#I keep messing up people or characters I’ve known for ages

[etruski]

Omg the chapter in which Marcus has to follow the graffiti is so boring

[hearts4werka]

The Devil Herself

Summary: You’re the famous Ghostface killer in the town of Boston while your ex-bodyguard Christopher is also an FBI agent investigating your murders, you overhear his conversation with his mother about a set up date with another woman so you decide to pay the woman a little visit after the date… Genre: Horror, slasher, age gap (it’s not a big one), female killer, obsessive stalker, crime investigation, The FBI, arranged date Warnings: This fic contains darker themes that may trigger some readers like gore, kidnapping, acts of torture, illegal possession of various of dangerous weapons ( don’t do this irl ) obsessive female!character, cursing, murder, detaching-limbs. Read At Your Own Risk! authors note: this turned out wayyy longer than I expected it to. I started to write this last night still kinda shocked how I finished it in one day. I’m already writing pt.2 to Missing and need to finish that but here’s a long Chris fic for while you guys wait for it. There might be a pt.2 to this too but I have to see if y’all will want one. Hope you enjoy!

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

The Halloween season is right around the corner and I’ll have to do some work to set the atmosphere for the lovely town I’ve been slashing for couple of good years.

I am called ‘The Ghostface killer’ around this town, known mostly for the gruesome crime scenes I create which I’m proud to said in know for that, how I always manage to cover up any evidence that could lead to discovering my identity.

There’s been many before me, some were better some worse. Dating back almost centuries, I can say I’ve been through some stuff in the past. I don’t want to get into detail with it but let’s just say I’m on a revenge mission, murdering and torturing the people who’ve hurt me in the past.

But there’s a little problem flowing in my mind… my ex-bodyguard, Christopher.

He’s an FBI Agent, often a bodyguard or guarding something. The FBI are currently investigating ‘The Ghostface Killer Crimes’ how do I know? Oh it’s obviously because I stalked him, unfortunately I also found out some unpleasant things too.

His mother has set up him with another women for a date. And it’s fucking tonight.

I may have hacked into his chat logs as well and overheard him and his mother talking over the phone when I was just watching him on the cameras with sound recorders I’ve installed along with the cameras.

As much as I try to let go of him, when I manage get him out of my mind and focus on other things at hand he just latched onto my brain and messes with it, just coming back each time like a boomerang.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

I’m getting ready to discretely stalk Christopher’s date, dressing up normally but keeping my mask on me since I’ll be doing some dirty work today and I can’t get blood on my beautiful face, can I? But mostly to hide my real identity from her.

I walk into my closet, picking out a black corset along with some matching black jeans that make my body look amazing together with the corset, I want her to see something pleasant to look at before she will go out.

Adding the finishing touches such as jewelry, a black leather jacket draping it over my shoulders and black boots I glance over at the mirror of my bathroom and fix my hair. I almost feel like I’m getting ready for a date to which I chuckle internally at the fact I’m going out for a completely different reason. ( outfit here )

I grab my bag off the bathroom counter it was sitting on, walking over to a big black duffel bag dropped on my bed I pick out what weapons I would like to use today.

Picking the classic and iconic knife along with a small electric saw but also a gun for extra fun, I shove the gun into a hidden pocket in the leather jacket and drop the knife and saw in the bag of today’s choice.

Inside of the bag already resides my phone, a digital camera I take pictures of my beautifully gruesome crime scenes and of my victims for little pieces of memories.

After I’m done preparing, I make sure everything is in place and locked as I finally walk out of the house.

Time to start this little shitshow

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Im in my car, sitting in front of a fancy restaurant the date was planned at with my laptop sitting my lap, watching them through the restaurants cameras I’ve managed to hack into. People really need to make their security devises have a stronger protection because this was easier than I thought it would be.

My blood boils with jealousy as she reaches out with a napkin in her hand to wipe off a piece of the food they’re eating that got left on his upper lip. If she puts her hands on him again, I’ll cut the motherfuckers off and give them to him if he continues to allow it.

He’s very aware of having a person stalking him but he doesn’t know who it is even being an FBI agent he couldn’t simply figure out who it is, I grab my phone out of my bag and open the messages app. Typing out a simple text I send it over to him and watch him on the cameras for his reaction.

Me : Is someone running off with other women? Keep having her hands all over you and you’ll see what happens next.

Seeing him excuse himself to check the message on his phone I’ve sent, a look of horror and caution creeps into his features as he looks around nervously but he hides them with a tight smile from the woman that’s completely oblivious of what the message contained nor why he suddenly changed in demeanor.

For the rest of the night, he avoided her touch as much as he could but slip ups did occur. At the end of the date he cautiously walked her back to her car, I was parked not far away from her so I saw everything with my eyes. When they say their goodbyes she leans in and places a gentle kiss on his cheek before getting into her car and proceed to drive away.

He returns to his own car and just sits there lost in thought, the look on his face etched into his features, more evident now that he’s alone. After a few minutes he starts the car and drives away.

Now it’s time for the fun part to start.

I tracked the woman’s home address before they went on the date and found out all of the basic knowledge about her without unnecessarily digging too deep, putting her home address into the gps now it’s finally my time to drive off.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

After a while of driving I finally reach my destination and park in front of an old-money house thats a pretty good size for someone who lives alone. Looks like mommy and daddy’s wealth payed off for her.

I have a feeling she’ll be fun to torture.

I grab my bag with all of the supplies I need and get out of the car in one swift open of a door, walking around the car I face the trunk. Opening it I take out a cloth along with a small bottle of sedative.

Popping the cap off the bottle I pour some of it onto the cloth, glancing around the containments of my trunk if I won’t need anything else, grabbing my signature mask as the last item I need and slide it over my head now concealing my face.

With one efficient and swift move I close the trunk and finally head towards her house, time to do some breaking in now, put the bitch to sleep and drive her to my house. After I’m done with that I’ll have some good old fun with her.

Going through the back door that thankfully was left open behind I quietly enter the building, checking if anything besides me is lurking in the dark shadows covering her house and find nothing, no sign of any animals too to which I sigh in relief. I really hate killing peoples animals. ( don’t actually kill animals irl )

I slyly maneuver my way through the darkness and up the stairs, them creaking as if I’m in a horror movie. Getting up the creaky ass stairs I see light coming out of one of the rooms, assuming that’s where she’s currently located I decide to put more of the sedative on the cloth in my hand to make sure she doesn’t wake up during the ride back to my house.

Scanning the surrounding area I can’t help but wonder if she left the door unlocked, she does live alone so no one could technically get into her house and into the bathroom while she’s in there, right?

As I come closer to the bathroom my ears suddenly get assaulted by music coming out from the slightly opened bathroom door, she has shit taste in music.

Creeping up to the bathroom door I widen the open hole with my hand as quietly as possible to not draw any sudden unwanted attention to it.

I take a small peak inside and see the shadow of her figure through the shower curtains she’s concealed behind, thinking this is gonna be easier than I thought I slowly enter the room and make my way towards the shower.

Pulling open the curtain my eyes are met with my target being completely nude while water rains onto her naked body from the shower head secured to the wall in front of her.

Without giving her anytime for further reaction than the horror slowly spreading across her features I slap the cloth over her mouth to muffle her screams pouring out of her mouth.

When she falls asleep I get her out of the shower and put the clothes she left in the bathroom onto her body, tossing her over my shoulder again I carry her back to my car and drop her into the backseat.

I drive off from under her house and on the path back to my house.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

We arrive at my house and I check into the backseat to see if she’s woken up.

“Still knocked out.”

I exit the car and take her out of the backseat, tossing her over my shoulder again and carry her into my basement or how I like to call it ‘The secret layer of crime’

Walking down the stairs and underground I drop her from my shoulder and into a bloody wooden chair in the middle of my basement or torture chamber, tying her down to it with a thick rope that was sitting next to it on a small wooden stool so she doesn’t get away when she finally wakes up.

Next to the chair is a white plastic table with various torture weapons I usually can’t carry around with me, opening my bag I dump out the weapons I took with me earlier.

I wait for her to wake up because I need her to be fully conscious during the whole process, I’m gonna make this painful for her. Mentally and physically.

After a few minutes of waiting she finally regains her consciousness and looks at me with the same horror on her face as when I took her, she tried to scream but realizes her mouth is ceiled shut with a cloth taped to her mouth.

A sinister laugh rumbles in my throat at her desperate tries to pry her way free or scream for help, this basement is sound proof so no one will hear her even in the slightest mumble.

“Oh are you trying to escape? You poor little thing, how sad.” I say with mockery lacing my tone, my eyes settle down on the table full of weapons and her eyes follow right behind, her horror spreading further and becoming more evident.

She violently shakes to try and loosen the thick rope she’s secured with tightly to the chair, grabbing a knife off the table I walk over to her. My shoes creating echoing foot step sounds that bounce around the walls of the basement.

Leaning down and getting up close to her face I raise the knife to her jawline and slowly trace it, the cold blade leaving goosebumps behind its path.

Her eyes become glassy and tears roll down her cheeks, a smirk spreads across my face at the beautiful sight of her being scared.

“You know why you’re here?” I ask, knowing I won’t get a clear answer out of her, the cause of it being the cloth taped to her mouth.

Shaking her head negatively, meaning she’s saying no and I become amused by not having a lack of an answer from her as I expected. She’s really desperate to stay alive, how pathetic.

“Well you don’t have to know but let’s just say you might be loosing some limbs today, hm?”

Her eyes widen at my sudden statement as her horrified state intensifies along with her desperate tries to escape, the sight is complete gold or a rare find that can only be dug up deep in the cold mines.

I slide a small stool with some blood covering the surface of it and place it under one of her hands, extending my hand behind me onto the weapon table I grab the mini electric saw.

Without hesitation I flip it on and it starts up with a roar, bringing the circling saw blade to her wrist and saw right down which detaches her hand from her arm. Blood sprays out from her arm and onto my clothes and everything around it as I take the severed hand and place it onto the weapon table.

Grabbing the stool and putting it where her other hand is and copy the same procedure of detaching the hand as on the other.

When that’s done I put the new severed hand next to its sister on the weapon table along with the now blood-covered saw. She’ll die a slow, painful and torturous death after I’m done with her.

I hover my hand over the weapon table and select a weapon at random, I grab onto something long and sharp, knowing what it is already I grasp the leather handle of it and bring the blade to her neck, slicing it open but not enough to kill her yet.

Putting the weapon down back onto the weapon table I walk over to a chest and open it, taking out a small carboard box among different body bags, trash bags and gloves I’ve left in here because I was too lazy to throw it out.

I close the chest and place the box on top of it, walking back to the weapon table I grab the severed hands and then go back to the box and neatly place them inside.

Thinking of what to add to it I decide or grab my camera from my bag I dropped onto the ground after taking out the weapons I took with me earlier I take a picture of the tortured and slowly dying woman on the chair. Just a little memory for him to remember.

I take the Polaroid out of the camera and grab the knife off the table, stabbing into what’s left of her hand to draw some blood onto the blade of it and I write a small letter with it on the back of the Polaroid.

After I’m done with my little letter I return back to the box, closing it and ceiling it shut with some tape I had in my grasp.

Grabbing the box and the Polaroid I exit the basement and go into my car to give Chris a little surprise. By the time I exit the basement the sun is already coming up and starting to illuminate the world.

I drop the box next to me in the passenger seat along with the polaroid and drive off to his house. He should be awake by now since he usually wakes up when the sun comes up.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Arriving at my destiny under his house I take the box with the Polaroid and get out of my car, walking over to the front door of his house I place the box down onto the doormat that has ‘Welcome!’ written across it in black bold letters on a white background.

I neatly place the Polaroid on top of the the box that’s slowly leaking blood from one of the bottom corners and onto the white and black doormat, I ring his doorbell and walk back to my car to drive off from under his house before he saw me.

The note on the back of the Polaroid says is bloody letters.

‘Like running off with other women so much? Here’s a little surprise for you but I’ll say one thing. You are mine and no other woman is allowed to lay your hands on you. Ever again.’

- Your lovely Stalker

Guestlist!

@slutforsturnioloss @sturnioloblues @sturnsxplr-25

Comment under this post to be added!

[robinette-green]

Robin's Fantasy AU DCA Romance Fics

These are fics I’ve started that take place in fantasy settings! Pirates, Castles, fairies, princesses and knights galore!

Black Sea Glass: (tag)

Trying to escape from a group of mercenaries hunting you down to catch you and collect the bounty on your head, you stow away on what you think to be a merchant ship. Unfortunately for you, you end up on a ship flying under the king’s flag. The two captains decide that you can work on the crew while aboard. Over time you find yourself falling in love with the Captains. This is bad news for you. You have so many secrets to hide and the two captains despise lies. If they find out who you really are will they leave you? Would they turn you in?

The Queen and Her Knights:

Banished from her home, MC uses her immense magical abilities to heal a barren land, making it a safe haven for lost souls. The people of these lands name her queen, and all is right with the world until the kingdom that banished the MC decides they want the now flourishing lands for themselves. Lying about why they are going to war, the king claims that the evil witch is keeping the people in these lands as slaves and sends out a massive army. Desperate to find a way to buy herself more time, and in a panic, MC kidnaps the two knight commanders, and shenanigans ensue. Sun and Moon are humans Sun is Solaris Starr And Moon is Lucien Altalune

Jesters and Dragons: (tag)

The main character is the 4th princess of a large kingdom. Her younger brother, the golden child, is gifted two magical construct jesters modeled after the sun and moon on his 14th birthday. While wishing that they had been gifted to her instead, the main character ends up running into the jesters at every turn, turning her into a blushing stuttering mess as they flirt shamelessly with her. Fluffy fluff fluff fluff. With a smidge of angst.

Monster in the Sea:

Sun and Moon are human and go by Solaris and Lucien. The MC is a water dragon. Water dragon reader finds Sun and Moon lost at sea during a storm

Two Hunters and a Bloodsucker:

(tag)

My life is good for what it is. Except that I’m dead. Well, undead. I’ve been undead for about 15 years now, and I haven’t aged a day. Being a vampire hiding among humans can be difficult at times, mainly dealing with sunlight and avoiding mirrors, but I manage. I’ve been living and working in this little town as the town blacksmith for about 7 years now, and I’ve become a full-fledged member of the little community here. I thought I had been doing a good job hiding my presence among the humans, but one day two of the most well-known vampire hunters came into town. If they find out what I am, they will kill me, but both of them have become intent on becoming my friends and maybe more. How can I keep myself from being discovered when two hunters are trying to romance me?

Dreaming of Dancing Clocks:

Waking up in a ballroom filled with elegant dancers, you can't remember how you got there. Something if off about the others here but you can't put your finger on it.

Angel (LateNight DayDreams):

I’ve been avoiding going to the circus for years but when a curtain circus rolls into town, I can’t stop myself from going to see the show… to see him again. A Human Moon romance

Say Don't Go (LateNight DayDreams):

a human Sun and Reader romance A rich MC with her secret lover Solaris.

Some of these won't be finished and some are OLD writing of mine. you have been warned. Please don't let that stop you from reading these and enjoying them <3

[ratwife77]

New AU drop.. Two-Bit is 16 (everybody’s 2 years younger than book age) and new to Tulsa..The rest of the group’s already established.

Lmk if I should continue and give feedback please!! I REALLY WANT THIS TO BE IN CHARACTER AND WOULD ESPECIALLY APPRECIATE FEEDBACK ON THAT

(Warnings: abuse mentions, smoking, violence in general)

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58531948/chapters/149116588#main

New schools weren’t anything new, and he’d always known he’d move. Two-Bit knew he’d move again. His mom had a habit of trying to get them a new start, each time with a new guy. They weren’t so bad every time, but sometimes they tried to smack him or his mom around. Having to stay for the money wasn’t great. His mom promised they’d get out soon, but it never seemed to be soon enough. His mom promised they’d stay, and they were out.

So when he walked into the school, immediately blinded by the lights, as usual, he didn’t expect anything new.

There was introductions to each class, because he’d gotten there in the middle of the year. Nearly everyone laughed, and he knew the teachers had him pegged as a troublemaker. If he set the bar low enough, he’d barely have to try, and other kids would like him.

He liked school well enough, even if he hadn’t had a solid group of friends there, closer to lunch buddies, somebody he could smoke with or something. It was better to be seen as someone funny, with a place. At home, he was a nervous kid with shifty eyes and quick reflexes who had to keep it together.

As he sat down behind a boy with dark hair, styled with clear care, he wondered if Susie was doing alright.

The teacher immediately called him out, asking him a question to a math problem he didn’t know the answer to. His eyebrow raised. “I don’t know. I thought school was for learning.” She didn’t entertain him. He could practically hear what she was thinking. ‘I’ve dealt with your sort before,’ or something.

“The office is down the hall. I don’t suggest doing this again. This isn’t my first day teaching.” Her voice held no room for argument. He held the smile up, mildly amused as he sauntered out. When he’d gotten there, he plopped down on a chair. At least he knew he’d fit in. People seemed to find him funny, even if they didn’t like anything else about him. The thought made him frown.

Eventually, he got out of there after getting the same old talking to. ‘You have such a good future ahead of you, don’t mess it up,’ and the like. Interrupting his thoughts, the bell rang, and nearly everyone had gone to class. He knew he’d rack up tardies, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The day was over before he knew it, and he strolled out.

Everybody there was walking with somebody. It made his gut churn, but he told himself he didn’t care, even if any connection he had with anyone was shallow, no matter where he went.

The walk home wasn’t terrible regarding its length, relatively short compared to some of his homes. His mom would’ve let him use the car, but her new boyfriend had crashed it and they didn’t have the money to fix it yet.

All of a sudden, he heard wailing.

He was smart.

You don’t go into an alley alone.

But it sounded like a kid. Suddenly, he looked, like somebody’d look at an auto wreck. He couldn’t have been older than Susie, eyes wide and scared. He didn’t realize he’d gotten out his switchblade until he heard it click.

[eterosis]

Hello! I’ve been making a game and wanted to make a character with npd to mix up the character dynamics. The thing is, as you probably know, npd is so stigmatized, which means it’s literally impossible for me to research. So, if possible, I would like to hear some of your experiences with npd (how it makes you think and behave, that type of thing). If you don’t want to answer, feel free to ignore this.

This ask made me so happy, of course I'll help you, but keep in mind that I'm not an expert on npd and it's possible for me to accidentally talk bs, so please try to do your own research !!

I don't really know where to start since your request on 'hearing some of my experiences with npd' is a bit vague. As you probably know, narcissistic personality disorder is a personality disorder (duh) characterized by reduced empathy (not all narcissists have zero empathy, I, for example, have empathy, but it's very low and usually I feel empathy only towards those who are dear to me), need for admiration/attention and an exaggerated sense of self-importance. You can't be diagnosed with it if you are a teenager (unless the symptoms are very visible and extreme, I know a person that was diagnosed with a pd as a teen but the psychiatrist didn't specify which disorder she had because of her age) 'cause you can't be diagnosed with a personality disorder if your personality isn't fully developed. From what I know, npd is caused by trauma.

Yeah, so those were things that I learnt about npd from the internet before I discovered that I possibly have npd. Now onto my experiences, I guess.

One of things I struggle with the most as a narcissist is jealousy. I hate seeing other people succeed. I rarely follow big accounts or artists because I think that they don't deserve it and I should be in their place. I'm a unique individual that deserves to be known and admired, unlike them. I sometimes insult them in my head to make myself feel better. Or even write the insults down on a paper. It doesn't really make me feel relieved or anything. My jealousy issues are so bad I want to throw up when I see people have more followers or views on their posts than me. Jealousy is eating me alive.

I also very, very, VERY often fantasize about being famous and looked up to. I think about making a cool thing and the next second I think about how known it'll make me. But then I get frustrated that I'm not already famous.

I need constant attention and compliments. I can get really sad when if my post doesn't get likes and reblogs immediately after posting, or if my friends don't talk me for an hour or more. I tried to find a definition of 'narcissistic supply' so you could understand me more (I know what narc supply is but I can't explain it well) but of course that when I searched it up all I got was articles on how to defeat a narcissist. Sigh

There are two versions that I have of myself. The first one is my true self which is um. I don't want to look at that thing. The second one is something that needs praise to keep itself alive. A fake self that I see as perfect and flawless. But if I mess something up or get insulted it all just crumbles apart and I feel pathetic and worthless and sigh😔

Yeah so those are some of my experiences as a narcissistic person. I apologize that it's so short, I am just too exhausted to put in effort. Again, keep in mind that I'm not an expert and it's possible for me to accidentally spread misinformation. Also, I AM NOT A MODEL NARCISSIST !! People experience NPD differently. I'd recommend asking other narcissists to share their experience with you. And, if possible, talk with professionalists or people who have a lot of knowledge on npd. + Try to choose people who can actually write things down neatly. It's hard for me to express things through words and I suck at explaining. English is not my first language so it makes everything even harder. I hope you'll understand.

I hope my yap session was helpful. I'd love to see your game when you finish it !!

[askbensolo]

Ask Ben Solo

What’s up, HoloNet! The name’s Ben. Currently 24 years old. I’m the only son of an Alderaanian princess and a Corellian scoundrel, and I have an adopted sister named Rey.

I started this blog when I was fifteen and afraid of becoming a Jedi. To make things worse, I started hearing voices in my head…voices that turned out to be someone who wanted to control me. Luckily, my friends and family got involved, and Snoke seems to have backed off.

I did make friends with some of Uncle Luke’s Jedi students, but I ended up attending the University of Naboo (Go Shaaks!) and got my degree in Journalism, since I’ve always been interested in writing, history, and politics. (Scroll back enough, and you’ll see my cringe pro-Imperial phase from back in the day. Yikes.)

I stayed on Naboo after graduation, and now I write for The Chommell Sector Daily. In my free time I lift weights, write poetry, and fight with people online.

Ask me a question!

—Ben

All Posts in Chronological Order

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Run by @luke-shywalker Est. 2016

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Friends' Blogs:

Fannie’s Blog: @fanniepentarra

Amalia’s Blog: @mal-is-tall

(Their blogs are dead because they're lame, but maybe if we bother them enough they'll come back)

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Family

Mom: My mother, also known as Senator Leia Organa, also known as Space Mom, also known as Don't Mess With Her. Tough as nails. Also has nice nails.

Dad: My father, also known as Han Solo (or scruffy-looking nerfherder). Isn’t as cool as you think he is, but makes up for it with heart.

Rey: My adopted sister, also known as "Kid". Ten years younger than me. Originally from Jakku. Eats faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.

Uncle Luke: My uncle, also known as Jedi Master Luke Skywalker. Is a cinnamon roll.

Ren the Bantha of Indeterminate Gender or Origin: My stuffed bantha friend. Not much can be known about this humble beast, but they are fiercely loyal.

Threepio: My mom's protocol droid. Has foregone enough memory wipes to pass as sentient. Best ignored.

Artoo: Luke’s beeping trash can. Extremely rude.

Chewie: My dad’s best pal. Gives great hugs. Don’t play holochess with him.

Lumpy: Chewie’s son. About my age in Wookiee years.

Darth Vader: My grandfather. It's complicated.

Friends

Fannie: One of Luke's Jedi students, who has since graduated. Twi'lek. My bestie when we were teens. Mom friend.

Amalia: One of Luke's Jedi students, who has since dropped out. Massive Togruta girl. Frenemy.

Treeso: My roommate from college. Gungan. Solid dude.

Sweeper: My archnemesis: the cleaning droid at work that keeps eating my paper notes.

Ugly Raisin Men Who Have Invaded My Mind With the Force

Snoke: Enough said.

Story Events

The Long Night: (2/25/16 - 4/2/16) In which I woke up from a nightmare and couldn’t sleep.

Space Braces: (5/16/16 - 12/7/2017) In which I got braces.

Get Out of My Head: (8/4/16 - 8/28/16) In which Mom left for a diplomatic mission and left me at home with my dad, and I was consumed by fear and darkness.

The Visit: (10/6/16 - 11/5/16) In which Uncle Luke came to visit us.

Sixteen!: (12/3/16 - 12/11/16) In which I turned sixteen.

Life Day 21 ABY: (12/25/16 - 12/26/16) Life Day!

The Impending Future: (9/10/17 - 9/29/17) In which I had an existential crisis about Mom wanting me to become a Jedi, and I discovered Snoke.

Seventeen!: (12/3/17 - 12/11/17) In which I turned seventeen.

Life Day 22 ABY: (12/25/17 - 12/26/17) Life Day!

A Week With Luke: (12/21/17 - 1/7/18) In which my mom made me spend a week at Luke’s Jedi school.

An Awkward Situation: (4/26/18 - 7/15/18) In which I thought my best friend Fannie was going to ask me out. Like, on a date.

About Amalia: (7/16/18 - 8/7/18) In which I accidentally started a chain of rumors about Amalia, Luke’s mysterious and hardest-to-get-along-with student.

The New Roommate: (4/24/24 - current) In which my roommate Treeso moves out and I have to find someone to take over his lease.

Recurring Tags Below

[thelaughtercafe]

Muted Memories Chapter 2

Tea Type: Milk Tea

Potential Triggers:  Verbal and physical abuse, dissociating as a trauma response, nondescriptive murder, descriptive threats(not at reader).

Pairing: Issac Foster/F! Reader

Length: 4k+

Summary: Library explorations, and meeting new characters, fun for the whole family!

A/N: Chapter 2 is here!! Excited I finally got this done!! I’m not fully happy with the way it turned out but after messing with a few other ideas, I decided to go with the one I wrote while genuinely triggered since it felt the most raw and real.

I’m okay now; emotional flashbacks just really suck. Do not recommend lmao. Hope everyone enjoys and please do leave feedback! Always excited to hear from my readers on what they think!! ❤️

The rest of the day was easy once Zack dragged you back. Ray had thanked him in a reverent tone, to which the bandaged boy had only ruffled her hair fondly. They really were close. You hadn’t been expecting him to do the same to you however and it showed as you ducked your head to hide your burning face in Ray’s shoulder a moment. She giggled at your embarrassment and pet your hair. 

You all sat down and ate after that. Ray was attached to your side the rest of the morning, constantly either hanging off you, holding your hand or hugging you. She seemed touched starved, though given you were as well you easily obliged and accommodated her. You had to go to the library after breakfast since you no longer had a laptop and Zack had declined your offer to come, saying he had “better shit to do”. 

You shrugged him off but again reminded him to take anything he needed and disguised Rachel in one of your big hoodies before heading out. When talking about how well they were known they said their popularity had been dying down and they’d come here since it was so out of the way, hoping to find a forever home.

The air was a little chilly so you were glad you’d bundled up Rachel, however you were left shivering a little, given your other hoodie was still being repaired. You’d torn a noticeable hole in it on a rushed run out one day and the mender was blind; a friend Mr. Takamata had met and grown close to, and you had as well in turn. You wouldn’t give your business to anyone else despite the longer wait times. His job was always impeccable. Maybe you could get it on the way back, if he was still open. 

“Alright, to the library! We’ll go grocery shopping tonight on the way home and I’ll make dinner.”

“We’re gonna spend the whole day there?”

Rachel sounded excited at the prospect and you hummed in agreement. 

“Yeah, as long as you don’t mind. I need to do some school work and print out an essay. After that I figured I could show you some of my favorite books and maybe bring some home for Zack too.“

"That sounds fun but…mm…" 

Ray sounded happy at the prospect but trailed off and seemed conflicted, looking at the ground as she walked. 

"What’s wrong?”

“Oh I suppose it’s okay if I tell you. Zack can’t read.”

You blinked at that. He was around your age wasn’t he? You supposed you shouldn’t have been surprised. He clearly had a lot of inner trauma in addition to the physical. 

You smiled down at Ray though, swinging your held hands cheerfully. 

“I’ll get him some anyway. He doesn’t have to learn if he doesn’t want to of course, but I’d be more than happy to teach him. Even if he doesn’t, I like to read aloud anyway so he can enjoy it that way if he’d like.”

Ray gave a contemplative hum. 

“I don’t understand why you’re so nice to us. After everything we’ve done-”

You heard her voice crack and quickly stopped walking, gently pulling her aside and crouching down to her level to allow the other people milling about to pass. 

“Hey, hey! You keep sayin’ that, but from what I’ve seen you two are both damaged, but have been kind to me. It’s like I told Zack last night too…I’m lonely, sad as that may sound. So…no more apologies, okay? I’m happy to give you both a place to stay and let you have a fresh start. Mr. Takamata gave one to me…it seems only right that I should do the same.”

Ray threw her arms around you and you hugged her back before moving to stand. 

"Now, how about that library trip?”

She beamed up at you.  

“Let’s go!”

—–

You couldn’t help but sigh in relief as you both entered the library. It was cold, now. The wind had really picked up and you were already dreading the 20-minute walk back home when it’d be colder tonight.

Maybe you ought to stop by Reginald’s place on the way back after all. Now that you were here though, you had to put your game face on. You had two essays and one story to work on. Your only fun elective this semester was Monsters in Literature. Best teacher too; he reminded you of Robin Williams in his enthusiasm and inspiring words. You had a vague outline of ideas for the story and you wrote often, but creating original content was much harder than the fanworks you were used to. 

The essays were honestly easier. Everyone was always surprised when you told them that, but essay’s were really just cramming as many words as possible to get a simple point across most of the time, and given you enjoyed writing, even if it was boring as sin it was at least easy to bullshit. 

You observed Ray as you put your bookbag down, wanting to get her set up before starting. 

“You’re around 14 right?”

She nodded. 

“15, now actually. As of a few weeks ago.”

“Oh! We’ll have to celebrate. I’ll pick up some overtime, make sure to remind me to get a cake this weekend okay? Just in case my memory goes kaput after all this school work.”

She giggled and nodded happily as you mimed passing out. 

“Do you know what kind of books you like hun? I can get you set up in the right section and then get started here.”

She gave a carefree shrug. 

“I didn’t read much. Too noisy before.” 

Seeing the way her eyes went dull again you got to your feet and held your hand out to her before she could go too deep into her memories.

She took it and you led her into the adjoining room for Young Adult Fiction, not acknowledging the fact that she trembling with anything more than a soothing thumb rub. 

“Here’s the YA section. All kinds of scenarios and characters here- I recommend reading the back or inside of the flap and then just picking whichever one sounds interesting! You can always just go based on the cover if you’d like a more randomized experience though. This is still my favorite section honestly; if you need any help with the words or have any questions don’t be afraid to ask me. Feel free to get comfy, and if anyone that’s not me comes up to you, come get me or yell my name if you get scared, I’ll be just in the other room.”

After making sure she was okay you left her, happy to see she was already hesitantly beginning to explore. 

You sighed in resignation, sitting down and cracking your neck.

No more distractions, time to get your work done!

—–

The day passed quickly, with Ray occasionally coming over to ask for help with a word she didn’t know but it was a rarity and she was already on the 2nd book in a supernatural fantasy series when you were finished. You playfully took it from her to check the title. 

“Ooh Maximum Ride hm? That’s a good one, haven’t read it in ages. One of my favorites at your age too. Let’s bring it home with us huh?”

She nodded eagerly, a big grin on her face as she made grabby hands for the book, and you obliged, quickly grabbing the 3rd and 4th one as well. After a moment’s hesitation you grabbed 2 more for good measure, one for you, and one for Zack. You know how you were as a child and better safe than leave the poor girl on a cliffhanger. Luckily the librarians and you were already well acquainted given you came to volunteer to read to the kids here when you weren’t in school. It was a quick affair to check the books out and you were on your way. 

The essays had given you no trouble and were already sent to your professors…but that damn story had you completely stuck. You knew the general concept you wanted was dealing with possession of some sort but you couldn’t figure out who should be doing the possessing. It was the idea of being out of control you wanted to tap into Such a primal fear so underexplored by most monsters. 

It was still freezing oh God- you shivered as you and Ray made your way home. She looked at you worriedly and you could tell she was going to offer you the jacket but you patted her head. 

“I’ll be okay- gonna s-stop and get my m-m-mended one before groceries after all.” 

You sped walked and reached Reginald’s in record time, who luckily was just about to close up. 

“Reggie, please tell me you have my coat finished?”

Your eyes and voice were pleading and when he reached out to touch your arm in greeting he recoiled, frowning in fatherly disapproval. 

“Young lady, what on Earth are you doing out here in this cold without any protection?”

He sighed heavily and easily made his way back inside, holding the door open for you and Ray. 

It was the same as always, not a speck of dust in sight, but homey and most importantly, warm. You held your hands to your lips and warmed them. You could’ve cried when after a few moments Reginald came out, coat in hand. 

“Oh thank you so much! I’m in your debt! Here-” 

You went to pull out your wallet but at the sound of rustling Reggie tsk’d and shook his head. 

“No need, sweetheart. Can’t let ole’ Takamata’s daughter freeze now can I? How’s about you introduce me to your little friend here and I’ll call it even.”

You smiled fondly and sighed in defeat, slipping your dark burgundy coat over your t-shirt and zipping it up.  

“Fair deal! This is Ray, her and her older brother Zack will be staying with me from now on. They broke in and I couldn’t just turn away hungry people, especially a young girl like her. You know how Mr. Takamata was, he’d roll over in his grave if I didn’t help!”

The lies merged with the truth and Reginald laughed heartily, while Ray looked at you in disbelief. She surely expected you to give them fake names or backstories but there was no need. To lie effectively, you just had to be confident and believe what you were saying. 

“True enough!! Well, nice to meet you little lady, call me Reggie hm? Here, this hoodie feels too thin-”

“Reggie!”

He ignored your exasperated voice and before you knew it he’d tossed a small lilac coat and large black one your way and was shooing you out despite you protests. 

“I’ll hear nothing of it! Consider it a welcoming gift! Now get!” 

“Thank you Reggie. Really.”

He waved you off and patted Ray’s head before walking off. You smirked fondly and turned to look down at Ray. 

“Welp. How’s about we just get something hot and head on home? Zack may get worried if we’re out too much longer.” 

Ray nodded cheerfully. 

“Sounds great to me! I’m starved! That man was really nice, I hope we see him again soon.”

You giggled at her enthusiasm, opting to get pizza at the place right down the hill so it wouldn’t be a long walk. 

“Me too. I’m sure you’ll like him even more as you get to know him. He’s very kind. He has a service dog named Bucky, I’m sure you’ll get to meet them both again soon.” 

You held the pizza and Zack’s new coat, while Ray got the soda, garlic knots and the pepperoni pinwheel you caught her drooling over in the display case. 

You walked through the door with her on your heels, grinning and calling for Zack as you entered. 

“Zack we’re ho-”

Your voice died out at the sight in front of you. You couldn’t breathe. 

Why was he…here?

“Chris?”

That cursed name escaped your lips, bile burned your throat as he smiled and took a step closer. You went to back up, the door still open and remembered Ray and the fact your hands were full. 

Where was Zack? Didn’t matter you had to get Ray to safety. But she was already entering behind you, and setting the food on the table like he wasn’t there. She came over to take the pizza but you were in shock.

“The one and only!” 

His smile twitched, but you knew behind the mask he was seething as Ray began pulling out the food and setting the table. 

“Pizza night hm? Funny. I haven’t gotten my pay this month yet, I trust you have that ready for me?”

You just stared at him in stricken fear. The door was closed but you still felt just as frozen.

“…What are you doing here? How did you find this place?”

“Oh here? I’ve known for years, pet.I just…”

His smirk turned to a sneer. 

“Loosened your leash a little. Now, if you won’t give me what I want, you’re surely not fit to raise a child here. Maybe I’ll take her home…give her a proper enviorment. I mean, she didn’t even greet me properly. You know what happens to impolite children, don’t you?”

You didn’t speak up but you moved your body to block the way to the kitchen, motioning for Ray to run with your free hand, but she was completely oblivious. Your eyes steeled a little, but your voice was still that of a terrified kid. It didn’t matter that you were older now, it didn’t matter that you thought you were getting better. 

Suddenly you were a frightened child all over again. 

“I won’t let you have her.” 

You flinched at the feeling of a hand on you and looked down to find her gripping your hand, tugging you lightly towards the table.  

“Dinner’s ready. Come eat.”

Her eyes had gone dead, and she was pointedly ignoring Chris. She seemed very dissociated; probably a trauma response from her own family, if you had to guess. You realized your other hand still held the black coat and tossed it on the couch before reluctantly letting her take you to the table where you sat down. She sat too, and began eating while you looked numbly down at your plate. 

You heard the chair slide back as he sat at the head of the table, beginning to dissociate a little yourself but maintaining your hypervigilance. You felt shaky and scared, aware of every move he and yourself made. He began to eat, completely unbothered. 

You’d finally felt safe, away from him. Thought he was oblivious and finally mostly out of your life, save the monthly payments. You should have known you could never beat him. That he couldn’t cope with the loss of control. 

Now one of the first people in your life you allowed yourself to care for was at risk. It was your fault for not safeguarding against this possibility and the only reason you weren’t spiraling was because you knew you had to keep Ray safe. 

“What do you want?”

Your voice shook, but it was low and even, in hopes of being non-threatening. 

He was nonchalant as ever.

“You’re going to protect me, and let me stay here. I’m only hiding here because some psychopath showed up at my place.”

Your breath hitched and you looked up in fear as Ray jumped to her feet.

“Zack!?”

You hopped up quickly and wrapped Ray in your arms to shield her, and quickly mustered a lie. 

“Shh…shh…Zack isn’t here sweetheart.”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that name. Who is he? Is he staying here too?”

“He’s her older brother. When she gets scared she seeks him out- I’m not the only one who got traumatized.”

Your mutter was bitter and under your breath but he caught it. 

He always heard it. He stood and you held Ray tighter. You just had to last until Zack got here. Keep him placated. You trembled- God why did the shakes never stop around him?

“Talking back? Pathetic. You’re shaking like a damn leaf. Whatever. You’ll always be a freak.”

You swayed as the familiar insult caused an emotional and partially visual flashback, hearing faint words, catching glimpses from the back of your mom’s car. She was inside getting groceries. 

“You’re such a damn freak- those bullies at school were right about you. You’re really nothing but a freak. Everything you do is freaky-”

He’d used variations of the word till you were hyperventilating upon your mother’s return. You couldn’t hide it fast enough, but his mask was right back on. Told your mother he was “getting you used to the word.” Ha. She’d harmlessly shared the bullying you’d confided in her about, having no idea you intentionally hadn’t told him because she didn’t know any better. 

But your Mother isn’t here now. 

Your shaking stopped and you took a deep breath, steeling your own mask. You straightened from hugging Ray and glared at where he stood by the chair he claimed. 

“I don’t care what you do with me, but you won’t hurt her. I’ll never let you abuse anyone else I care about again.”

He threw his head back in bitter, sadistic laughter and you acted quickly, grabbing her jacket in one smooth motion and rushing to shove Ray outside, with a simple command before slamming the side door shut and locking it, tossing the key out there with her so she nor Chris could get her back inside. 

“Find Zack and stay hidden if you can’t!”

She hesitated, meeting your eyes and you smiled at her, trying to make her feel secure only to yelp as something slammed hard on the back of your head, sending you to the floor. You vaguely registered the picture and glass surrounding you, and the sound of Ray crying out your name in panic. The picture of you and Mr. Takamata lay near your face and you smiled weakly.. 

“…Sorry, Dad. Looks like I won’t be able to fulfill my promise after all.”

Your head felt wet and warm, and your vision was getting murky. You felt dizzy, trying to stay conscious. Chris was yelling, but for once…you felt serene. No fear. No constant hypervigilance. No more masks. But…Zack. Where was he? You never got to give him his new coat…

Darkness took you under. 

—–

Zack burst into the door with a loud bang, wild eyes scanning the area. He’d been searching frantically for the bastard all day and was exhausted and starving after a long day. He’d been planning to pick up the following day when he arrived, only to hear an unfamiliar male screaming curses. 

Zack didn’t consider himself a protective person. He’d grown up most of his life alone and fending for himself. Ray was an exception to the rule, and he thought he’d never find someone he wanted to protect again. Till he met you. He didn’t know you well. Didn’t even fully trust you yet, honestly, always wary to give trust. But he saw something of himself in you. Plus, you were horrendously naive and so, so in need of protection. 

This bastard seemed the best place to start. 

To see him in his new home, where he finally felt safe? Zack was anything but happy. The man froze after kicking you on the floor. Zack spotted Ray with tears swimming in her eyes as she screamed behind the back door, before rushing to meet up with him, heading around to the front once she saw him. 

Things moved quickly after that. 

Zack had the man by the throat, sadistic snickers leaving him ceaselessly as he held him against the nearby wall because if he didn’t laugh and scream he was going to do something else and he vowed to never do that again. 

“You’ve got 3 seconds. Talk.”

The man, if he could be called that, was near pissing himself in fear but Zack felt none of the typical satisfaction. Just rage, simmering under the surface along with his want to rip the slight smirk he saw tugging at the asshole face whenever he glanced at your crumpled body. 

“I have no problem with you, alright!? I don’t know what you want- if you want to kill her she’s all yours, but I haven’t done anything! I’m an upstanding citizen, I swear!”

“So lemme see if I got this right. You come into my house, trash my place, hurt my family, not only fucking up their heads but physically too and you think I’m gonna let you walk outta here?”

Zack threw his head back in magical laughter at the thought; it was the funniest damn joke he’d ever heard. At that, Chris finally snapped and threw a punch, facade dropping in an instant, but Zack held fast, vaguely noticing Ray walking up next to him a look in her eye he hadn’t seen since they were trapped. 

“God you’re a freak just like her- no, you’re some kinda monster! Guh-!”

Ray stabbed hard into his stomach, making the man gurgle on his words. He looked down in shocked horror and Ray was impassive. 

“You hurt her, so I hurt you.”

He cursed at her too. 

“You little bitch!! You’ll never get away with this, I’ll make you pay!”

Ray shook her head in disappointment.

“There’s no fixing you.”

She waved before turning her attention to you.  

“Bye bye.”

Chris opened his mouth to snarl at her again but Zack was done playing games. He had more important things to do. He glared, shaking the man before beginning to drag him outside and into the forest, talking casually.

“Pretty sure we got unfinished business buddy. See I’ve got a sharp knife, and I’m curious how many pieces I can cut off before you bleed out. Shall we find out together?”

“No, no God please!! Have mercy!”

“Shut the Hell up!”

His shout was one of anger as he tossed the man down and kicked him hard in the ribs, paying no mind as he screamed in pain. 

“That’s what I caught you doing to the woman who let us stay here! I don’t know why she’s afraid of you, but after tonight she’ll never have to fear you again. Nothing should scare her more than me. I won’t let you have her. I refuse. Her fear belongs to me. Now do the whole damn world a favor and DIE!”

His last word was a guttural roar of anger and when the man was finally dead by his hand, Zack crumpled. He didn’t know why, or how. His body was shaking and his bandaged were wet and it wouldn’t stop. He didn’t like it at all. This feeling, the way His mouth made sounds out of his control. It felt like…he’d killed his demon a second time, but this time it wasn’t just his. It was yours too. He found…he liked the feeling. More than his usual kills. This was more…liberating. He took the time to let whatever was happening run its course as he dragged the now dead piece of meat into the forest and buried him with the very shovel you used to do as he had, but for someone you loved rather than loathed. Love. Still such a foreign word and concept to him. He shook off his thoughts 

But now he needed to make sure you stayed alive long enough to hear him gloat. He could worry about the oddness of “feelings” later. Ugh. He shuddered. Feelings. Gross. 

He bit down a smile as he made his way back towards the house, seeing from the window that Ray was already patching you up, one of your textbooks open next to her. 

Maybe whatever he felt for you and Ray though, wasn’t quite so bad. 

[fruit-salad-ship]

BNHA 2.0

Ok I’ve been revamping BNHA au. I don’t like the story I’d made, fun but not my speed. So this second attempt ignores all the canon characters in the show, and probably happens way after whatever the show is doing now, in a totally different country. This is literally just me playing with world building blocks, not the story we know.

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

A child is born to an unfit family, too busy for their daughter, ignorant to her quickly developing quirk. She is alone for so long until one day she becomes aware of her requests for time and attention becoming heard. It’s hard for her to tell why there’s been a sudden change, but she sleeps well when she gets days with her parents, blind to the fact that her deep sleep is from using up all her energy activating her quirk. She grows up realising that her family only love her at times, she eventually understands that she’s using her power to get their attention. The second she can’t keep it up, they go back to ignoring her, disliking her. The parents become wise to her power, scold her, are adamant that she must leave the house, she’s manipulative, she’s making them do things they don’t want to do which is the simple act of giving their child love, time, and attention. She is resented. She is removed from her family home.

Now you have a young girl with a quirk that can get any truth, anyone to say anything, it can get an item, food, money, shelter, even moments of strong emotion, it can provide so much with little to no trace. She is deemed too dangerous, she is removed from society, taken to a maximum security prison at a young age, isolated from the world until she hit her teens. Escape is easy once she figures out how. A touch of the hand, brush of the elbow, that’s all it takes for her to be in your head directing you. Plum is smart enough to know she’s on her own from here on out. She is quick to gain work, villains mostly, she runs with petty criminals, thieves, pick pockets, people who teach her that trust is not a luxury they can afford. Some try to take advantage of her, she’s young, they’re not, but plum learns her quirk can end people just as easily as any strength based power. In fact, easier. She kills. A lot of people. All who stand to threaten her in any way, it was self defence at first but eventually she developed a habit of tying up loose ends.

Plum at age 20 is cut throat, she’s been left to figure out her own path in life, a path that is lonely, but to her, lonely is ordinary. She’s always felt like that, like something huge was missing. By 25, she’s figured out how to remove anyone and anything from her life that scares her. She hasn’t run with petty criminals in years, instead mixing with politicians, leaders, CEOs, the top 1% who need her work to secure their ideal outcomes. Plums living a luxurious life, a nice car, a house, all the nice clothes and expensive jewels she could want, yet still she feels alone. By 30 she has messed with one too many high flying business man, crossed a few too many more. She’s hired home security, has guards, but seems they can’t quite hack it when faced with real powerful quirks. Not just grunts, she’s being hunted by actual hitmen now. Her money has to be invested more intelligently, she needs to be safe. Plum asks around, snoops and digs until one of her informants suggest a known wanted criminal who’s recently entered the system looking for employment. Plums fascinated, the file on this one is wide spread destruction, photos of craters in concrete, in steel, news articles showing the sheer power of this individual. It’s noted that no one knows their identity, and they seem to have an incredibly adaptive quirk that allows for evasion and escape too.

A meeting is set, and soon plum gets to stand in the same room as this individual. They’re masked up, dark gear, not talkative, simple yes-no answers. It’s a woman’s voice under there, but the build of her is powerful, tall, broad. Code name: Kingslayer, plum makes an offhand comment that she’s thankful she’s a queen then, and the pair agree mutually to a price, a schedule, and a few ground rules, notably that plums word is law, and fighting that is pointless. She explains her quirk briefly as a suggestion one, and asks of the woman’s. She says it’s a gravity quirk, plain and simple. Both women are lying to a high degree, it’s a lot more complicated than that. Explaining it is pointless however, all Kingslayer has to do, is keep her boss alive and well, and she gets paid in cash. Perfect. Only drawback is her boss is a clear asshole, but she supposed she’s worked for worse, least the pays good, who cares.

Peach, aka, the hired killer, has done this work for far too long, a child born of a volatile quirk marriage, after trying and failing to keep several children prior to her alive, bad genetics leading to quirks the kids bodies could not handle, her parents finally got lucky with peach. Her abilities manifested in what seemed like mundane gravity effects at first, but the more she grew, the more it was apparent that this was anything but. She was swiftly shipped away and trained, her family happy to sell her off to the highest bidder as a temporary rental. She was valuable, and as soon as she could prove it with a density quirk, as it grew and took shape, her work began. High demand for someone who can do what she did. It didn’t come without mistake, without injury. She learnt fast that her quirk had severe repercussions if done incorrectly. But peach trudged on, no option to get out, simply to climb the ranks. So climb she did. Past others, past her peers and cousins, past everyone in her way. Keeping her mask on was the only way to separate her work from her life, and thanks to keeping that habit up, peach was able to live a relatively normal life when she wasn’t working.

No matter what way you look at it, both women had found their way through immeasurable trauma brought on by a set of skills they’d not had a choice over, things they’d been simply “gifted” at birth. One was never left alone, pushed so hard by others that she became unstoppable. The other completely abandoned, pushed so hard by herself that she became ungovernable. Plum has the ability to gain anything she wants for limited time, but is always abandoned, she’s become fearful of making connections that don’t require her quirk to keep the other person happy and occupied, her trust is fleeting, so sure no one will stay if she doesn’t make them. She’s fine with peach’s few rules when working, accepts that the mask is a safety thing and will NOT come off, and hears her when she says to listen during an emergency situation.

Their relationship is tense, plum has all the control normally, and eventually ends up using her quirk to find out more about the woman she’s hired. It can extract truths, and when her bodyguard is cagey about things she’s coaxed to talk more, to give away details. It takes no time at all for the truths to come out, it’s little things at first, things that make this masked figure human to her, and if it’s human, it’s vulnerable in plums mind. Trivial questions like her hired hands favourite flavour, or what movies she likes best seem like nothing, but this is plum testing the water, pushing her luck. Peach let’s it slide, it’s harmless, until that is the girls collide, confront each other, and plum gets in with her quirk quickly, calms peach down and reiterates who the boss is. She peels back a glove ever so slightly to get a glimpse of this woman’s skin, so pale against such dark clothes. Nothing stops plum sitting in her guards lap and asking questions, getting answers, she’s holding all the power. Peach is fully aware of what’s happening, and could technically stop it, but it’d involve hurting her boss, a bad move for any employee looking to keep their record relatively clean. This is not the first person to push her, and it wouldn’t be the last, she puts up with it.

Plum feels rather fascinated by peach, the truths she’s extracted from her lead her to believe they’ve had to endure a lot, she feels kinship here, though she hardly recognises that feeling, doesn’t pay it any attention, too afraid that like everyone else, her guard will leave, she’s only here for money. The isolation is hard on her, plum never wants it, and peach eternally seeks it after being obsessively groomed to kill from a young age. She never had free time, so now her days off are sacred, giving that time up is not preferable. The girls have insane sexual tension, something that gives way to plum 100% using her quirk to get this woman to touch her, to make it so peach is not in control, that she remembers she does not hold the power in this dynamic, no matter how strong she is. Peach still does not break free, is grouchy about it, sasses plum a bit, tells her this is not a wise decision as her boss peels her mask up JUST enough to see the bottom half of her face, the scar on her lip, the complete contrast of her pale skin. They share a lot of hostile moments of passion, volatile, toxic, loaded confrontations that are just power plays, situations peach always loses. Brain over brawn seems to triumph here, so long as peach isn’t really trying to negate her boss’ quirk, so long as she doesn’t use her ult.

Plum is so afraid to NOT use her quirk because people won’t like the person she is, she knows what she does is bad, but being alone is scary, terrifying even. She hates it. No one is ever there for her without a reason, money, blackmail, manipulation, personal gain. Even this guard, this woman she’s come to rather enjoy, is only temporary. Plum is surrounded by people, but totally isolated.

There comes a time where plum’s life is endangered, she wrongs someone and they send killers after her. Her guard is tested, and she passes with flying colours. This happens repeatedly, over a long period of time, months of attempts on her boss’ life, and peach handles it. Her quirk is anything BUT a gravity quirk, plum comes to realise this seeing it in action first hand. With each failed attempt on plums life, the foe get tougher, people hire bigger, meaner assassins, until one day there is actually a viable threat that Kingslayer just can’t seem to slay. Peach tells her boss to hide, and not move from this spot no matter what, she’ll be back. Plum does as she’s told, but after a few minutes alone, she starts to panic. What if she’s been lied to? What if her guard just ran away and let her for dead. Plum leaves the hiding spot, starts to try to sneak out of the area, only to get nearly killed in one hit. Peach manages to step in just in time, but the fight is harder, instead of just going up against an enemy, now the guard has to attack them and defend plum. Her quirk is not built well for group tactics. They get out of this tense showdown alive, plums untouched, peach is hurt but fine, it’s nothing too serious. Their escape to a safe house is followed up by a moment to breathe.

Peach shouts at her boss, finally snapped, that she should have stayed hidden like she said, what she did was reckless and stupid, she could have died! Their arguing gets so heated, plum hasn’t been confronted like this before, not so accurately at least because peach has sat and watched her. She’s good at her job because she watches. Predicts quite accurately how someone will act, what makes them tick, their nature. She’s done this to her boss too habitually. Plums an insecure, lonely, untrusting woman with too much power and no use for it other than herself, and today she put both their lives at risk because she couldn’t trust. Plum hates it, hates being called out. Normally she’d get rid of someone who did this, just kill them, but she can’t, peach is all she’s got. Cornered, plum gets defensive, they argue more, and peach cant see the row going anywhere, so frustrated with how her boss is acting, how stubborn and blind she’d being. Peach grabs her arm and pulls her, hard, directly into her, this little woman’s gone through a lot today, she needs this. This lady who’s spent forever alone, who cant seem to even understand companionship of any kind, is suddenly engulfed in this hug. It’s all consuming, she instinctively activated her quirk upon being grabbed, a defensive reaction, peach felt it take hold, but if Plum doesn’t say any directions or commands, it doesn’t take effect…And plum in her shock of being held doesn’t say a word, arms around her surround in a way that feels like a shield. It’s so painfully obvious that this woman has never been held in a way that wasn’t initiated by her own wants. Plum can smell this woman’s perfume? Buried up in all the dark layers, swimming in just how full on this cuddle is, never had this before, not like this. The tears come, and they can’t seem to stop.

After that moment of weakness and a second to collect herself, Plum can’t even begin to fathom what peach is staying around for, she can’t give her the agreed money right now, she can’t offer her much of anything in this safe house, there’s no incentive for peach to stay and protect her. Imagine the boss’ surprise, not forcing an answer with her quirk from the only person who’s not run, when peach expresses that it’s simply the right thing to do, that even killers can have morals. That big woman is surprisingly well adjusted considering the upbringing she had. She has a keen eye and an observant mind. She sees plum and can only truly notice the scared lonely woman who has no real support, no one around to keep her grounded and comfortable. When she’s hurt she doesn’t tell anyone, when she’s stressed it never comes out, when she’s afraid she puts a brave face on. It’s all a front, there’s no two ways about it. All the months working for her and she never saw loved ones or friends, nothing. Peach can’t be unnecessarily unkind to someone who’s had enough of that for one lifetime. Perhaps she’s going soft, or she’s grown attached to this little woman and her awful behaviour, but theres something compelling in there, and its not her quirk telling her that.

Not a day goes by where plum doesn’t question her guards sincerity, they’re held up in this safe house making sure its ok to emerge again, and each moment that ticks by she’s wondering who’s bought Peach out, who’s managed to pull the rug from under her, people don’t just ‘do the right thing’. So finally, at her wits end with Plum’s caution, peach sits her down and holds her hand out. Her quirk can get any truth from someone right? So get the truth from her right now. Ask anything, and see that some people cannot be bought, or swayed, and do just tell the truth on occasion. Peach is so aware of how much this woman is still just a frightened child on the inside, she knows, she was there emotionally too, still is some days… so plum and her sit at a little breakfast table and plum goes to take her hand, asks her to tell truths, why she’s there, why help, why not leave? And the responses she gets are all real answers. She hears someone say that they actually enjoy her, even if she’s a brat and awful at times, certainly complex and toxic, but theres something strangely compelling about her.

Peach just wants to help her shed some of that fear she’s carrying around. The moments of physical contact, of sex, be it initiated by plum or not, has given way to tiny glimpses of plum as she really is, afraid, longing, lonely in a big world that was cruel to her. It left her reliant on whatever tools she had at her disposal. Theres no way Peach could ignore the way she would stay so close during those moments she was in control, where she could let her guard down a little, Plum would always hold her tight, even if it’s just hooking her finger around one of peach’s, or running a hand back to touch her. This woman who could get anything she wanted, was truly touch starved, not at all as calm and composed as she made out to be. There were enough occasions where Plum had gotten her quirk under Peach’s skin and immediately asked her to come closer, to hold her, be physical with her in numerous ways that while masked with an imbalanced power dynamic were actually all lined with gentle intimacy.No amount of money or power can make up for an empty heart, for her isolation. Peach saw right through her trying to hide behind the casual sex plum would demand, it was just a front.

Kingslayer is a notoriously hard person to find out about. No one knows her identity, and she likes to keep it that way. But when no one sees, and she’s out of the gear, she’d just a regular old citizen. Her free time spent feeding stray dogs, tending to plants, taking in the world around her with an appreciation that comes when you spend so much time destroying things, killing people. She’s surprisingly calm and jolly when she’s not working, people like her, she’s not at all as unkind and distant as you’d expect compared to the stoic front she has up for work. Plum has never seen this, hell, she’s never seen more than fragments of this woman’s body, little peaks. She has threatened to get peach to take the mask off on a number of occasions, but honestly? Plum would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little afraid of this woman. When she first saw her file, the destruction peach left behind, there were craters in photos, aftermaths of her fights. And yet plum’s not seen her do that yet, has no idea what kind of power she’s got. If she pushes peach too hard, will she lash out at her? A risk not worth taking, so far she’s been nothing but agreeable during work, kept her safe, better to not ruin it.

An opportunity comes up at a masquerade ball situation, Plum needs to get in there and infiltrate, charm, rub elbows with a powerful man, convince him to make a little phone call to tell his guards at his office to just go home, then to forget about it. Just lose that memory. But it’s a rather raunchy gathering, and plum is required to bring a guest, someone too ‘offer up’ into what is essentially a trade raffle, one night where people swap their guests and get a little freaky in this huge mansion where the party is held. She considers an escort, but then she’s going in without a guard. Brings this up with Peach who’s completely covered up all the time, says that its a masquerade-like event, she could still keep her face covered, no one would know. Peach worries about being exposed, her hair colour is a little odd sure, and theres no way she can expose skin, too many scars that are very telling. Thats a whole lot of people to kill if she’s revealed. No one sees her face and lives, it’s how she’s stayed safe this long. Plum says she wont even be there more than a few minutes, it’s just to get security called off elsewhere, they can leave as soon as she’s done. Through gritted teeth Peach agrees, if plum gets in trouble and dies, finding another job is effort she doesn’t really want to expend.

The pair end up dressed to kill, Peach does the full 3 piece suit, keeps gloves on, a black and white mask much like an old court jester, just glittery and elaborate, something plum picked out, but it did cover everything, hair included. She feels better about this. Not like her quirk requires weapons or gear, she doesn’t have to carry anything. Plums killing it in this regal looking dress, mask covering just the top of her face, gems and feathers, she’s making sure she’s noticed by her target. They show up, plum on the arm of her guard, staff walking around in barely anything, drinks offered, peach turns it down, plum takes one up. They seem to draw attention, this is the opposite of what peach is use to, but plum is thriving in this, it’s her thing, she fits in here amongst the arrogant and rich, blending in to take advantage of them. Honestly though? Her eye keeps wandering back to her guard, who’s really quite something to see dressed smart, she drags out the night just to see the raffle through, walk up on that stage and present her darling guest, her offering, and watch Peach play it very cool after whispering to her that they need to hurry up and get the hell out of here, she’s not being locked in a room with any of these people.

Plum sneaks off and does what she came to do, charms her way into the inner circle, gets to her mark, uses her quirk to call security off, and gets out casually. It’s all done, Peach watching her closely the whole time, trying not to give too much time to the people fascinated with her, and more so, the one man and his wife who’d purchased her time in the raffle. She’s quietly nervous, killing them would be such a pain. The girls regroup and go to leave, stopped by security, easily bypassed as plum touches their arm gently and smiles, tells them to let her and peach go, a sudden emergency has come up, this party can wait. They very nearly get out, but it’s been seen on the security cameras that they’re going, and someones paid for peach tonight, they can’t just let them leave now. Fine. They stay. Peach is irritated, getting chatted to by the couple who’d invested in her, plum watching on, amused, with a twinge of jealousy that she can’t place. Time comes, peach leaves with the couple, goes up to a room, they start to try to charm her into losing the suit, but she simply places a hand on each one of them calmly, and they fall. Grasping at their chests, trying to fight what’s happening, they feel their hearts heavy in their chests. Peach made their vital organs so dense they ceased to work. To most it would look like a heart attack, her quirk would wear off and they’d be untouched, no bruises no poison, no fighting. She places them in the bed making them light as feathers so she hardly has to touch them, after getting them out most of their clothes to throw around the room, making sure this scene looks like they’ve just overdone it, opened a bottle of Champagne, drank some of it to kill time, three glasses knocked or placed in natural ways. To anyone looking at this, the scene feels normal. The two bodies in the bed just look like they’re sleeping. Peach waits a couple hours, exits, leaving the ‘do not disturb’ tab on the door handle, retuning to the party.

The girls get to leave, unbothered by the security this time, and Plum wonders what happened in that room Peach wont tell her, says it doesn’t matter. She was in there a while though, and came out looking untouched give or take. It doesn’t matter, the job tonight was completed, they get home, peach back to her gear, far more comfortable now. Things play out smoothly, but plum HAS to know what happened, finally confronting peach with her one special brand of brat, saying if she doesn’t tell her what happened, she’ll use her quirk on her and get the truth anyway. A fair point, and not at all an empty threat. Peach explains she gave them heart attacks and leaves it at that. The ‘you can’t be that good’ comment that comes after gets the first ever genuine laugh from the guard. Plum didn’t expect to hear that, watching her composure crack and shake as she chuckles away at her comment. Plum’s heart jumps. She didn’t know she wanted this woman’s laughter in her life until that exact moment. The situation is explained clearer, another little branch of this woman’s horrifying quirk uncovered. It is so painfully adaptable, but only because Peach was trained ruthlessly her whole life. There was no breaks, no days off, no time to yourself, every waking moment was a drill, a test, a fight for your life, and she fought HARD. Plum didn’t have to coax her to answer her questions, seemed Peach was happy to oblige this one.

———————————————

I don’t know where Plum would finally see her guards face, like in its entirety, but it’d have to be dramatic as all hell! Be it Plum forcing her to take the mask off for some reason during an argument, or Peach ripping it off due to no other choice, injury, a quirk making it the only option, frustration. Maybe it’s even a moment of ‘I trust you, I’m letting you in, you have to see that trust is a two way street.’ MAYBE plum does something very thoughtful and open, which is not in her nature so she gets the only thing peach can give her, total transparency. Plum getting so hurt Peach as to give CPR? The mask HAS to come off, she’s not usually one to save people but this is different, she’s come to like this little shit of a boss. Comes around and sees the relief in a person face that she’s ok.

Idk yet guys, im just playing with ideas to avoid life stress rn.

I was thinking bout Grey being the personal trainer peach hires as a civilian, his quirk is a great counter to hers and she likes to train against that kind of a skill to gain tolerance. Drinking buddies. Maybe he’s got a t hing for her, and she don’t see it, or feel the same, but they just stick it out? Unsure, he was honestly an afterthought.

He could also very well be a cop trying to catch the girl out, always missing. But it leaves little to work with, not that id focus on him much haha, soz grey.

[trans-advice]

hi! i’m afab and questioning if i’m trans. i live in the us and with everything going on rn it’s not the best time to be realizing that lmao. but anyway, i’m a minor and my parents are pretty accepting. the trans thing started really recently, like a couple weeks ago. i had a different gender crisis a year ago and some gender feelings on and off since then but none have been as bad as this. i’ve been going back and forth between lesbian and bisexual for a few years and i finally had the courage to come out to my parents as a lesbian about a month ago, but now i’m pretty sure i’m bisexual and trans in some way 😭 i’m scared if i come out again too soon they’ll think it’s a phase. i can’t tell whether i’m trans or not. i have a pretty small chest compared to most but i still wish it was flat. my best friend is a trans guy and i find myself getting really jealous of him because i wish i could just be perceived as a boy (or at least not as a girl). my name and being called she/her has always sorta felt weird to me, not really bad but just like i’m dissociated from it or something. i really don’t feel like a girl at all, but this all started so recently and i felt decently feminine before, and i never really showed any childhood signs of being trans (besides maybe wanting to be a couple different male fictional characters when i was like 12), so i’m scared it’s a phase and i’m just faking it. i don’t trust myself to figure it out accurately, it’s like i need someone to tell me i’m trans in order to not feel like i’m a fake. i feel like if i really were trans i should have known from a younger age. plus, i feel really bad about potentially changing my name and pronouns (even tho i kinda want to) because it’s just gonna be an inconvenience to everyone i know to have to remember to call me something different. sorry this is so long, i know it’s kinda a mess but general advice would be helpful lmao. thanks for running this blog!

IDK how safe coming out is for you, so I do want you to keep your safety in mind more than I want you to prioritize the convenience of others. People in general when they don't want to be inconvenienced just don't get involved. If they're involved enough & it's a safe environment & relationship, then adding the living name & pronouns probably isn't a problem. If they're not involved though then they probably won't even try to learn or remember your name.

As for explaining the difference between sexual orientation & gender identity to your parents, gender identity is everywhere where sexual orientation is more focused on the bedroom. Say when you went with the affirmation of lesbian that it ended up not affirming everything. Like to be fair, trans men are part of the sapphic community because the oppression against trans people (which includes nonbinary people) is more intense than that against being a woman instead of a man.

People's gender identity can change over time & that's fine. Such matters are out of our control. The point is to affirm which ever gender identity you have.

I would probably start with creating online accounts that affirm your gender identity & some same (possibly an alias) that sounds cool to you. Then search for spaces where lgbtqia+ people are welcome, then search for spaces where lgbtqia+ people aren't kicked out. Whether these are online or in-person, keep an eye out for safety procautions.

Good Luck, Peace & Love,

Eve

[sothetherogue]

Dear Evan Hansen found me.

So now that the tour is closing as well, I’ve been kind of reflecting on why I enjoy Dear Evan Hansen so much. Why it was a show, out of all of the shows I’ve been fortunate enough to see, I connected with so much. So. Here are some incoherent drabbles on it from me.

The first, and probably most obvious thing, is that for much of High School – I felt like Evan. Like I was kind of always on the outside looking in, just hoping that someone would want to include me in what they were doing. I’ve long since left HS but in a way I often still feel that way. I always feel like for a lot of people I am their afterthought. Family, friends, work – I’m the guy no one is thinking “Oh he has to be there!” I just get tossed the pity invite when they remember. Is a lot of that in my head? Yeah probably – But hey Anxiety really make a fool of me.

I spent a lot of time around that age, and even to an extent now, wishing I had more friends. I spent time playing World of Warcraft and imagining what it would be like to have a group of friends to go to a dance with, thinking what it would be like if I could built up the courage to talk to a guy I liked. In college I spent a lot of time thinking the friends I was with were just too polite to tell me to leave. A lot of that carries with me now. Just waiting for the moment everyone decides I have overstayed my welcome and asks me to leave. Always planning out interactions in the hope of making sure they go well do that people will like me. Just – I really saw myself in him as a character.

In a way, I also had my own big lie that I was telling to everyone. Obviously, a very different lie, but one that shaped everything around me and eventually came crashing down. I’ve known I was gay for a really long time. There were a lot of mistakes made around it – but growing up in the Lutheran School system, telling people was just something I felt could never do. There are a lot of moments from my life that I feel were taken from me because I’d either step out of the sun, or hit the breaks before I turned the key.

I know DEH isn’t a “Coming out” story in that sense, but the way it paralleled my own life is something I can’t stop thinking about. Having a mom who always tried to do her best for me, but because she didn’t actually know the support I needed ended up coming up short? It’s scary how similar it was. I even went to therapy for a time, but it was Christian based therapy. I’m not knocking it as a concept – but the thing that was bringing me down I couldn’t talk about SO….it didn’t help. And the lie I told everyone, that I convinced myself was true as well because I wanted it to be true for so long. I pretended to be straight, date girls, do all the things so that no one would know how “Broken” I was deep down. How broken I found myself. Everything seemed fine on the surface, but deep down I was really hurting.

When I heard “Words Fail” I was reminded so much of when I finally started to admit the truth to myself and other people. I didn’t know how to say it, and usually was just reduced to tears. The lyrics

This was just a sad invention

It wasn't real, I know

But we were happy

I guess I couldn't let that go

I guess I couldn't give that up

I guess I wanted to believe

'Cause if I just believe

Then I don't have to see what's really there

No, I'd rather pretend I'm something better than these broken parts

Pretend I'm something other than this mess that I am

'Cause then I don't have to look at it

And no one gets to look at it

No, no one can really see

'Cause I've learned to slam on the brake

Before I even turn the key

Before I make the mistake

Before I lead with the worst of me

I never let them see the worst of me

'Cause what if everyone saw?

What if everyone knew?

Would they like what they saw?

Or would they hate it too?

Will I just keep on running away from what's true? .....

Like. They might as well have just held a mirror up to my face.

I had told some people before I ever told anyone in my family. To be honest, telling my mom was not how I wanted it to go. It was similar to Heidi and Evan too. We were in a fight about something silly. I had forgotten to get something out of my trunk she needed and drove to work with it. I remember sitting in my desk at 9 am sobbing because this was it. This was how I was going to tell her. I finally texted her the words “I’m gay” and that pretty much shut down the rest of the day for me. I called my friend Lily in the stairwell – I don’t even know if I got coherent words out to her – Before I drove home and laid in bed catatonic for 6 hours until my mom got home. All of this culminated in our own “So Big / So Small” moment – And while I don’t think she handled it perfectly (Not mad BTW) it was a turning point for me.

I could finally stop pretending I was someone else in the hopes that people would like the persona I had created, and not the one that was real that I wanted to hide. I was me. And that was enough. It was time to step in to the sun.

When I finally saw the play in 2021 I was immediately taken with it for the above reasons and more. It was another catalyst for me to start making changes in my life, as I realized I was still not being the full me – and I have been changing that. I have been fortunate enough to see the tour 4 separate times, and every time I see something new and while it is sad it is ending, it will be something I always remember.

So – when I say this play meant a lot to me I really mean it. I might have taken something from it completely different from someone else – and I wish I had found it so much sooner, but thank you Dear Evan Hansen for finding me.

[alieinthemorning]

Foxy Mama [Dabi | Todoroki Touya]

Content: Reader/OC has a daughter, Reader/OC has a fox quirk, Reader is a MILF, Brown-Skinned, Chubby Reader/OC

Pronouns: She/Her

Header: @/takepopopopopo

Reblogs: Let me know that you enjoy my work and want to see more, so don’t forget to like and reblog (and comment in the tags. I love seeing people’s rambles in the tags)!

This work’s concepts, plot and original characters are my own which means I do not allow any sort of creative theft nor do I allow my work to be entered into any sort of A.I. bots. Thank you for respecting my space and boundaries.

You knew your tricks would catch up to you one day. 

You just didn’t expect it to be right now. 

“You can either come with me or I can roast you right here.”

Your tails flicked nervously. “How about a third option?”

“Your tricks are what got you into this mess in the first place. You really wanna try that again?” He said, taking a step closer, putting your shoulder to shoulder. 

This really wasn’t your day. 

Just as you opened your mouth,

your daughter came barreling outside. 

“Mama!” She squealed as she collided with your legs. 

“Sweetie!” You lifted her into your arms, possibly squeezing her harder than intended. “How was school?”

You needed to keep her distracted. 

You needed to get away from him. 

Maybe since you had a child in your arms, he would leave you alone.

He wouldn’t hurt a child,

Right? 

You turned away from him

but his arm snaked around your waist

Your daughter noticed him. 

“Mama, who is this?” She sniffed at him, “And why does he smell like burnt meat?”

“That’s rude!” You immediately chided her. “Apologize!” 

Her ears turned down, or at least they tried to, seeing as her hair was done up in afro puffs. She did as she was told, however. 

“Doesn’t really bother me.” He dismissed it. 

“Who are you, though? I’ve never seen you before.” And just like that, her curiosity was back.

“He’s no one—”

“I’m her boyfriend.”

Every inch of your body stood at attention.

Dabi of the League of Villains as your boyfriend?

Maybe in your wildest dreams. 

But your daughter looked at you expectantly

And it was your only you at the moment, so 

“That’s right, this is my boyfriend…” You nudged him with a tail.   

“Tooru.” 

She gave him one last once over before turning her full attention back to you. 

“I’m hungry.” 

“Of course you are.” You gave her ear a scratch then turned to Too— Dabi. “Well, thanks for waiting with me. I’ll see you another—.” 

“Tooru should join us!” 

Your daughter would be the end of you. 

Dabi smirked. 

You should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to get away from him.

Dinner with Dabi was interesting to say the least. He had table manners, which was good. And he made sure to mind his language around your daughter, which was also good.  But you didn’t like the way he was looking at you. 

Well, you did kinda like it.

But not now, not at the table. 

He also decided that playing footsies was an absolute must.  You just tried to ignore him as well as keep your daughter in check. 

“What kinda job do you work, Tooru?”

“I’m an exterminator.” 

She scrunched her nose up, “Yuck, you deal with like… mice and stuff like that?”

He nudged his foot against yours. “And stuff like that.”

Your nose twitched. 

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

She gasped. “Mama’s the same age!” 

You pointedly avoided Dabi’s curious gaze, choosing to instead focus on your daughter. 

“Hun, you’re doing a lot of talking and not enough eating.” You continued before she could pout, “If you keep messing around, you won’t have any playtime before bed.” 

That got her to be quiet—

for the moment at least.

The rest of the meal was silent beside the scrape of silverware on china. 

Unfortunately, after dinner, you and Dabi were confined to washing the dishes. 

“Why are you still here, Tooru?” You hissed out the question. 

Him being in your den was beginning to agitate you. 

“It’d be pretty rude of me to not clean up my mess before I left, don’tcha think?” 

Your ears stood at attention. 

What did he mean by mess?

He couldn’t have just meant the dishes,

right? 

“Relax, vixen. I’ve decided to give you an extension of sorts.”

“Oh?” Your tails flicked curiously with an edge of nervousness. “We’re going with option three?”

He nodded. “We’re going with option three.”

This was originally a request, but then this very quickly became an OC. So, I'll just be labeling this as a OC-Insert piece.

Ko-Fi | Commission | Masterlist

[lazarusweptt]

「 casey deidrick 〳 cis man 〳 he/him 〳human —— brotherhood of the five 」 well, well, well… if it isn’t jeremy gilbert, the 32 year old who’s best known around the city for his lazarus complex. keep this between us but i’ve heard that they’re aligning with the mystic falls gang; can you believe that? i guess it makes sense seeing as they are quite stalwart & self-sabotaging. let’s just hope that little alliance doesn’t go sour…  

BASICS

name: jeremy grayson gilbert

nicknames they go by: jer , j

age: thirty-two

species: human / hunter ---- brotherhood of the five

sexuality: bisexual & biromantic

pronouns: he / him

gender: cis man

family: miranda & grayson gilbert ( parents ) , elena gilbert ( sister ) , jenna sommers ( aunt ) , john gilbert ( uncle ) , alaric saltzman ( former guardian ) , stefanie salvatore ( niece ) , elizabeth & josie saltzman ( adoptive family ) , damon salvatore ( brother-in-law )

likes: junk food , watching trash reality tv with caroline , stealing from chain stores , takeout , true crime , knives , shitty vampire / werewolf movies , storms , long showers , grunge music , quiet nights outside , sex , marlboro reds , singing in the shower , video games , art

dislikes: supernatural bullshit , bad tippers , crowded spaces , dressing up , mystic falls , seafood , funerals , being unkind to children / animals , vulnerability in himself , capitalism , math , deflecting responsibility , empty threats , shit food , family legacies

QUESTIONNAIRE

what words or phrases do they overuse?

calls people ' dick ' frequently ---- particularly damon and tyler.

are they more optimistic or pessimistic?

pessimist

are they introverted, extroverted, or ambiverted?

introverted

what bad habits do they have?

' borrowing ' small things from friends , smoking , nail biting , biting pens / pencils , binge drinking , grinding teeth , lip biting , recklessly independent in some regards , loyal to his own detriment , not responding to messages , ignoring his health , shoplifting

what makes them laugh out loud?

caroline , lizzie , shitty things happening to shittier people , dogs

how do they display affection?

small acts of service , physical affection , unquestioning loyalty , protectiveness , defensiveness , cooking , thoughtfulness

how do they see themselves?

a mess. a work-in-progress. a weapon. a tool. a hunter. a ghost. a memory. a what-if. a walking cemetery. a haunted house. a cautionary tale. a guardian. a sacrificial lamb. a weakness. a twice-made mistake. a slaughterhouse. a regret. a victim. a perpetrator. an unwanted legacy. a dead woman's hopes. a lost cause. a lesson in perseverance. a story of survival. a not-dead-yet.

strongest character trait?

stalwart : reliable , loyal , hardworking

weakest character trait?

self-sabotaging : hindering or undermining one's own well-being

how competitive are they?

very , but specifically in insignificant matters. more salient things are met with greater levity.

what is their greatest fear?

loss : loss of loved ones , loss of control , loss of autonomy , loss of identity , loss of affection

what quality do they most value in a friend?

loyalty

what are their pet peeves?

rudeness to customer service reps / waitstaff , bad tippers , littering , lack of boundaries , scraping silverware , cutting lines , unsolicited advice

if they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be?

lack of emotional / mental stability

why are they aligning with whoever they’re aligning with?

love , predominately. seconded only by an incredible lack of self-preservation.

what are their goals here in new orleans?

keeping his family alive.

PLAYLIST

damn these vampires by the mountain goats / sorrow by the national / broadripple is burning by margot and the nuclear so and so's / the curse of the blacked eye by orville peck / pursuit of happiness by lissie / i'll die anyway by girl in red / drunk drivers/killer whales by car seat headrest / the freshmen by the verve pipe / body terror song by ajj / the funeral by band of horses / welcome to eden by samia / sober haha jk unless by hospital bracelet / saint bernard by lincoln

[chwrpg]

Oh honey, you baked. – Christian

A NOTE FROM ADMIN R: It’s been quite some time since I’ve had the honor of accepting someone into our chosen family. Thank you so so so much for taking on the character of Cristiano as there’s personally nothing I love more than the kids that evoke a certain sense of glamour ( and of course the mess that comes with that ). The application was flawless, you’re amazing and I can’t wait to see what you do with Cris from here on out.

OOC NAME/ALIAS, PREFERRED PRONOUNS, AGE & TIMEZONE:You know what to do! A, He/Him, 21+, Est 

DESIRED CHARACTER: Cristiano De La Renta

HOW ACTIVE WILL YOU BE? Depending on the day, could be anywhere from 6-10 

SECONDARY CHOICE: N/A 

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER: Cris is a work in progress, he finds himself at the presipise of life. Having to mature, find his way in the world, with those few people that have allowed him to be loved, and love in return. He doesn’t find it easy, half of the day he spends questioning himself, that is until a new offer comes in, or the newest glossy mag featuring himself came out. All he wants in life is to find a home in someone, a purpose that goes beyond himself. Or he would, if he was able to be honest with himself enough to admit it. He bides his times with running the label, a godsend, the job offered something he needed, a routine. A routine to keep his nose clean, and allow the natural talent he has to pour freely. Wanting to be a better person is a work in progress, one he will address time to time in his notes app, or whatever snazzy app promises to deliver peace of mind. At the core of Cris, is a charming, flawed, but eager and decent guy. The only thing standing in his way? Himself. 

SAMPLE WRITING:  “Can you get that fabric we got in last week, you know, the one with the edge?” Cris called out to whomever was in earshot, too deep in his work to pull away. With a few pins in the corner of his mouth, he studied the piece, tugging at the material until a natural pleat appeared. The needle was out of his mouth and nestled in perfectly, allowing the perfect touch to flourish. He could hear his grandfather now. ‘Natural, we respect a woman, and dress the goddess within.’ The words had been said so many times, but it was only then he truly understood them. It was hard at times, standing in the same place his grandfather had worked, built up from the ground, a place he brought beauty, happiness, and creativity alive. Even though the man had passed on, he found comfort in being in the small private studio. He hadn’t touched much, wanting to be surrounded by the items he’d grown up around, that had inspired him. His gaze drifted off towards the corner. Catching one of the few pieces he’d put in. It was a small glass piece, but it reminded him of Chanel.

She was a muse of sort, the exact sort of person he wanted to dress in the legendary label. Time to time he made a garment for her, rare few actually being sent over, the rest were inspired by someone else. Someone who made his heart skip a beat. Almost as if they were a letter, each a sentence of an apology, a promise. Forced from his thoughts as a voice behind him spoke, he quickly looked back and grinned wide as he looked at the material. “Perfection. Thank you.” He said, offering the winning charm and smile he had been known for. It was like watching a dancer, the way he moved around the garment, holding and pinning material, but instead of the focus on each inch, he was back in his head. No matter what, no matter how great something was going, he felt himself always going back to the dark hole that showed up in his life a little too often. Self doubt was a family gift, one he had wished to go away and be replaced with something, hell, he’d choose clumsy over self doubt. “Relax.” He told himself, trying to ease his mind, but when the thoughts didn’t stop, he grabbed for his phone and put on his playlist. A moment later, shuffle did it’s job and music began to flood the area. The song flowed through him, anxiety and nerves forgotten while he put his focus back to work. Music had long been a godsend for him. Back when his parents had been in the thick of the hatred and divorce, he’d lost himself in it. Obsessively making playlists for any given moment. Panic? Check. Sexy? Check. It was almost funny, he thought. The way their trauma continued to bleed out in his everyday life. All he wanted was to forget them, easier said than done. Then, in that moment, as his pins glittered in the sun, it struck him. Forget them? No. That would be easy, the out they wanted. No. He would eclipse them. He would honor his grandfather by being exactly what the man had wanted, for him to be better, the best man he could be, no matter what. A little rewriting of history, and he would be the one that people thought of when they heard his last name. No more being an inconvenience, a second thought. He would be the man he needed to be, the man a certain someone deserved. 

[guyfieriii]

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter. 

This….hurt. This hurt to read. When I think of what it would be like to live in a world like this, between the people who lived a life prior to the outbreak and the ones who were born after, in a way the latter group has it easy. Because it’s all they’ve ever known. I’m sure they’d long for a life that’s not like the one they live but it’s a whole different kind of ache when you’ve experienced it and LOST it and remember it. Remembering something you’ve lost, something you’ll never likely get back but you long for it still. It’s a sharp and dull pain all at once. And I felt it, reading that. And yet, Joel’s found it in a way. Some bastardized version of it anyway. So there’s some respite, from the fear and the blood and the gore and GOD, LEV I’M CRYING.

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy. 

I legit SNORTED at this.

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston. 

What magnificent prose, holy fuck. And I’ve only started. You’re ruining me. In the beta of ways.

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

Jesus this line. Fucking poetry, babe!!!

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops. That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

I didn’t realize until now just how much I missed watching my sanity crumble away at the your words in parentheses. I am on my knees thanking you for it. I love that she’s like him— that she’s just as brutal, just as callous. And you immediately follow it up with him comparing her to a pin up girl. So there’s two versions of her in his mind. The fantasy and what’s imbedded in reality.

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well. 

PURE BRILLIANCE, THIS. And so absolutely Joel.

(and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess)

God you’ve fleshed out his character so perfectly I’m dying. Him hurt by Ellie lashing back at him. Also every mention of Tess is a dagger straight to the heart but it’s necessary and I understand.

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

I read this over and over and over. ITS JUST SO BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN HOLY SHIT.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it. 

I’M CRYING. THIS IS EXACTLY RIGHT!!! CUZ IT HURTS TOO DAMN MUCH!!

HE DREAMS OF HER INFECTED AND STILL-

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

FUCKING HELL, LEV!!! I am full on sobbing now.

She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. I love how this has evolved. I had to read over bits again and again cuz the first time just felt so jarring to me, like my mind had to adjust and with every subsequent read, the transition of Joel’s feelings for MC just got smoother and smoother and I am in awe of you.

(The only person she dims for is him.)

What’s that screaming sound..? Oh wait. It’s me. I’m screaming.

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

Jesus CHRIST my brain cannot compute such writing, Lev. Glorious bit of prose.

"Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all." 

I’M DEAD!!! I love this!!!!!!

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.

YOU DIDN’T JUST GO THERE HOLY FUCK!!

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance. 

Makes me think of what Tess said in the first episode. “He answers to me.”

It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red. 

THIS IMAGERY IS ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS!!!

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous. 

I can hear this in his voice and I’m horny.

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

I am WHEEZING.

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

I-

What-

JESUS

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

WHAT A WAY TO END IT HOLY SHIT THIS IS PERFECT YOU ARE PERFECT I NEED TO READ THIS AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN.

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

》 SUMMARY: It's her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of.  》 WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT (mild); allusions to death, assault; female gendered reader, female gendered anatomy; minor game spoilers; Joel isn't bad at feelings – he just doesn't want them. Joel is tired™ 》 WORD COUNT: 10,9k

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

》 NOTES: I did something different with my writing. It's still a Reader insert, but. I tried third person instead of the usual second. also, how this ballooned up to nearly 10k is lost to me since it was just supposed to be smut?? I had this clear image of older Joel laying in bed, his guitar leaning against the wall, catching the light of the sun as you slowly rode him, and now? I don't even know. ⤑The gif is mine. Please don't take or repost without permission

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter. 

It doesn't exist. 

Shouldn't. 

And yet—

His guitar sits, abandoned, in the corner of the bedroom. The wood still carries the heat from his thumb this morning when he played a song alone on the porch. Eyes bleary, full of sleep, of rest, as he took in the varicoloured dawn cresting through the indigo sky.

Those same weathered, beaten hands that strummed the chords to Hurt are now occupied again. One perched on her hip, skin sateen soft and plush, full and warm and clean from the shower last night as she bears down on top of him in a quiet cadence, a muted, languid dance. The other cups the swell of her breast in his palm, nipple still damp from his hungry mouth, and flushed red from his teeth. 

This should just be a fantasy. 

A dirty thing in the recess of his mind when he has a moment to himself breathe. A thought, a whim. Something to needle away at the last vestiges of his consciousness when he sees her in the wild—vibrant, young, and free—and then sullied in the back of his head when he leans against a tree, and thinks of the dirt on her skin, the blood on her delicate hands, and how they'd taste under his tongue.

But this isn't a dream.

When he sleeps, he dreams in black and white. The only colour that bleeds through is red. Blood red. Pulpy and vicious. Ugly. Garish. It splatters across the pavement where he laid Sarah down, where he lost Tess, and everyone else he never promised to save and still couldn't. 

He knows this isn't a dream when he blinks his eyes open, and she's there. Sitting atop him in a kaleidoscope of colour, drenched in ochre from the still rising sun. The only red is her blistered lips, the rough burn between her thighs from the scrape of his beard, and that sinful little tongue that slips between her teeth when he slides in deep. 

And then—his eyes drop to her side—that ugly wound that cuts her flesh, ripped over the seam of her ribs. 

He's awake. Lucid. 

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy. 

He doesn't say this, of course—Joel isn't stupid, and for someone so considerably smaller than he is, she packs a hefty punch in those slender fingers that curl into a fist barely the size of an apple. The sharp jab of a rusted, blunt knife. Knows where to hit him, too. 

He tucks it away, and lets his hands explore, feeling the tangibility of her weight, her presence, under the tips of his bloodied fingers. 

(Broken on the same teeth that caused her to hurt.)

The knob of her hip bone juts out through her flesh, and he grazes it with his thumb, feeling the soft curve. 

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone. 

He can feel the flutter of her racing pulse under his hand when he kneads her breast in his hand, and lets her nipple graze teasingly over the rough skin of his weathered palm.

The tight clench of her around him—pussy a perfect knot around the base of his cock, all pretty and tied tight like a bow—is another stroke of realism his dreams, nightmares, fantasies, could never imbue. 

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston. 

Joel feels each breath that leaves her heaving chest. Each gasping hiccup of his name when she raises her full hips up, and then slide back down the length of him in a slow, languorous roll until he nudges against the seal of her womb, and steals the air in her lungs. 

It's real. 

A paradox, then. 

One of those things that shouldn't happen, but is. Like her, and him, and everything else in between.

He knows what the others in town say when they see her—pretty and soft with a ginger touch and a sweet curl of a voice when she whispers his name. It doesn't make sense for her to be all wrapped up in him, following along behind like a shadow to a man who's cut from ashlar, and reeking of rot. Ruin. 

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops.

That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

They glare at him from the corner of their eyes when she swells like a lighthouse in the midnight gloam at the sight of him wandering back from patrol, eyes all bright and beaming, and beautiful—Christ. 

She's a picture, he thinks. 

One of those pinup girls he'd find in dirty magazines as a kid. When he and Tommy would sneak a peek behind the barn, away from prying eyes. A portrait of lust. Desire in high gloss. 

A classical beauty—the type that would make men drown themselves at sea. A starlet in the golden age back when it mattered. 

Writers' muse, maybe: she would have been the girl everyone talked about—the one that eluded the tortured artist, made him pine. 

Hemingway would call her brutal. 

Cat in the Rain. 

(She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.)

He doesn't know much about poetry but he knows she's the type who could make a man want to stain his fingers in ink just to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled. 

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith. 

Her voice is a song when she says his name. A hymn. 

Dangerous. 

He doesn't know when this started. 

Maybe, when they brought her in with the rest of the group she was travelling with. Beaten down, hungry. Clinging to life with frostbitten fingers. 

Her eyes were flat; a stagnant pond. Lips a grim, blue line. Placid. Gone. She'd been out there for too long to ever find comfort behind walls, and he knows the feeling of trying to crawl out of your own skin when people stand too close. 

She scoffed at the idea of this place, of sanctuary. Resentful and derisive. He could see the distrust in her clenched jaw, balled fists. This world was a whim—evanescent—and what they gathered from the rest of the group, survival hadn't been easy outside of safe zones.

Wall after wall fell, she said, tone flat. Blank. Haunted by ghosts still lingering in the canyons of her eyes. Stopped believing in stuff like this after a while. 

Her eyes were stained—jaundiced and red, filled with burst blood vessels—and raw from how hard the edges of her knuckles had dug into the flesh of her eyelids. They spoke of sleepless nights. Ones interrupted by her own sense of survival, hyperarousal. 

He knows the feeling of jerking awake whenever his brain starts to lull, to slip into that dangerous facsimile of security. 

Pipe dreams. She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield. 

(Sleep often feels like a bad habit for people like her, like him.)

But like him, it waned slowly. 

The chips in her veneer cracked, split, and he saw the incipient filament start to seep in. Complacency. Comfort. 

A few months in, she stopped being so defensive when they invited her out for drinks, and when they talked about dinner parties, and birthday celebrations. Derision was still a heavy weight in her distant gaze, clutched in bleached knuckles like a claymore, when she looked at them, a touch incredulous. 

Joel understands the feeling. 

The itch in your guts, the discomfort in your chest. It festers, doesn't it? 

Children play close to the fences, making up games of tag, and hide and seek, as if those things with broken, pustulous faces weren't skulking within arm's reach just a breath away. 

This whole place is a vacuum. The interior is covered in thick molasses; stuck in stasis. They pretend that birthdays and holidays matter. Dance around the saloon at night with drinks in hand. Pale ale. Old booze. 

It's rigid in its structure: patrols that span the entirety of a day—from dusk to dusk in three shift increments—and daily checks of the fences, the gates. Trading with other communities. Rules. Regulations. 

It gives the idea of safety. Of security. 

(But the bruises on his hands and the gash in her side are proof that it's sometimes not enough.)

Slowly, though, as the days wore on and the fences stood proud and tall and secure, she softened. Tucked it away with a smile, and started saying, I'll think about it instead of clipped jerks of her chin, or nothing at all. 

Joel doesn't know if she ever really did think about it like she said she would. 

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well. 

She never showed up despite the invitations. Never came to celebrate. 

She stood by the fence, and looked out, eyes wide, mouth flat. The coil in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, reminded him of a trapped animal. Cornered, and tense. 

She'll bite someone eventually. 

(He just never expected it to be him.)

The tension didn't flee the crease of her eyes, but she tried to integrate herself into the fold, the community. Slowly. Slowly. 

He took stock of her in the same measure he does everyone new who wanders in. Assessing. Watching. Cautious. 

He could tell right away that she was a wildcard. A lit match slowly burning down the wick in a sea of gasoline.

Pretty, he finds, despite himself. Drawn in by her allure; a coruscating light in the middle of endless, unfathomable grey. 

He catches sight of the weathered face that blinks back at him from the frosted windows, hazy and thick with condensation that make the grey in his hair, his beard, look startlingly whiter than it was ten seconds ago. It's a jarring reminder of who he is. What he's done. 

It's not insecurity that keeps him from seeking her out, but self-preservation. Some people, he finds, just have this magnetism about them. A beacon. A light. A gravitational pull that drags you closer and closer. 

And hers is purely primal. Animalistic. She smells of sex and sin and makes him think of object permanence when everything around him had been clouded in the sharp shade of ephemeral grey. 

She's a fractured mirror. Medusa in the making. 

Joel's always avoided broken glass. 

(Ladders. Black cats. Cracks in the pavement. Pretty girls who swallow everything like a black hole—)

Too sweet, he finds. Forbidden fruit. Tart, ripe, and sugar dipped. 

(He never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.)

Through his observations—necessary, he tells Tommy when he catches the way Joel's gaze follows her around when she moves; limbs ballerina lithe, swan songs after dark: just because we let them in, doesn't mean we can trust them—he finds out everything he needs to know. 

A rusted sign on the side of the road says, stay away. Danger in dulcet. Soft and sweet. A perfunctory bow in battle before the deadly blows come. 

He oscillates between finding her both too soft and too hard, and it's the unknown that makes him wary. 

She's a caged animal. Everyone is just kidding themselves if they think she's domesticated. 

Somewhere in the throng of people milling about, drinking and dancing like the world wasn't in shambles, she finds his gaze, matches his stare. 

Most people looked away. 

But she's not most people, is she? 

No, she's dangerous. Pretty in a way that's entirely too ethereal for the broken remnants of what remains. Left behind. Mouldering until death claims its victims. Until the spores released from the earth itself burrow in the rucked lines of your head, sprouting up like flowering buds. 

She makes men want. 

And while the pickings might have been slim, Joel knows there are several (and maybe a little more) above him in terms of desirability. He's older. Gruff. Rough around the edges without any whim of changing, or scouring himself down so that his jagged pieces don't pop something as tender and sweet as her. 

He doesn't put himself in the same bracket. Despite Maria's insistence, Tommy's needling, he isn't a bachelor. 

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't. 

Not since Tess. Not since—

None of that matters. He's too old to think about romance, about skin and sex, and warmth. And more.

The thought of it all leaves something sour twisting in the gnarled rot of what remains inside his chest. 

Despite that, or maybe in spite of it, she comes to him. 

(Somehow. Somehow.)

She asks him to dance, and the breathy tone of her voice tastes like a lit cigarette; it plumes nicotine in the air. Second-hand smoke. A contact high. 

He finds it disarming when she laughs after he says no. Firm. Hard. Dismissive. 

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart. 

The unspoken stay away rang clearer than the echo of her laughter. 

And that was that. 

But she came back. 

("If not a dance, then how about a drink?"

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

She grins, then, soft and coy. "Not much else to do with it these days besides chatting up a handsome stranger."

He pretends she didn't make him choke on his drink, and eyes her warily instead. Dangerous, he thinks. The type that just doesn't quit. One who is just small and malleable enough to slip inside the tiniest splinter.

Just like a raspberry, she'd rot fast. Festering. Clouded white and infectious. Worse, in many ways, than the parasites outside of the walls. 

"Just don't get your hopes up." He settles on after a moment, a lull, that makes her blood-red lips curl up like the curve of those stupid hearts dangling overhead. 

And hates that he doesn't really know if he's still just talking to her or the wandering eyes in his own skull when he says it.)

He doesn't know why she takes a liking to him of all people. Of all men. He might be out of touch with the reality they live in now, always on the fringes of waiting for things to buckle at the knee, and collapse into ash, but he isn't stupid. Oblivious. 

Joel sees the way she stares at him. Open, wanting. Curious. 

She shouldn't be. There's nothing in him—nothing left. His insides are polluted, gnarled. Ugly. A gurgling cesspit that doesn't know how to fix, only dissolve. Consume. He's acidic. Caustic. 

Bad for anyone's health. 

He can't keep anyone safe, and all he knows how to do anymore is push people away, and lie (and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess). 

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

It's enough. 

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

His hands grip her tight sometimes—too tight—and the stains he leaves on her skin set his teeth on edge. It's too much like ownership. Possession. 

(And he finds the colour that blooms on her flesh to be too fucking pretty to ever sit comfortably in the gnarled pit of his guts.)

"Don't worry, Joel," she whispers when she catches him staring at the marks he left behind. Dark and ugly. Contrition tastes of old nickels. "You won't break me that easily." 

It's a bad decision. 

But he was never known for his good choices, and when she fluttered her eyes at him, hand pressed to his chest like she were allowed to touch him, he crumbled. 

She didn't give him much of a choice to fight back when all she asked for nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the taste of him on her tongue. 

Pleasures of the flesh. It's easy. Simple. He fucks her behind the saloon, rough and dirty, and swallows the sounds she makes against the brick like they're just for him. He takes her home, and knows that when he's nestled between her thighs, it's as close to heaven as a man like him will ever get. 

And then—it's over. She leaves. He pretends to sleep. 

Rinse. Repeat.

It carries on this way for nearly two years. Distant, cold. He can't remember the last time he had anyone warm his bed, but it takes the edge off, the stress and pain of Ellie's distance, her mistrust, and hatred, and she asks for nothing. 

She lets him grab her when he wants. Lets him bend her body into whichever shape suits him best, and says nothing about the fingerprints that he leaves behind, the astringent tang of rot when she slides out of his bed, his hands, and out the door. 

He lays back, the same hand he used to grip the back of her neck when he fucked her into the mattress now resting under his head, and he pretends doesn't feel colder now than he did before. 

There is no promise of forever. There's no promise of exclusivity, or monogamy, but he knows that she hasn't fucked anyone else since she got here, that those pretty thighs only ever parted for him, and he's too worn down to entice anyone else who wasn't looking for a sleazy fuck against a tree into his bed, anyway. 

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

They settle down in their borrowed homes, in their borrowed beds, and think about making the most of their borrowed time.

In that, they yearn. Family. Togetherness. Everything they had before they tried to drag into the now. Forcing a square through a round hole. A mismatched puzzle piece into the slot it wasn't made for.

Sometimes, they get lucky and it slips through. It distorts itself into something different, and new, just to fit through the preconstructed crack.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it. 

He isn't the type of man someone brings home. The one you push and push until he fits through the front door, and back into normalcy. Stagnancy. 

And she's not the type of woman who'd ever try. 

He likes that about her.

Poisoned candy apple. Pretty on the outside and rotted within. 

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin. 

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

Lifeless, blue. The way her head splits open is beautiful in that macabre sort of way horrible things sometimes are. Flowers burst behind her eyes, petals budding out of the hollowed space that once made his chest stutter when the sun caught the crevasse of black that split from her pupil and bled into her iris. A small stream of ink. 

The canyons of gradient colours are now filled with blooms of enoki. Red amanita curls out from her ears. 

Where he once laid his palm over her chest is now a gaping hole flowering with a pulsing mass of candlesnuff and staghorn. 

Death cap where her heart once beat. 

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the curve of her name heavy on his tongue. His knuckles pop when he fists the damp sheets between his trembling fingers, but the ache feels good. The sting reminds him he's alive. Whole. 

He's awake, but the nightmare doesn't end. The sight of her body lingers in the back of his head when he strums his guitar and plays a song for the demons within. He thinks of her when he forks over the expired box of condoms he found on a run, and listens to Jesse ramble about how Ellie is doing in exchange for the loot. 

It's her he sees. 

She blinks at him, eyes that same shade that sometimes makes his breath hiss between his teeth, and then her crown caves in. Forehead splits down the middle. One half stands where it was as the other falls over on her shoulder. 

Fractals spill from the plumule that was once her brain stem until the two halves are bleached white like dead corals on a ruined reef. 

The flowering toadstool quivers. What was once her—wit, charm; that uncanny ability to make him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling—is a mass of spores. Polluted. Rotted. 

Where she once stood is a puppet. Dead. Gone. 

Her head tips. Ink spills from the putrefying blood vessels, congealing in the air. It spools into a circle. A black hole. 

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all. 

Everything he could have felt, feels, is syphoned into the needlepoint of no return, the place where she once looked at him, and said, I don't want anything from you, Joel. I just want you.

He wakes before he can see the aftermath of pulling the trigger. 

A fluke, maybe. But it happens each night after that. 

He knows, then, that there's no turning back. 

Permanence doesn't belong in this borrowed home, but she somehow drags it through the foyer and into his bed, anyway. 

She stayed over last night. 

Joel doesn't think he tried to let go when he collapsed into the bed beside her, arms woven around her sweat-slicked back, locked tight like a pair of shackles that mean about as much as a prison or the law these days.

It was cold. Late. He didn't want her to walk back in the snow all alone. 

That's all. 

But Joel isn't a gentleman, and despite how much he wishes he wasn't, he's egregiously self-aware. 

He knows he's in trouble when it just makes sense to keep her close. When it's easier to have her within arm's reach than it is to meet at the front door, and let her in. 

(When he sleeps better if he can feel her burning skin on his.)

"You're thinking too much," she gasps, eyes lidded and heavy. Drinking him in. 

Joel doesn't know what a pretty thing like her sees in a man like him. 

He can't offer her anything except the cold comfort of a warm body, but even that is null. He knows there are younger men prowling outside her door, just itching for an opportunity to make her look their way. 

(She never does.)

"Yeah," he rasps, the word sticking to his teeth. "Never been much of a thinker."

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

His hand slips from her hip, palm swatting at the soft flesh of her ass. The sting makes her tighten around him like a vice. 

"Watch your mouth."

The way she gasps his name, breathy and aching, makes him stifle a groan between clenched teeth, her voice rolling over him like warm sea breeze. 

She's a lot, he thinks, and yet—she asks for nothing. 

(Nothing but him. One of the things he can't give her. Won't.)

Still. 

Her nails press into his damp chest, catching on the smoked dusted patch of coarse charcoal hair. Bracing herself against the swell of his ribs, and slowly rocked back into him, taking him deeper and deeper into her soaked, tight cunt. 

The pulse in his neck throbs out of his skin, a tick she likes to press the flat of her tongue against and drink up the briny droplets of his sweat. He can see the want in her eyes when he catches her staring at the column of his throat, the way she bites her lip like it's a substitute for how badly she wants to sink those same teeth into his flesh. Mark him as her own. 

Possession. Ownership. 

Sometimes, he catches the glossy, rotund image of himself in the inky puddles of her pupils, blown wide with feverish desire, and he can see the same expression, the mien, captured in her startling hue. 

Mutual want. 

It's easier to give in sometimes. To let go. 

He can't, though, and selfishly, he knows she'll never ask. She will bite your lip, the inside of her cheeks, and your tongue until it's raw and bloody before she lets the words slip through the gap of her teeth. 

(He feels the rough, chewed ridges on velveteen flesh when he rolls his tongue between her ivory teeth, swiping over the insides of her cheeks; broken skin split and metallic—a testament to her own selfless desires.

He tastes it on his tongue long after she's gone. Wet pennies. Dandelion sour.)

It knots inside of him. She'd ruin herself before she asked him for more. 

Maybe somewhere in his avoidance, his distance, she knows he's ruining himself by just giving her this much. Nothing, and yet—

Everything to him. 

An impasse, then. Uncrossable when he's already two feet out the door. 

"Joel—"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, low. Rucked gravel. Falling rocks. It jars him how easily he responds to her. She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough. "I know." 

The wound on her side pulls taut when she moves. It draws his eye like a beacon. Makes him grind his teeth together until it sparks pain down his jaw, the enamel sawed to the raw nerve. 

His hand slides over her molten flesh, trailing over the soft curve of her waist, until his thumb brushes the seam that keeps her insides from spilling out. The swollen, bruised skin is warmer than the rest of her body. Glossy where it tugs against the black threads keeping her whole. 

Joel didn't go with her on this particular trade. She went with some new kid they'd picked up, all varsity grins and clean hands. He seemed so damned eager to get her attention in the pub. Her age, too. 

Made a pretty couple, Ron said. Fucking loud mouth Ron. 

He was supposed to go, but when the kid caught him in the corner, nursing a beer that sat in his guts like a stomach ache, and said, hey, man, can I take your spot? he didn't know how he was supposed to say no and still cling to the degrees of separation he wedged between himself and the world. 

So, he raised his mug to his mouth, and forced himself to drink, to nod. 

Knock yourself out. 

The flash of sadness that flickered over her face meant nothing at all—nothing—but he felt something churn inside of his rotted guts. Atrophy, he thinks. He isn't meant for this. Doesn't want it. Need it. 

She's a bigger liability the closer she gets. A slow-moving black hole consuming all of the counterscarps he dug until nothing is left but crossable rubble. 

It's better, then, to cut it at the root before it infects the rest. 

So, he does. 

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop. 

Force himself to do the same. 

But she doesn't 

It's a quiet acquiesce; a little more than a nod, and a grim line of her pretty mouth. Okay, it says. If that's what you want. 

And that's what she always says, isn't it? If that's what you want, Joel. Whatever you say, Joel. Sure, Joel. Okay, Joel. 

A spitfire in ochre. A bright lighthouse in the middle of the grey sea. 

(The only person she dims for is him.)

Joel doesn't see her off. Doesn't say be careful or come back safe because words like those don't fit between his teeth. They aren't meant for the nothing between them. The chasm of everything she can't pry from his gnarled fingers. 

She leaves with him. 

He drinks alone. 

Despite whatever nonsense Tommy says, spouted over rationed potatoes and deer meat stew, he isn't sulking. 

"Let your girl go out alone? Unlike you, brother."

The way the words sat in his chest felt like an anvil. 

"Ain't my girl," he muttered. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was numbness. "Ain't my anything."

It's Maria who gets under his skin when she scoffs.

"Joel Miller, you're the biggest dumbass I ever met, save for your damned brother. Gonna push a good thing away and die alone." 

"No one asked you." 

Maria tries to fill in the blanks of something that doesn't exist. 

It peels back the gossamer from his eyes, and he sees, then, the way they skirt around him and her like it's something. As if his name is permanently attached to hers. 

He pretends he doesn't feel the burn in Maria's glare when he doesn't see her off at the gate.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't. 

He isn't there when she comes back, and hates, even more, that he feels something prickle inside his chest when Maria catches him near the stables, and says, I expected more from you, Joel.

It doesn't feel good when he bites back, that's your problem, Maria. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. 

Joel lives in his vindication, in his pettily forced indifference. She hasn't come to see him, anyway, and he's sure that she and Varsity jacket are meeting at the pub for that date he'll never give her. 

Doesn't matter, he thinks. And then, if only to burn himself in the flames, he adds: better this way. 

She'll know when he's not there. She's smart like that. Know him in ways he doesn't think anyone else ever could. Ever wanted to. 

(He hates it, and her, sometimes, for it.)

She'll understand. She might corner him one day with that dry ire dripping from the corners of her mouth, patronising and grim, and she'll do what she does best when she strips him bare and leaves him to rot. 

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom. 

But she won't push. 

It'll simmer out when she blinks, knowing that this is it, and she'll say: okay, Joel. 

Okay. 

He braces for it—hates that has to because that means something, something he isn't ready to acknowledge—and—

And it's all moot. 

She never shows up at the gate. 

It punctures something in his lungs when Tommy looks up at him, face ashen and worried, and says: "she didn't come back. They didn't come back."

It takes an hour to find her, left for dead and beaten within an inch of her life by the side of the road. A wound in her side—a gaping hole he swears he can see through. Milky bones poke through, drenched in red, and—

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Something curls out from the moon-white line of her rib. 

A bud, he thinks. Distant. Warbled. A saprophyte. 

He has the image of her in his head. The same one he sees when he closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep. 

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

"She's—"

Tommy's hand reaches down, fingers curling around the sprout. 

Don't— not Tommy, too—

He pulls back, and Joel catches the tremble in his joints, the whites of his knuckles, when he spreads his fingers. 

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf. 

A leaf. 

The bark that leaves his chest tears right through the clot in his throat. Rips him open from the inside out. 

"A fucking leaf—"

He carries her back, and doesn't let go until the doctor is there, urging him out of the room. 

"You'll get in the way." 

He sees the looks they give him when he passes, but Joel never cared what people think. 

Doesn't plan on starting now, either. 

He's on the wrong side of fifty, and has more blood on his hands than the looted bars of soap could ever scour clean. He knows who he is, and maybe, maybe, knows what he wants, and Ron's loud mouth never meant much to him, anyway. 

Joel gets a name when she's sleeping after surgery—lucky, he overhears, got there in the knick of time, any later and—and brings nothing with him when he leaves. He won't need it. Doesn't want it.

He finds them chatting over an open fire, and beats them to death with nothing but his bare hands. 

He doesn't burn them. Doesn't bury them. 

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot. 

They say nothing about the blood on his shirt, or the broken, mangled fingers of his hand. He's content to leave them. To feel the agony as his broken bones split through cracked skin.

(He thinks of her—broken, blue—and clenches his hands so tight, the pain makes him blackout.)

He only lets Maria patch him up when she hisses about infection, and blood poisoning. 

Says nothing at all about what he'd done, where he'd gone. 

She doesn't ask. 

When she's finished, she says: "woke up yesterday."

He knows. Still: "that right?" 

"Gonna go see her?"

"Don't need me crowding around her bed."

"Maybe she, for some reason, wants to see your ugly mug."

"She tell you that?" 

"Didn't ask about you, if that's what you're asking." She snorts. Shakes her head. "Both a'you are really perfect for each other, you know?"

"We ain't." 

Her brow raises. Something prickles across her expression. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head with a small smirk. "Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all." 

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her. 

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him. 

She says nothing about the bandages on his black and blue hands. Nothing about the way he can't make a fist through all the swelling. Her hands are soft, and warm, when they wrap around his. Small, delicate. A baby deer cupping the paws of a grizzly bear. 

His eyes flash with something that tastes of the same rotten satisfaction he felt gnarled inside of his chest when the man who left her for dead on the side of a road wheezed as Joel broke his nose, and then battered the broken bulb into a messy, mushy pulp. 

He didn't stop until grey matter leaked through the holes. 

She knows what he did. He feels it in the way she stares at the black, swollen mess of his fingers. Bones broke on teeth, on a fractured skull. 

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't even think he enjoyed it much, really. 

It had to be done. Had to. 

They took a life. Varsity Jack, she tells him. Stabbed in the heart when he tried to defend her with the same ice pick that ripped through her flesh. 

Her tone is flat. Empty. 

He sees bruises on her knuckles, those little fists were her only defence against them, and the red welt on the man's face makes sense now. 

He feels proud. 

She's not broken—battered, beaten, torn to pieces—but she still stands, whole, intact. Resilient. Strong. 

(A survivalist. The only time she ever alluded to more was to tell him that he was worrying for nothing. That, above all, she would survive. Outlive him, even.

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.)

It doesn't surprise him to see her eyes cloud with anger, arsenic white, when she brings his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Anyone else might have asked why. Said thank you, even. 

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered." 

Saccharine sweet. 

Rotten to the core. 

He saw the same shade of calamity in her eyes when she wandered in, grim and distant, as the one that stared back at him in the mirror. Her complicity in this doesn't surprise him. If anything, he wonders if she's angry he left nothing behind for her. 

The thought makes his lips quirk in a needle of something he hasn't felt in a long time. 

"They did."

The words are uttered like a promise. His busted pinky twitches, and it makes her smile. A bloom of petal pink flowering across her face. Soft and tender. The swell of a sea mark burgeoning out in the gloom of grey. 

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still. 

(Too close, maybe, because now he doesn't know how he'll sleep without her by his side)

His thumb slips over the tumid skin poking out from tight, black sutures. The threads are the only thing keeping her together. 

Beneath it is a bruise. Black. The tip of his thumb presses against the cresting peak. Knuckle to skin, it's a perfect fit. 

(In all the same ways he and she aren't.)

"I'm okay, Joel," she whispers, and the thick, dulcified tone of her voice shakes him from the labyrinth of his mind. 

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry. 

"Yeah," he intones, and he isn't sure if he's speaking to her, himself, or a god he hasn't spoken to since he was eighteen and Sarah got sick for the first time. Maybe everyone, all of them, all at once.

It makes her huff. "Am I losing you already, old man?"

"Ain't that old," he bites back, hips lifting when she slides down. It makes him nudge something that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping, slack. Her nails catch skin when they rake over his chest. 

Sex has always been an outlet. A comfort. It blankets that part of his head that never quiets—failures, failings—and offers a respite from it all. Her weight on his hips, chest, thighs doesn't dull it all but buffers it. 

White noise in his ears when her nails rake over his skin. The scent of her clings in the air around them—sex, kerosene, cinder, ash: the scent of a wet forest after a wildfire scorched the earth—and clots out the fetor of decay, of mildew, and moss, the earthy tang that reminds them of death. Of them. 

It's a distraction. Distance in skin, sweat, and heat. 

It's just sex, just—

"God, Joel," she gasps loud, sharp, when he pitches his hips into her, blunt and unforgiving, and hits deep. Carves out the shape of him in her soft, fluttering flesh, and tries not to get lost in the thick scent of her. 

It dusts over everything until he still smells her even when she isn't here. 

Temporary made permanent. 

It's the very thing he runs from finally catching up. He feels the graze of fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when he looks at her, poised and centred above him. Aphrodite in flesh and bone. Her fingers prickle his skin with their sharp tips, and the indents left behind are soothed over when she gasps his name like it's something special. Meaningful. An orison murmured in the quiet box of a confessional booth. 

The curtain rustles. 

"Yeah," he grunts, low and filthy; the noise sticks in the back of his throat when he feels her tighten up around him. A little apple-sized fist of pleasure. He flexes his thighs, hands grasping her tight, and knows he's going to keep her here again tonight. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

The way she moves is liquid. Mercury. He watches, eagle-eyed and enraptured, as she squares her shoulders, and takes him to the root. The base. 

Her presence in his life atrophied his defences until they lay scattered on the sheets that reek of her. In the folds of his pillow where he rests his head at night. The featherlight wood of his guitar when she leans over his shoulder, and says, play me another one, Joel. 

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance. 

She's the one who keeps feeding him. Lays out a dish just for him, and scratches her nails behind his ears until the curl of his lips subsides. A slow broiled trust. He stops showing her his canines, his claws, when she shows him the vulnerable curve of her neck, and lets him mark her skin with his touch. 

Joel will mourn her the same way he does everyone else—achingly empty, and tearless—but he thinks, now, that he might think of her once, and then never again. He's selfish. Always has been. 

(Can't afford not to be when she looks better bearing his mark. When he sleeps easier with her breath in his ear.)

Just sex. The words are weak in the back of his head, and he feels the shaky resolve begin to crumble, chossy wobbling under unsteady feet, when her head falls back in a mockery of prayer, the utterance of his name heavier than the sins on his shoulders. Just sex. Just—

The grille falls, and shatters into smelted pig iron at their feet.

—it's just her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. Won't. Not now, not ever. He won't give her anything, nothing but the touch of his hands, and the weight of his body, but it's juxtaposed to the worry heavy in his chest, the anger still lacing the broken bones in his fingers when his thumb brushes the curve of her wound. 

It splits in her ardour. The bottom scab tugged too much, lifting from broken flesh. 

Ichor pebbles on the seam. It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red. 

His thumb catches it. It's warm, and sticky. He smears it over her quivering belly, and fights the urge to try and lick it clean. Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe. 

Joel's teeth ache when he grinds them together, tongue lashing across the ivory seal. He's thinking too much—abstracts, concretes; they blur together in a cacophony of want, take, run, hide—

Keep. 

"It's okay," she says again, as if all his secrets laid bare. As if the talons digging into his flesh somehow tapped a vein, an artery, that leads directly to his stem, and she's syphoning the thoughts in his head with the same ease that she steals the breath from his lungs. "It's okay, Joel. It's—"

She doesn't finish. Her words are shorn, bitten at the grain when he reaches up, holding her around the waist, and brutally fucks into her weeping cunt with the finesse of a starving man invited to a feast fit for a King. 

It jostles her. Breasts swaying, head bobbing back and forth as he nearly lifts her off the bed with the force of his thrusts. 

The brutality of it screams one shrill echo of it isn't. None of this is okay. None of it. 

She's chiselling him open until he's a raw wound exposed to the unforgiving air. Until he bleeds and thinks of her. Until the only sound that drowns out the terror raking across his synapses is her voice when she murmurs his name. 

"We're fine, Joel—," it carries the flavour of axiom. Aphorism when she says: "we'll be okay."

She trembles over him, muscles straining to keep up. This isn't her taking; despite being perched above him like a queen astride her throne, she gives. Lowers herself the way he likes. Circles her hips until he sees white behind his eyelids. 

The weight of her feels like an anvil. The heat is enough to liquefy his bones. 

"Keep goin'," he rasps the words out—a strange limbo of being both an encouragement and a demand. It lacks the bite it had before, when he'd bend her over and fuck her until he was satisfied, until the howling in his head, and the ache in his bones was eased with the soporific gossamer only sex could give him. "Just like that, pretty thing—"

It's a slip. An accident. 

Her rhythm stutters. Her ribs expand wide under his palms; ballooning up so much he wonders if she's trying to burst them at the seams or float away. Irrational, of course. Sex makes him stupid. Makes him hungry and needy, and has him feeling like he's almost, almost human, and—

He holds on a little tighter. 

Pretty thing. Her lips form the words in a soundless exhale. Pretty thing. She's used to him calling her all sorts of sobriquets smeared in a palpable stroke of derision. It's not contemptuous, but he makes his mockery of it clear with the flout in his tone. Sarcastic, caustic. 

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous. 

She always wore the same sour twist to her lips, the exaggerated eye roll. The heavy huff. 

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary. 

This—pretty thing—is the softest he'd ever regarded her. 

He watches her throat bob when she swallows, eyes tracing the nervous flutter as she struggles to grasp the concurrency of his words, the way he said them. Their meaning. It flickers through those depths that threaten consumption whenever they dust over the length of him. Thinking. Thinking. 

They were always abstract, but his words are concrete, and she isn't sure how to carry the heavy cinder he drops on her. Her fingers are used to the ephemeral weight of his scorn; the delineation of distance—unspoken but unignorable. Unequivocal in its separation. 

"Wow," she breathes, tremulous. She grasps at normalcy but he can see how much those two words have rattled her. She swallows again. Eyes narrowing. Viper pits. "Getting soft in your old age, huh?"

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce. 

He pitches his hips up, letting her feel the solid length of him—blunt, burning iron—and feels his chest flutter when she whines, head dropping back as he bludgeons into her core. 

"Fuck, Joel—"

He isn't soft. Isn't malleable. He's made of carbonised grief, anguish, despair. Reinforced with volcanic clinkers running rivets of apoplectic fury. 

He isn't soft. Isn't what she deserves, or needs, or should even want—

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing. 

Cinder. Soot. Ash. 

He spent so much time holding firm against the walls to keep her out, he never bothered to filter the air he breathed. She clots in his lungs. The scent of her builds. A mass forms. Metastasises inside of him. 

Her hands fall there, palms drawn to the steady thump of his beating heart. It drums under her skin, a stuttering rhythm that makes her own chest swell with her shaky inhale. 

His slide, rough skin scraping over her soft flesh. She burns hotter than the acorn stove in the corner of the room, and he feels the heat simmering in his veins. Scents the sulphur and volcanic ash in the air when she leans down, bending at the elbows to press her lips against his. It's chaste, as far as their usual kisses go. Biting and vitriolic. As if being sweet, tender, was forbidden. 

Maybe it was. He doesn't know what he'd have done if she kissed him like this back then. Honeyed rich, and molasses slow. It tastes like smoke but reminds him of the rock candy he'd make at home with Tommy when he was young. 

She moans into his mouth when his hands slip around her waist, her thigh. He holds her steady, and rocks up into her to the same tremulous beat as her clumsy, fragile kisses. The vibrations buzz on his bruised lips, and the tingle of her voice washing over him makes his cock twitch inside of her. 

The press of him, unyielding and firm, against her soft, soft walls makes him grunt. Another noise pulled into the cacophony of them. It's lower than anything he's ever made before. New. Novice. 

Fucking her now feels marginally different than it had only yesterday. It's raw. Vulnerable. 

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick. 

Wonders, then, if she feels it, too. This rawness that sits in his thundering chest; a scraped-out, hollow feeling that draws in more and more of her until the crater is filled with the essence of her sweat, the heavy breaths she tries to stifle in her throat to keep kissing him like she'll never get the chance to again. 

And that must be it. 

This isn't what he normally gives her—bruises and bites, beard burns over the delicate softness of her flesh; he leaves her kiss-bruised and drunk off of the taste of him, malt-heavy and whisky sour. 

Intimacy is saved for moments when she cums around him, tightening up like a strung bow in his archer's hold; when she squeezes herself into the nook of his shoulder, whimpering as he fucks her through her high, and chases his release in the spasming clutch of her willing body. When he cums, painting her stomach, her thighs, her ass, with the stain of his spend, the only physical proof he'd been inside of her, and smears the wet mixture of them on her heated flesh, still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasmic haze. 

It's reserved for the microcosm carved from their shared release, drenched in the glow of the chemical slurry that saturates their brains, releasing endorphins until they feel nothing but the buzz of each other. Skin to sweaty skin. Each breath a gasp. 

He lets her linger in these soft moments. This singular dissonance sits incongruously with everything else between them. But then she shifts. The microcosm that filmed around them bursts. 

She slips away after he does, slowly leaning over to pull on her discarded clothes, and wipe the stain of him from her body. 

His fingers itch for a cigarette when he watches her through lidded eyes as she stumbles around on fawn legs. 

She always hesitates for a moment. Joel often wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to stay. 

He never does. She leaves. 

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

"Easy, now," he murmurs, tongue slipping through the gap of her teeth to chase her taste. "Don't rush this, sweetheart."

Everything about this is unlike him, and she moans her disquietude into the scant space between them, brow knotting together when her stitches pull, and he leaves a bloodied trail across her waist, knuckles split and bleeding anew. 

They're both bloodied, he finds. Drenched in each other's sweat, spittle, and blood. 

It makes dizzy. Makes his fingers dig into her flesh, holding her closer to his heaving chest as he takes. His hips raise off the bed—a clumsy slant into her welcoming sex, and he feels her shudder when he hits deep, cock nudging that soft place inside of her that always makes her forehead crease. 

He can't see it when she leans down, peppering wet kisses across his grey beard, and painting hard through her nose when he presses the flat of his palm against the base of her spine and fucks into her with sharp, unrhythmical thrusts. 

"That's it, take it just like that—," he grinds the words off, and tastes the condescension in his tone. 

In response, she bites down on his pulse point. 

Another break in the routine. The rules lay scattered around them, smouldering embers of this incipient beginning to something neither of them is ready for. 

Her hands wiggle out from between their chests, bringing them closer together than before, and when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls behind his ears, he swears he can feel her heartbeat echoing through his ribs. 

He spears himself into her faster, seeking that place he knows will make her melt—

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

—and once found, he cruelly angles the head of his cock into it, rasping out words of patronisation into her ear. 

Good girl, he says, and groans when her cunt tightens around him like a nautical bow. Taking me so good. Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum around my cock—

He can feel his release brimming up like a fever in his veins. White-hot and arctic cold. It sets his nerves on fire, and the pressure of her around him makes him see pure white. 

He thinks of church on Sundays when she chants his name like a hymnal—Joel, Joel, Joel—and finds nirvana when she sinks her teeth deeper into his flesh, unmarked and unclaimed until now. He'll have the perfect impression of her teeth embedded in his skin, and thought alone makes that gnarled spool inside of him loosen. 

Joel is taken by surprise when she cums—voice a shaky, shrill howl of his name, and the sound of it, the blood that stains his beard when she turns, baring her teeth and pressing them flat to his jaw, makes him grunt. It's raw. An oozing wound.

She flutters around him like the beat that echoes through his bones, and feels a hunger inside of him grow. 

The uncoiled knot inside of him rears, once dormant and dead to the world, now gnashing its jowls at the hands that prodded it from its slumber. Rapacious. A black hole when it yawns. 

The town knows she's his. Has since she sidled up to him, all soft smiles and viper eyes, and asked him to dance, for a drink, and what's a handsome man like you doing in a place like this? Got anyone I should worry about, Joel? Wanna dance? Wanna fuck—

And they know, now, that he's hers when he carries her in his arms, and knocked his forearm into the necks of anyone who tried to pry her from his clutch. 

They know. They know, but it's not enough. 

He wants to mark her, stain her. Leave her with the permanent smear of him on her pretty skin. 

Fuck—

This wasn't supposed to happen, but the keen awareness comes much too late. 

He fucks the frustration into the tight clutch of her willing, forgiving, body, and tries not to come apart at the seams when she mewls his name like he's just as much of a burden to her as she is to him. Bankrupt. Bereft of the walls and the rationale that kept him lightyears away from everyone else around him (until Ellie, the hospital—this place that reeks of stagnancy and burrowed into his marrow), he crumbles in her hold once more. 

His release hits him like a sucker punch to his gut, and the force of it makes him ache.

He doesn't pull out like he always, always, does despite the contraceptive she has, and spilling inside of her spasming cunt feels too much like heaven for him not to come apart at the seams. For him not to shatter into pieces when she pulls him closer, and murmurs, that's it, Joel. That's it—cum for me. Just let go, I got you—

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

It's an awkward assemblage of limbs that don't fit together, bodies that are too incompatible, but he tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, and makes it work. She rests the flat of her palm over his sweat-slicked chest, nails raking through the dusted grey smatter of hair on his chest. The inside of her thigh is wet with him, with her, them, when she slides it over his hip. 

Her head rests on soft tissue where his arm and shoulder meet, ear nestled into his armpit. His arm around her back, fingers resting on the curve of her elbow. It's then, when he finds his thumb brushing small circles into her dewy skin, that he realises what this is. 

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

It was never a burning release, the aftermath of that intoxicating chemical bath of endorphins, oxytocin, and then a quick until next time. 

Being trade partners for most of the scheduled shifts—his brutality, and her knowledge of survival made them a perfect match outside of this clumsy moment of intimacy—meant that she often stayed for a few hours afterwards discussing plans, and who to barter with next or the places they haven't yet scavenged. Lying naked beside each other, shoulders sometimes brushing as they spoke—that was the extent of their post-sex ritual. 

This, he knows, is new. Different. 

It has the same cadence as last night when his massive hand swallowed her wrist in his palm, and he said, just sleep here, but it's a syncopation. Lighter, somehow, than the gruff way he demanded her company, the brutal divot between his brow. 

She moves, slow and languid, and for a moment he thinks about letting her leave. Repairing the chasm that crumbled between them into heaps of broken ruination and anguish, her hand brushes his when she pulls away, and he knows he won't. 

For such a massive presence, she's surprisingly small in his grasp. The bump of her wrist bone fits snug against the broken, swollen knuckle of his middle finger when he folds his hand around hers. 

The hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse beating against his too rough, too worn palm are the only measure of her hesitation, her confusion. 

They're not themselves in this moment. 

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms. 

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

The words won't form on his lips. His throat is bereft of what he feels in his marrow, unable to utter them aloud, to make them real. As if speaking his burgeoning desires is somehow worse than a death sentence. 

Wanting in this world is dangerous, and ruinous, but when Joel sees the dawning realisation buoying to the surface in those unfathomable black holes, he knows there's nothing more worrisome, more deadly, to him than her insatiable appetite. Her desire for more. 

More—

And just him. 

Something in her gaze splinters. Cracks. Her shoulder slump in something that tastes of the same defeat that taints the pinch in his brow. 

"You are getting softer, Joel Miller," she takes a stab at a joke but her hands shake too much for it to land properly. "Who'd have thought all it would take is old age and mortality—"

"Shut up," he grumbles, and fights the thrum of satisfaction that spumes in his veins when she lays back down beside him. "Didn't hear you complainin' this much five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well—" her hands settle on his chest, fingers carting through the damp, matted hair. "There's a reason I'm always on top, you know. Worried you might throw your back out." 

"You say that like I haven't already." 

Her chin scraps over the soft flesh where his bicep meets the curve of his shoulder, eyes bright in the morning sun that smears rays of ochre across the bridge of her nose.

She's pretty, he thinks, and feels that same gnawing in his guts, that same hunger, when she dips, and presses a kiss to his skin. 

"Poor baby," she coos, brows drawing together in mock sympathy. "I can't believe a little missionary ruined you so badly. Guess I should take better care of the elderly."

"Wasn't the missionary," he huffs. Her skin is soft, tacky, when he runs his fingers over her shoulder. "It was carrying your heavy ass home."

"Did my heavy ass snap your hips, too—"

"Christ," he bites out, but it lacks any heat. "You just never shut up, do you?" 

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows. 

"Guess you'll just have to shut me up, won't you, old—"

He presses his lips to hers, and steals the goading words from her quivering mouth. 

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

The condescending tone is thick, but where he expects her indignation over the same words spoken to her by everyone else when she said she wanted to go with him on runs—stay here where it's safe, little girl—it instead makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. He feels the vacuum of it against his lips, and blinks up at her. 

"Did you like that—"

"No," she snaps, and drops her head to his chest. "God, Joel, you really know how to ruin a moment."

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

"Yes," she volleys back. "You don't think it was?"

He swallows down the tang of panic that salts his tongue, and presses his lips to her crown instead. 

"Ain't much of one, was it?"

"We'll make a better one," she murmurs, the lilt of a promise heavy in her words. 

When she settles in his fold, cheek laying flat against his chest—hiding her embarrassment he tones with a particular thrum of fondness so sweet it makes his teeth ache—he folds his arm over her shoulder, keeping her tucked into the bracket of his body. 

She's too small for him to ever be a perfect fit. Too hard inside that pretty little head for him to ever wiggle through. Too soft for him not to ruin her completely when he holds her too tight in his hands that overlap in a way that sometimes makes him dizzy, feverish with want, with fear. 

She doesn't click in the same way Tess does—did. 

A silent agreement of unspoken distance. Never ask for more, it hissed because you'll be brutally disappointed. Never hunger because you won't ever be satiated. Don't yearn. Don't want. Don't, don't, don't—

No, she doesn't click. She doesn't fit. Not with him. Not at all. 

(Tess left him whole. 

She devours.)

Consumes. 

Her eyes are black holes, and ever since she looked at him through the fanned ring of her lashes, and said: you won't break me that easily, he's been standing on the edge of her event horizon waiting for that perfect singularity to swallow him whole. 

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous. 

But she's been ripping him apart the entire time; morsel after morsel until all that remains is raw nerve. Scraps.)

A slow descent into comfort, kinship. 

She's on the same plane of existence as Tommy, Ellie. Maria, too, he supposes, a touch begrudgingly. His circle widens, expands. The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest. 

I'll outlive you, old man. 

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

For the first time since the walls reared, since the gunshot that still echoes in his ears like a reminder of his sins, his failures, Joel thinks of tomorrow. And the one after that. And after that. 

He thinks of her, and them, this, in the afternoon. Over old stew. Tommy's laughter. Maria's knowing glances. Ellie's anger. Her scorn. Distrust. 

Wasting the night away in the bar that's always several octaves too loud not to make him tense, antsy. Watching her dance around the room, ballerina nimble with a sprinter's pace. Listen to her joke and laugh with the men who look at her a touch too long, and a shade too intense, and—

Bringing her home after. Back here in this small house where he rots. Where he plays his guitar as if the chords of Hurt would ever be enough to drown out the bullets and the bloodshed. The clicks, the groans. The scent of moss, and fungus. 

Taking her to bed in the sheets that hasn't stopped smelling like her since he fucked her three times over Christmas until she sobbed into his pillow, and begged him for respite. When she brushed the grey hair from his temple with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling despite the ease in her grin, and the polynya in her eyes as she regarded him with more than just desire. More than just sex and sweat and the comfort that comes with losing yourself to the chemical high of another body tucked into the crevasse of your own. 

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong. 

But fuck—

He knows he's gone when he can't imagine her anywhere else. 

"Sure," he says, and wonders when she let herself into his life, into the gnarled remanants of his chest. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

[bunni-v1]

🍓Rules & Warnings

Introduction

Masterlist

Requests are currently: open! 

🍓Basic Rules

1. This is a character x reader blog. I will only write character x character when I would like to and I will not take requests for it unless specified otherwise.

2. I will not tolerate harassment of others here; be it toward them directly, their ask, or anything else it does not matter. All people are accepted here no matter nationality, ethnicity, gender or sexuality. This includes Fem!MC/Reader for TWST. 

3. Please please please always check to see if the askbox is open for requests before requesting. I have it placed not only in my bio, but on this post which will be pinned. There is nothing worse to me than having to delete or respond to an ask that came in when I was not accepting requests.

4. As stated in my introductions, I am reserved the right to refuse any ask I am sent with or without explanation.

5. Are OC’s allowed? Yes and no. See I ADORE talking about OCs in any capacity, I have SO MANY myself, but I would prefer to not have OC based requests. It’s just easier since I could botch writing them, and OCs are the creators babies!! I don’t want to mess up writing someone’s baby!

5. My askbox and private messages are always open to talk. I love interaction with followers and would really appreciate it if anyone would want talk to me!

6. Finally, the most complicated and important rule for me. Minors are allowed to interact with me and my content, but if they decide to privately speak to me they MUST make their age known immediately. Furthermore, if they read my warnings (nsfw works mostly), and continue on to read a piece I’ve written they are not my responsibility. I aim to make my page the safest space it can be, if they choose to ignore warnings I cannot stop them. However if they are actively interacting with the work (ex. they reblog it, comment on it), depending on the general age range I will block them from my page.

🍓Asking/Requesting Rules

1. Again, this is character x reader. Reader will always be assumed to use they/them pronouns if preferred gender/pronouns is/are not stated, minus special exceptions in which I will explain why the reader is using non-gender neutral pronouns. (This is most likely not going to happen, but I wanted to make it clear here in case that is something that comes up)

2. If requesting a more elaborate story/au idea, I would prefer if you messaged me privately the details of this so I can ask any questions I may need. Of course, this is less of a rule and more of a preference just to keep my askbox and blog tidy.

3. Askbox status is posted both at the top of this post and in my bio. Seriously. it’s the first thing you see... If you request when they’re closed I won’t give you the benefit of even letting you know.

🍓Content I will and will not write/Content Warnings

I do not have many boundaries when it comes to what I write. I will write nearly any AU from soulmate to yandere and more. I’ll even write random AUs readers come up with. I write nsfw and sfw; Fluff and angst; platonic and romantic; monogamous and polyamorous etc.. However there are a few big no’s for me

1. Absolutely NO rape or non-con type of requests. I understand why some people may enjoy that, I tend not to judge anyone for their interests, but this is not the place for that.

2. Dub-con is fine! Mostly, this one is a rather slippery slope. So long as it’s reasonable to assume that the reader is consenting and comfortable, then it’s fine! Previously established consent is also fine, such as with things like somnophilia or consensual non-consent. 

3. Incest. Just… no.

4. I will not write references to real life social issues. That means no homophobia, racism, misogyny and so on.  I want my blog to be as much of a safe space as absolutely possible. Triggering topics like these, especially with how serious they are, have no space in my fanfiction -- especially considering the fact that I do not feel that I would be able to handle such sensitive topics with the grace and care they deserve in a 1k or less fanfiction.

5. I would prefer to avoid the topic of emotional abuse (excluding yandere aus). I can and will write for it if it is requested, but would prefer if it was not mentioned at all.

6. I will always list content warnings at the top of my writing. If there is content that is potentially triggering, I will put it under the cut so readers can fully avoid it. If a reader so chooses to read despite the warnings, they are not my responsibility. Do not harass me for ignoring my rules and multiple warnings.

7. There is no set character limit, but the more characters included the shorter my answers will be. I also have extreme bias toward certain characters (*ahem*azul*ahem*) and that’ll probably reflect A LOT in my writing.

HSR, Genshin, ZZZ Specific Rules

1. I’ll write anyone romantically in the hoyoverse games, except children. Do not send me requests asking about dating Yanqing or Klee, please? I’m more than happy to do cute drabbles about sibling or parental-like relationships, but genuinely what the fuck is wrong with you seeing very obviously young kids like that...

2. I will be writing certain characters with reference to having more melanin, if you have an issue with that leave. I don’t care how upset you are, you’re racist for being upset over representation. (Ex. Aventurine, All of Natlan’s cast, Boothill, etc.)

3. Due to many characters having sensitive content in their backstories, I will allow for social issues to be discussed with those characters. I just expect you to have sensitive language about the topics, as I won’t tolerate fetishization or romanticization of very real issues.

TWST Specific Rules

1. Finally, and probably most importantly, I will write for EVERYONE in twst. Including staff and Ortho — though Ortho will almost always be written platonically, save for special exceptions and even those will not extend past harmless fluff. My reasoning should be obvious, but I’ll explain anyway. Cannon Ortho is wayyy to childish for me to want to write anything more than platonic stuff with him, and even in this au, (according to personal headcannons) Ortho would only be around 16-17. An “older” high-school student, and he will reflect this, but it’s not something I’m okay with writing in any context other than lighthearted fluff. Clarification here.

2. I do not write student readers x staff romantically. The power dynamic is uncomfortable. I will also say here that in every single post I make NRC is an ACTUAL college. All students automatically are considered to be the age of the average western college student (typical ages being 18-22, but can be older or younger). Class schedules will reflect this when referenced, and each character will be assigned a proper major/minor when needed. Consider it a permanent college AU. Clarification here.

If you follow these very simple rules, we can all create a happy and healthy environment on this blog. I would like to be a safe space and a friend to you, if we respect each other’s boundaries it will be easy.🍓

[siennahrobek]

why don't you like rings of power?

I have a billion reasons why and no one could do anything to make me watch it. I love Tolkien, I love the books. I’m not even a Tolkien purist because I even like the LotR movie trilogy. But I will keep this short because even me thinking about this makes me pissed off.

- NONE of the characters actually…are like they are supposed to be

- Half of them don’t even look like they are supposed to

- Elves with short hair?!

- The absolute rejection of Christian themes (I don’t care what you say about Christianity, Tolkien was a christian and his work is fundamentally christian with faith, brotherhood and sacrificial love)

- Amazon is literally using Tolkien’s name to garner money/attention with no care for the source material

-all I have heard from the actors is activism

- There is no respect to Tolkien’s name, legacy or work “because he is dead and they can do what they want”

- They have ENTIRELY destroyed Galadriel’s character. As someone who owns nearly all Tolkien’s books/works and has read a lot, she is NOT like this

-Jackson’s trilogy was made by independent film makers that were not in it for accolades, recognition or profit. They were invested from love of the craft. Not only did they give reasons for the changes they made, but they also apologized for it, trying to do their best. Amazon has literally not only made all of their advertising content around activism and politics, they are putting it on everything, carefully drumming up ads that are misleading about numbers and restricting/deleting reviews that are not favorable to them.

- That’s not Elrond

-Pretty sure there weren’t any hobbits in the second age (although I may be a little off, it’s been a bit since I’ve read)

- The costumes and attire are awful.

- Elrond and Galadriel are in laws not besties or whatever the heck they are trying to do with them

- Literally everything about Galadriel makes me hurt because she is a powerful political leader, she is proud and respected. In this…whatever this is, she can’t control her own subordinates, they treat her with ridiculous disrespect, she is condescended by Elrond (they are doing him so dirty and I love him sobs) and she is dismissed and rebuked. She is literally NOTHING like how she is supposed to be. There may be some inconsistencies in Galadriel’s long history but nothing ever suggests this much powerlessness and humiliation. She is literally being disempowered in favor of “oooohhh she can carry a sword” bs. She is powerful and amazing and great and they reduced her to THIS

- There is probably a million more things just from looking at the trailers and teasers and stills and hearing from others - both those who like it and those who don’t.

Frankly, they should have left Tolkien’s work alone. People have messed with and done plenty with older works; Star Trek, Harry Potter, Star Wars, etc. but Tolkien, as probably one of the most well known father’s of what we think is fantasy, they should have just changed some names and made their own original series than banking off of Tolkien and his work.

Do you think it is a coincidence they made this a mere 2 years after Christopher Tolkien died?