more, stuttering thrusts against him, gripping the thick muscle of his arms. Your clit catches against the fabric of your panties, and then you’re coming, hard, his name leaving your lips in a low, ragged moan. Your hips twitch against him and he presses you back against the wall, letting you ride it out, carrying you through it.
Eventually the pleasure sizzles into a low, sleepy burn, your arousal settling somewhere low in your stomach.
You exhale shakily, blinking back the tears you hadn’t realized had gathered at the corner of your eyes. You release your death-grip on Joel, your nails leaving little crescent marks on his skin. He holds you steady as you catch your breathing, his hands at your hips.
He pulls up the strap slipped down your shoulder, smoothing it into place. His hand lingers at the base of your neck.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, gaze sweeping over you, “Real thing’s much better.”
Your gaze flickers to his lips.
You want to kiss him so badly, you’re not sure you’ve ever wanted anything more. But you remember his rider. And you don’t know what the rules are now.
There’s a burst of applause in the room behind you as the film comes to an end.
Any second now the door is going to open, and the house will be full again. You’re running out of time to say something, but you don’t know what.
You stare up at him.
“Take care of yourself,” he says, and then he’s stepping away.
The audience spills out from the screening room, and he’s hidden by the sudden surge of bodies. You’re overwhelmed in a deluge of eager praise and congratulations, almost everyone who passes seems to have something kind to say, some wink and nudge.
When the crowd finally thins, he’s gone.
Tess spots you the moment she steps into the hall, one of the last to leave the screening room.
She takes in your disheveled appearance. Cheeks flushed from your orgasm, dress wrinkled from his hands. Her eyes linger at your neck and you wonder if he left a mark.
You sort of hope he did.
Tess sidles up to you, twirling the stem of an empty martini glass.
“You two work it out yet?” she asks, smirking.
And there’s no point in pretending that nothing happened, not now, when she can smell the sex on your skin. You exhale a heavy sigh, dropping your head back and glaring at the ceiling.
“Not yet.”
Monstober 2024
Monster-Enthusiasts, Monster-Lovers, and Monster-Fucker, I call upon thee! This upcoming October is going to be spooky!
It's time for a whole month of delicious monster content! Whether you want them to stalk, to hunt, or to devour your little protagonists (mind you, the monsters are the real protagonists of the story, hehe), I want to see a month dedicated to the beauty of the Ugly and Horrible! All things monster are welcome—art, writing, any kind of showcasing a monster! No matter how cruel or how obscene you like it—now's the time to show it off! ♥
I have prepared a list of monsters & prompts for your guidance, however, if you'd rather do a different monster or a different prompt, that is totally fine! If you prefer to stay private and not have your post reblogged to this blog, that is totally alright, too! This is merely for fun and giggles, and I welcome everyone who wants to challenge themselves this upcoming October to use this list if they want!
How to participate in my Monstober:
- Starting October 1st create something with the monster or prompt of the day! That is all you have to do.
You don't have to do all days or even in chronological order. Feel free to alter the prompts as needed. Your monsters do not have to match the usual descriptions of their kind! Post whenever and whatever you like as long as it is still connected to monsters!
- If you want your entry to be reblogged: @ me yandere-sins in your post, don't forget to put content warnings if any apply (especially Violence & Sexual Content—however, those are very welcome!), and put long texts (once they reach 3k words) under a read more! I'll reblog the posts as soon as I see and have the time to get to them!
Prompts
Day 1: Chimera | Mixed // Misunderstood // Insanity
Day 2: Werewolf/Werecat | Full Moon // Claws // Beastly
Day 3: Alien | Otherworldly // Uncanny Valley // Space
Day 4: Harpy | Cliff // Flying // Illusion
Day 5: Nymph/Dryad/Leshy | Plants // Playful // Nature's Bounty
Day 6: Naga/Lamia | Scales // Wrapping around // Poisonous
Day 7: Sphinx | Riddles // Sand // Giant
Day 8: Merfolk | Water // Singing // Alluring
Day 9: Folklore Creatures | Cautionary Tales // Truth // Naivity
Day 10: Mimic | Treasures // Hungry // Wrong
Day 11: Yuki-onna/Snow Spirit | Snowstorm // Promise // Guiding
Day 12: Witch/Wizard/Magician | Magic // Spells // Towers
Day 13: Shifter | True Form // Unbelievable // Transformation
Day 14: Minotaur | Labyrinth // Bannished // Following
Day 15: Eldritch Horror | Eldritch // Imprisoned // Tentacles
Day 16: "Church" Grim | Graveyard // Protecting // Spirit
Day 17: Dragon | Fire // Hoarding // Fairytale
Day 18: Kitsune | Tricked // Tails // Mystical
Day 19: Elf | Warrior // Swift // Merciless
Day 20: Goblin/Orc/Troll/Oni | Hordes // Village // Brutish
Day 21: Kelpie | Deception // Following // Stuck
Day 22: Skeleton/Zombie | Undead // Loved // Grave
Day 23: Angel | Feathers // Guardian // Watching
Day 24: Ghost | Shadows // Invisible // Coldness
Day 25: Vampire | Blood // Biting // Night
Day 26: Fae Folk | Lost // Fairy Circles // Names
Day 27: Drider | Silk // Cave // Ensnared
Day 28: Demon | Summoning // Contract // Otherworldly
Day 29: Gods | Reign // Glow // Worshipping
Day 30: Human | Real Monsters // Dangerous // Smile
Day 31: Free Choice of your favorite monster or a completely new one!
I look forward to all the monstrous ideas you'll come up with! ♥
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OH MY GOD THIS IS... AMAZINGGGGG!!!!!!!
HI KAI!! sorry this message is outta nowhere 😭
i suddenly had the motivation to draw hw link after i saw your post. you seem to like him wearing glasses so i made one just for you 🫶🏻
hope you'll have a great day, and also congrats on the followers!!! you deserve more! hugs for youu 🫂💖
OH MY GOD THE SMILE I MADE UPON SEEING THIS im at a table with my friends right now this is so embarrassing BUT AHHHHHHHHH 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗
this. this might've just made my day. genuinely. OH MY GODDD HE LOOKS SO ADORABLE 😭😭😭😭 I'VE TOLD MY FRIENDS HOW MUCH I LOVE THE WAY YOU DRAW HW LINK HE'S SO.. UGH I CAN'T DESCRIBE IT YOU JUST DO IT SO WELL
yes!! I do like putting him in glasses! it's a big headcanon of mine now and I'm so so glad that people are loving it!! it makes me so so happy!
I didn't even expect this but I am so thankful THANK YOU REI!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! you are the absolute best and you deserve so so much my friend, I love you dearly and I am squeezing you and giving the biggest hug ever, the most amount of love that a person can ever give
thank you so so much, you always manage to make me smile and I'm so grateful, I hope you have an awesome day and I appreciate this so much!! <3
(Tw: Blood and Body Horror)
I bring Chen the cheerleader angst <3
This is from an AU shared by @impulsivefanwriter, myself, and others from the KD’s Chaos discord server. This piece is specifically Chen not having a good time at the hands of his family. <3
This is a lil old but I’m still proud of how the piece turned out lol
So here’s Jax’s in the Nesquik bunny outfit which I was inspired by my friend Sugar-Cane’s take on it *(which you should totally check her out on insta and TikTok right now.,.)*