#I literally just learned about this series and now I don’t feel bad for enjoying it

[thelastofhyde]

the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

read on ao3. series masterlist. next chapter.

Distaste is not new in the life of Joel Miller.

In particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. He is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. The years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

If anything, he’s made himself more empty.

Rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. Discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. Lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

An apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. Joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. The man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that Miller guys passed between cowardly members of FEDRA and the keep away from Mr Miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

This plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. Somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become deadweight.

“So that’s all I am to ya, huh? Dead-fucking-weight?” His brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving Joel to do what Joel does best: endure.

Somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the deadweight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

She was an exception, his Tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. They’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

She never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. Contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging Joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

Which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of Tess’ foot against his shin.

“... And then,” Frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. With a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, Bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “Otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. We were finding paw-prints for days!”

Joel's unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. As if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the German Shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“Which means I was cleaning paw-prints for days.” Bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

Frank is quick to shush him.

“I’m sorry, again, Bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “I’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

There you sit, parallel to him.

The sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. It hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

You catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

The threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which Joel can account for, mouth too keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. The battle ends swiftly as you surrender to Bill’s hardened stare, and Frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and Tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“You, sit. No one should have to clean up the food they made.”

They get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

Silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and smothering you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun behind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

Being alone, with you, is something Joel’s never mastered. The affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

Were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

Something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. The dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

Just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

The ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and Joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. He’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

The pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never-ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“He likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

As if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in Joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. Standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and Joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

To envy a creature that licks its own shit off its ass is a new low for Joel.

“Thinkin’ he might like ya more, Sol.” The nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“Most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

He takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and Tess have made.

“You’ve got a whole load in common, you know? I think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“How the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” There he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. It helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“Well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. He’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “And have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

He’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

Discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘S easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. Doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

With you as its protector.

He doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. He watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. Your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

Survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

But I could keep you safe.

He toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. It’s not the first time he’s thought it. Truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

His memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just Bill, Frank and you. A few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night Joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was Frank who’d prompted the question. “Where were you all when... this started?” Tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’d never meet.

He never imagined her working in a bank.

Bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “Was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” He’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. She was barely out of school. “I knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” Frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

Joel had always been a good listener. Being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. Years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. All this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to Frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of Bill.

But you weren’t smiling.

He watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

The desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for Joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. With each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. He’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“You’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “Those we remember never truly die!”). He’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘Could keep you safe. There, then, the thought did cross his mind.

He’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-Could fix it, you know. I’m good with my hands.”

He almost chokes on his own breath.

I'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. And he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“What?” The question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. In the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

The mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face Joel once more.

He sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“Your watch, it’s broken.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “Don’t need ya to fix it.”

You pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. Confusion.

“Don’t you want to know the time?” You ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and Joel Miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“I don’t keep it for the time.”

You smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

The German Shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to Joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

He’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. Nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. It’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“Ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” You’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “I’ve never heard any of the Joel Miller backstory, this should be-”

“I get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

Nature falls silent.

Skies grow dull.

You juggle sadness.

There’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of Tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. The dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

Joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“Sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. Only, the gates have been shut in his face and Joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “But you’re wrong. I don’t like everyone.”

“‘S that so.” His eyes roll. The hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal Joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“Yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “I don’t like you, Joel.”

The hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

We’re staying, for tonight. Tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the QZ for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

The nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading Bill and Frank- mostly Frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. If only Joel could remember which door leads to yours.

The two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

Tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a FEDRA agent’s wife, you whisper that Frank and Bill had been fighting again recently. The memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of Tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly Bill and Frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

At some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. At another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-N’t tell me you’re a virgin.

The words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

A protest rings true in his head and his ears.

Was gonna say. Knew you were young, but not that young.

It’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“God, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. It was alright, I guess. I just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

He’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. A groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping Tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

Neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“Not much to miss?! Sweet Christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” He’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken Tess. Each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. There’s no need to bother opening his eyes, Joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “I’d give up a hand for some head!”

You must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of Tess’ renewed shock fills the room. He wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

Late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“It bores me!”

“It bores you!?”

The couch beneath Joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp Tess gives. The last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

The crueler part of his mind replays your voice, I don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

You like Tess. Love her, even. It’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out Finally someone with a pair of boobs, I’m bored of the sight of my own. Joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

Maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“Must not have been doin’ ya right,” The bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. Joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. You’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. It’s oddly endearing that you think no one has noticed. Because he has, he always notices the little details that surround you. “This fella of yours.”

Joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

He does so, regardless.

“Well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “We were each others firsts.”

“That’s no excuse! Trust I left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time I went down.” Tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights Joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while Tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. No discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

You scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “What, are you offering your services?”

tThis he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which Tess has raised you to heaven on while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘As sure as I am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you I like my women a little older than you.”

He knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the QZ. It should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. But he can’t, and he won’t.

And you’re the one to blame.

You, with the glow of a thousand suns. You, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. You, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

His own self being the first he’d need fight.

Joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. Sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

The next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

He’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. Some small, meaningless little things, that ripple Joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. Others, tsunamis. Big, angry, all imposing. They’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

Amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. But the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. They catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. In the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

The currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

This evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. He reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. The gentle, barely-there croon of a Sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. Across from him is Tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. Snoring comes from below him, where Joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

You take up no space of this room.

Neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. Languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

There are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

He should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. A good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

He could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. Perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure Frank wouldn’t mind. Bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the QZ.

He would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. He imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. Skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Those words stop him from trying.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

With a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. He swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. The door’s already half-opened, and Joel nearly thanks Christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. The darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

The refrigerator.

It’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. A subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly Joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

Keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

She never lived long enough to get either.

He catches something move beneath the artificial light. Cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“Why aren’t ya sleepin’?” The words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

Beneath the light, you shrug. “Could ask you the same thing, Texas.”

He curses Tess for teaching you such a nickname.

He curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

You’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. Whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, Joel remains unaware.

He grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. The door behind him closes over and gives the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“I asked first.” You laugh, at him. Full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. The corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. He hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you. Bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘S so funny, huh?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. Perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “Just never heard the Joel Miller say something so childish. You’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

You make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. A fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. Uncouth and unbothered, Joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“You know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” You call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. The thirst does not budge. He hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

By the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“iIm making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “Make sure you take some with you when you leave. Tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

Would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? Four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his Tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. He’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Of course you would do the same. Not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. Nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. Patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. All words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. They violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over Joel’s entire persona.

He straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. The sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. His hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of Tess and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what Joel hears.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. You’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

And, suddenly, Joel’s angry. At you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. The fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

Only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

A hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving Joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. Without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise Joel gifts you.

You may leave your marks emotionally, but Joel’s will always be physical.

“Why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “Don’t ya like me?”

If not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “Why do you care?”

He scoffs, “I don’t.”

“Hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody Tess was playing in the living room. “Sure sounds like you do.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

Joel knows he cares. It’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to Bill and Frank’s.

What Joel doesn’t know is why he cares. There’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. He’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

Maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

Instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

Not one bit.

Joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. His feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. His chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

He inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“For the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘S just like how I sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. No part of him should ever be compared to you. “I don’t like ya either.”

He’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

The knife never ceases its movement. Back and forth, back and forth. Chop, chop, chop. Blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. It’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding Joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. Perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

The hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“That’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

It’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“You only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. His wandering touch halts. “A little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what I think.”

This strikes a nerve. Fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. The realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “D’ya know what I think?”

Even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“No, unlike you I don’t care what you think about-” Joel tugs on your hair once more.

“I think you’re a brat. A silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” You could. He’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. Knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“You’re hurting me,” you whine, Joel growls.

Animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. His gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

Your dress- red, a colour Joel Miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“You like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“No, I don’-” Dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “Joel.”

He retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. Whoever Joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“Heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and Tess. The blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ Talkin’ bout your past.”

He doesn’t specify.

He doesn’t need to.

You give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“Tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. His hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. Near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “I wouldn’t.”

You say nothing. Joel pulls harder.

“Too bad I’m-” You cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. With a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, Joel watches you like a hawk. The twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. The want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “Too bad I’m not offering you the chance.”

Joel Miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. With notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“Who said anything about an offer?”

The descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

A part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

The other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. You’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

Smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs that seem longer than any tree in the Amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the Himalayas. Arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

Your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. Perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, Joel knows how to read people. And, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

Joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

You breathe in, you breathe out.

One knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. He revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

Inhale, exhale.

Your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“Hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the Texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. All he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. With the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “Don’t move.”

Where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

Lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. One flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. A wet patch, your wetness. The stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

Curiosity gets the better of him- one day, Joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers digging themselves into the waistband of your panties and around the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

In and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

The lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. A heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. He makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

Delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. There’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. Joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. He wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. He thinks it must hurt.

His fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“Ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. Though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in Joel’s peripheral vision.

“Shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “People are tryin’ to sleep.”

You scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “Tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘S that an invitation to see how loud I can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. This, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “Or a challenge?”

“It’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. Asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

As coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some Playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. So he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. He awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

It’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“You’re drippin’,” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. The view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘S actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. Is it 'cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

He can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

But first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. Much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. Perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

Cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for Joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. Soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

Rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

It happens so suddenly, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of Tess. He wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. Joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

So he does the same.

Working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. He breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

Two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“So now you shut up. ‘S the matter, huh?” He’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “Am I too borin’ for ya?”

“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever- Oh!”

A tongue meets skin.

The knife clatters onto the counter.

You lurch forward.

His hand pulls you back.

“Tess was right, ya know?” He can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. He pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. Three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “That boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

The common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better-, if you’d just let him.

‘Could keep ya satisfied.

That’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. He’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“Is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? What ya need is a man, a man like me!” The softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension. God, it’s never sounded sweet, and Joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“Well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. He imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “But if ya insist.”

Diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. The tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

Licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

He’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by experience that only comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. You’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

He’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

What a perfect excuse you are, for Joel to remaster the arts of lust.

It’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. It’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. It’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever remaining days he shall possess on his knees before you.

And all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar-sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

His only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

Hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

Burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. It does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“N- Ah,” You can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “No, don’t, not there.”

Next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

Sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip out every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. The sound of whatever record Tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

And, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

His eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within Bill and Frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. There’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time Tess tells him they’re due a visit.

Except, the oven door is made of glass.

Glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. You, with a hand gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

And then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

The image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“D’ya touch yourself, Sol?” You don’t answer him, but that’s okay. In a sweet change of pace, Joel Miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “Yeah, bet ya do. Late at night, right? Once you’re all alone in bed. Ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

You back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. Becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

Fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “Let me do the honours this time though.”

You don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. He imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

He’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

You’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. Your expression, he can’t quite read. Not sad, not happy, not mad.

Your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

The discomfort of trekking back to the QZ will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“Joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. Hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. Legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

He swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. Strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. He’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“That,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

Joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

People once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. As sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. Not today, however, and Joel Miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

It chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. There’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

That dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

He cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “No, not again. My back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, Joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the German Shepherd’s head. It whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. A scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “Not so bad, are ya? Huh?” Never in a million years did Joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and Tess had set out for their routinely visit to the Bill and Frank’s. Never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

He hears you before he sees you.

“You planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, Texas?”

He tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

The world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

So instead, it sends you.

Peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than UV rays could ever be. He’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. A few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. At the very least, he considers, I’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

The smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. When he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. He does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. Upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“Thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. You’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “Won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

A queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. He’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “No problem, thanks... for feeding Tess and I.”

“No worries!” You’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. He can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “Oh, actually, that’s why I came out here, I was looking for Tess-” Of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “Hold on!”

You shoot off back inside so quickly that Otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. With an idle pet to his head as you pass by, Joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. In your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“I wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and Joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. He can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “I know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“Why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

Pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

You show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him. “There should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

It’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and Joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

So he tries again, louder.

“Why don’t ya like me?”

“And I’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for Tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “Winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

He grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "Answer me." Like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"For someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. You don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “You sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"Answer the damn question, girl.”

“Or, what?” You’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “You gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

Had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. Truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. Perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

Instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

Joel says nothing.

“How about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and Bill make.” Inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. Clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “You get me something, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

He grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “What d’ya want? ‘Cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. I ain’t messing with none of Bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“A dress.”

“A dress?” The statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“Yes, and don’t look at me like that!” It’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “I need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

Unaware he’d even began to lean closer, Joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“Joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

Neither of you dare to break eye contact. Again, his name is yelled. This time, he manages to identify Tess as the owner of the voice. Habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of Tess or you.

His feet remain glued to the ground.

Tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “Think you might be needed inside, macho man. Your missus is calling.”

“She ain’t my-”

“You two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” Tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

Only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does Joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. In her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. You approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“I should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. He decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “Go check on the food, before it burns.”

You’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

Tess and him hit the road by noon. Earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. The bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun breaking through the clouds and heating the world with its rays. He walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from Tess and wracking his brain for answers.

Answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. Answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the QZ. Answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven Bill’s created. Answers to why you don’t like him.

I don’t like you, Joel.

It motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. If he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but Tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

Till then, he needs to find a dress.

[bicheetopuff]

I just saw the worst takes about bnha’s ending on Instagram (three days ago now, as of posting this). So, today we’re gonna talk about Izuocha, shonen homoeroticism, and fandom… not in that order though…

I: Fandom

Fandom culture for all media has basically always been a war zone that you have to actively avoid, usually with two defining sides: people who try to enjoy media the way they want to enjoy it, and the people who say that everyone is wrong and attack others who they don’t agree with. There are shades of gray on both sides, but in general this is usually the case. It’s never been “‘alphabet mafia’ vs ‘normal’” or “fanon vs canon” or “right vs wrong”… I almost always see people having fun being attacked unwarranted (I am not saying that people being legitimately problematic shouldn’t be called out, pls don’t get me wrong. I’m talking about innocent fun!). And I’m not just talking about dudebros attacking shippers, I’ve seen a lot of shippers attack non-shippers/other shippers of a different ship, and it’s almost always people just saying “you’re wrong, I’m right, and your take ruins this media piece of media for everyone else.” That being said, I wanna talk about the highlighted parts of these comments, okay? But first I need to explain the video that these comments were on.

It was a video by @/d_rich7 on Instagram, a big anime creator, talking about this tweet:

To summarize the video, he went on to say that he’s not surprised because bnha has the worst shipping community since Naruto and how Horikoshi probably felt forced into not confirming any ships because of “threats and hate mail” that he got from his fandom. I’ll come back to that but first I’ll talk about some of the comments:

“At least, they can say they weren’t the reason for the downfall of their anime.”

I've seen this take from different parts of the fandom, whether it was in regard to ships, todofam, or the villains. Just because the narrative of a story ends up matching the theories of people you disagree with, doesn't mean the story is going through a downfall. Just accept that you were wrong and move on. It is okay to not like certain aspects of the story and it's okay to discuss and criticize it, but pinning the blame on people who just happened to be right, no matter how much you hate it, is not okay.

“People need to stop demanding the literal CREATOR of a series to do things how they want it done…They to learn it’s not their story to tell…”

“…like I don’t get how people who have no impact on the writing of a story get mad because the CREATORS don’t wanna use their personal ideas.”

“…from now on imma blame the fandom for fucking up the anime/manga, we could’ve had a better ending if it wasn’t for them…”

Outside of the context, I actually agree with the sentiment that fans shouldn't feel so entitled that they think they have any control over the media they're consuming. But, the commenters don't realize that they're doing the exact thing that they’re talking about. They're convinced that the queer shipping community is the reason the creator decided not to confirm any relationship and are pissed off that the ship they were rooting for, didn't happen. Why are they exempt from this rule? Because straight ships are supposed to happen and queer ships aren't? Because the boy is supposed to win the girl at the end in order to develop a good shonen? I'll go into the misogynistic implications of that later.

Other than that, I have seen a lot of people on tumblr get mad about other things, like before, regarding to the villains and todofam drama to the point that they started insulting Hori. Like I said, it's okay to be mad. Being mad about something doesn't make you a bad person but it was never our story to tell. Criticism and hate, are two different things and come off very differently.

“MHA’s fandom is filled to the brim with toxic, no shower taking, furry loving, lgbtq idiots…”

Honestly I added this one because he's right. We're here, we're queer, and we're idiots in the best way possible. However, I think this also says the quiet part out loud when it comes to the hatred towards bnha and it's fandom.

Shipping communities in other fandoms don't get anywhere near as harassed as often as the shipping communities in the bnha fandom despite not being much different. The difference is, a lot of us identify as and are recognized as queer and Hori himself even recognized that the LGBT community especially took a liking to his manga. But, in other fandoms, it's only okay to consider queer ships if they're recognized by the cishet audience.

Most people in the aot fandom don't have an issue with eremin because it was something recognized and memed by straight men, even if it was mostly as a joke. The kny fandom doesn't care about inotan because it was also recognized and memed by straight men. Narusasu doesn't get much hate anymore because the straight men of their fandom also started to recognize the characters weird obsession with each other and it became more difficult to ignore the ship since there was literally multiple accidental kiss scenes--one of the few times where the source material actively encourages shipping. I can keep going too.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, non-shonen animes with majority cishet women as their audience, no one bats an eye at their ships either, because there's not enough men in their communities to tell them they should feel ashamed for their fanon content and their words hold no weight… and there’s a lot less queer people in those fandoms. You see the trend, right? It's almost like queer shipping is perfectly okay and mostly accepted as long as the community is either majority cishet men, or those men grant permission/approval for the specific ships or the piece of media wasn’t “meant for men.” Otherwise, it's seen as gross and cringe.

There was one other community that was kind of similar to bnha in a sense that it was mostly consumed by queer people and cishet men, where there was a lot of discourse on whether the two main characters were queer or not… which is the Buddy Daddies fandom. When the show was airing, those two sides that I talked about earlier were pretty apparent, with people having heated arguments about whether there were queer undertones or not. The cishet men of the fandom didn't give their approval to ship Rei and Kazuki, so it became an issue. Same with JJK now, more so with itafushi though. SatoSugu was given a somewhat stamp of approval but itafushi is still seen as taboo.

However, for some reason, every queer ship and character (even if it's canon) in bnha is seen as something shameful to recognize which I think is very telling considering how large the queer and disabled part of the fandom is. Minorities are being punished for relating to a manga with discrimination as one of it's core themes. Do what you want with that...

“…hate-mail just pushed him over the edge so he just scrapped everything just as punishment to spite them…”

This kind of references rumors from a few years ago about the shipping community sending hate mail and death threats towards Horikoshi and everyone just running with it without doing their research.

Horikoshi did receive death threats but it was about Dr.Garaki's original name which you can read about here. It was mostly the eastern side of the fandom being aggressive, even going as far as posting videos of them burning the volume where Garaki's name was revealed which isn't okay. However, everyone blamed it on the western shipping community... for whatever reason...

There was another instance where people in the western fandom started sending Horikoshi death threats on his twitter because of a chapter about Endeavor getting attacked by Dabi and an Nomu and the Todo family being worried about him, people claiming that Hori "deserved to die" for romanticizing and glorifying abuse (when that wasn't at all the case, I'm genuinely confused on how they interpreted that...). This came out six years ago but somehow is still narrowed down to the queer community and women being toxic... like what? Do you see my point now of it feeling like we need to be granted permission to do certain things in fandom if we don't want to be punished?

Also who was Hori punishing by not confirming any ships? If anything, I’ve seen most shippers appreciative than not…

II: Ochako Uraraka and her relationship with Izuku Midoriya

Back to that point about misogyny that I mentioned earlier...

"...I would have lowkey wish we got to see deku and ochaco end up together since their relationship was hinted from the beginning..."

Quick warning... this is gonna be a long point.

Yes, they were attracted to each other at the beginning, no one is denying that. No one is denying Ochako’s crush either. Izuku’s nervous around her for the first like 50-ish chapters because he's still used to having friends (especially a girl. If you think about it, if his childhood friends were the only friends he had ever had before getting shunned by his community, then he had never had a girl as a friend before... ever) but their relationship eventually mellows out into a normal friendship. Given Ochako and Toga's arc, I don't think Izuocha was ever destined to end romantically.

Toga was desperate to be loved by someone who accepted her for who she was while Ochako was desperate to be able to show love to someone who she truly admired. Ochako wanted to be like Deku and tried for a while until she realized that she couldn’t and shouldn’t want to be like Deku. She thinks he’s amazing but she realizes that she can’t strive to be like him because she’s already like him but wants to change.

(this is kind of off topic but I just want to point out what Ochako said about Toga being sad about not being able to totally become Jin. Correct me if I'm remembering wrong but, Toga was only able to ever transform into Ochako completely, quirk and all. I think there's an analogy there, where her being able to be just like someone possibly means she's in love with them but she convinces herself that she loves everyone equally. I think it's supposed to be saying that "even though you can't be him completely, doesn't mean you don't love him, you just don't love him in the way you thought you did" and I think Ochako realizes that because she possibly had the same realization with Izuku. Becoming him didn't work out for her because she didn't love him the way others told her she did... I guess it wasn't off topic... oh well.)

The highlighted parts can apply to Ochako too if you replace “bloodlust” with “envy”. She suffered the same issue that Toga did with other people telling her how and who to love which made her feel like she was supposed to be jealous.

She didn't like these feelings of jealousy, so she began to unintentionally be like Deku and hide them. I don't think she ever had an issue with loving Deku but she had an issue with the way she convinced herself of how she loved Deku made her feel. It made her feel like she was hiding something because I think she felt conflicted for not loving him the way everyone expected her to. All the way up to her final fight with Toga, we were only getting intel about her crush from other characters. Not her.

There's a lot of Mina just telling her what her feelings are despite Mina canonically not knowing much about love. Her crush has always been projected onto her which is why she's able to relate to Toga so well and wants to be more like her since Toga is able to live as herself so comfortably and broke away from conformity and what's expected of her.

Ochako's crush is only there because it's expected to be and her arc is meant to prove that she can be more than just the MCs love interest. Ochako's projected crush is Horikoshi trying to prove a point about basic shonen tropes which he's done time and time again throughout the story. SHE WANTS TO LIVE AND LOVE HOW SHE PLEASES WITHOUT SOCIETY TELLING HER HOW TO JUST LIKE TOGA WAS ABLE TO DO! I WILL KEEP SAYING IT UNTIL MY THROAT IS RAW AND DUDEBROS BEGIN TO FINALLY UNDERSTAND AND NOT VIEW FEMALE CHARACTERS AS NOTHING MORE THAN EYE CANDY FOR THE MALE CHARACTERS!!!

In the epilogue. she hides her feelings with a smile because she doesn't want to worry anyone (sound familiar?) so it only makes sense that it was Deku who pushed her to let out her feelings despite not practicing what he preaches. So, she embraced her inner Himiko and let out her feelings with her whole face. Those feeling just weren't for Deku... and they shouldn't have to be.

I genuinely feel like (especially with the way dudebros hate queer ships in this fandom) if Ochako was a boy, her arc wouldn't have been so widely misinterpreted. Because if he had talked about how amazing Izuku was and Mina came in and still said "It's love!" most fans would've taken it as a joke and/or even going as far as pointing out that the crush wasn't real because he didn't actually admit to it and it was projected onto him by other characters. But, the world ain't ready for that conversation.

"...I saw it as the fandom tryn to force their ships into the story 100% ruining key moments..."

I mainly added this quote because I thought it was so absurd. How do you see class-a coming to support Ochako as "omg it's the fandom forcing their agenda and controlling Hori through mind control to force their ships into the story and ruin this key moment,"??? Like, is it really so unthinkable that Horikoshi can have creative freedom outside the norm of treating girl characters as a trophy for the MC? You expected Izuku to marry her on the spot while she's having a mental breakdown? It's just... anyways...

III: Old-Gen Shonen Homoeroticism and it's Relation with Internalized Misogyny and how New-Gen is Changing That

The Shonen genre - especially old gen - is notorious for it's accidental misogyny, queerphobia, and racism. It got to the point where it's just kind of expected at this point.

The main one is usually misogyny. A lot of shonen mangaka like to write women as nothing more than eye candy and when they are actually given a personality and power, their character arcs are suddenly ignored/neglected and turned back into eye candy. Take Tsunade and Nezuko for example. We're told that they're important and powerful and yet they rarely do anything and almost never get important speaking lines and when we get to see them in action, the author makes sure to highlight certain parts of their bodies. Nezuko I think is an especially obvious one, being literally muzzled for most of the story, and when she powers up, she grows up and is suddenly given huge boobs...

Almost every shonen girls' character arcs revolves around a man and if not, then their existence is for the sake of a male character. I will say, I havent watched much shonen because of this aspect that's always apparent, but almost every older shonen I've watched, read, or seen other people talk about, it rears its ugly head at least once.

Because of that, most love interests weren’t given enough personality to actually form a meaningful relationship with the MC that the audience - especially female and queer audiences - can connect to. More often than not, it’s “I like her cuz she’s pretty” or “I like her cuz she likes me” and it’s irritating. And since these relationships are so shallow, authors are forced to create an interesting bond between the MC and a different character which usually ends up being the deuteragonist who is usually another boy more often than not. And boys in media written “for boys” are almost never neglected the way a girl would be, which is a sad truth.

These relationships almost always end up feeling like they’re passed the point of friendship and because of that, a lot of women and queer people end up shipping them instead of the canon love interest. Because their relationship being romantic actually makes sense most of the time.

BakuDeku, Eremin, KilluaGon, NaruSasu, ItaFushi, SatoSugu, IsaBachi, HideKan, GenoSai, LawLight, the list can go on for fucking ever.

However, in bnha and BakuDeku’s case, especially when the “canon” relationship with the “canon” love interest wasn’t really developed at all, and we never got a hint from Deku that he liked her, I don’t think this homoeroticism wasn’t intentional. Like with a lot of new-gen, there wasn’t really blatant misogyny towards the “love interest” present to explain away the closeness between the two male leads.

All of the roles a love interest would usually have, were given to Katsuki. He was damseled for Deku to save, he was Deku’s biggest cheerleader, he risked his life to save Deku, he died in Izuku’s honor, he showed up for Izuku when no one else thought to, he showed up to his hospital room and cried over the condition he was in, and then he devoted nearly a decade of his life trying to bring Izuku’s dream back into fruition… He cares so fucking much and Izuku cares right back. And no one can convince me that it was accidentally gay, because Horikoshi literally felt the need to tell AND remind us that Katsuki doesn’t like girls. Plus, like I said before, all of that was done without neglecting Uraraka’s character arc.

But even though all of that is in text, I think shonen bros just expect it while also expecting the main girl and boy to be together… because that’s how it always used to be. It wasn’t until new-gen - starting with mha - started to purposely parody dated shonen tropes and twisting them into their own stories that shonen bros began to feel threatened by queer ships. Because they know that there’s actually a chance of them happening now, and I feel like IzuOcha not being canonized is the beginning of a new trend. And misogynistic anime fans already hate it.

Conclusion - TLDR

uh idk what to say here.

In conclusion, fandom culture kinda sucks because of unexpected reasons, Ochako’s character arc is ignored for the sake of men wanting her to be Izuku’s prize and it’s irritating as fuck, and I think previously accidental homoeroticism in old-gen shonen is becoming purposeful in new-gen shonen as new-gen slowly becomes more progressive and less misogynistic. Oh and bkdk canon ig (I don’t think I’ve ever said that before, strangely enough…)

[cactus-cuddler]

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

Series' masterlist | previous chapter

Word count: 958

Warnings: Bucky with children!!!

Tag list: @mcira @robynanthonystark @sofiaavarga13 @fanfictionreaderfan @julvrs

You and Bucky decided to start a new chapter together in a small town, not too far from where you first met. You understood that city life wasn’t ideal for him, so you suggested moving somewhere quieter, where the watchful eyes of others wouldn’t reach him.

“Are you sure you want to leave just for me?” he asks over the phone as you pack up your things.

“Yes, Buck, I want this,” you insist. While he’s hesitant about you leaving your hometown, you’re determined to uproot and begin a new life by his side.

You quit your job at the bar the night before, explaining to your coworkers that you were moving in with Bucky. Though you hadn’t expected it, you realized you’d miss the job, especially the friendships you’d formed, like the one with Megan. It’s true what they say: you often don’t realize how much something means to you until it’s time to leave it behind.

Bucky had already quit his job months earlier, feeling that his presence was no longer needed. The customers had become attached to you, and the bar had transformed into a safe haven, attracting a friendlier crowd. It became a place of comfort, where people came to unwind with friends. Your boss even redecorated, reflecting the warm atmosphere the bar had developed, and changed those awful uniforms. You couldn’t help but feel that Bucky’s presence, despite his troubled past, had turned the bar into his own sanctuary, with you as the center of his attention.

When the last box is loaded onto the moving truck, you grab your purse and head towards Bucky's motorcycle. He had kept it a secret for a while, not wanting to risk shortening your time together by driving you home on it. The first time he took you for a ride, you were terrified, clinging tightly to his waist while he laughed at your fear.

"You know I'll never let you fall," he had shouted over the roar of the engine, laughing as your grip tightened.

"I trust you—it's the bike I don't trust!" you had yelled back, clinging to him during your second date, which ended on a much more satisfying note, literally.

Now, you feel more at ease on the bike, even starting to enjoy the rush of air that brushes against your face as you press close to him. When you arrive at your new home, the moving men are already unloading the boxes. It’s just how you always imagined it—a place where you can decorate and build your life together.

As you carry boxes into the bedroom, Bucky finishes putting away his tools in the garage. He comes up behind you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist.

“It’s wonderful to see you every day,” he whispers in your ear, making you giggle as his touch tickles you.

“We already saw each other every day,” you reply, melting into his embrace.

“Not like this,” he says with a smile. “Come on, let’s check out the town.” He takes your hand, leading you out of the house with boxes still waiting to be unpacked.

You stroll through the neighborhood, hand in hand, as your new neighbors greet you with warm smiles.

“Are you the new residents?” they ask, and you respond with a shy nod. Everyone seems so friendly here. This place feels perfect—a fresh start for Bucky, far from his past, and a new beginning for the two of you together.

As you explore, you notice there are only a few shops, but they’re all charming, with everything you need. A small but well-stocked bookstore catches your eye, and there are enough grocery stores for all your essentials.

During your walk, you come across a park full of children playing happily. A ball rolls toward Bucky, and he kicks it back a little too hard, sending it flying. The kids, amazed, run over to him.

“Where did you learn to kick like that?”

“Did a bad dog eat your arm?”

“Can I be that strong too?”

“Please teach us!”

You laugh and leave Bucky to his new friends, watching as he joins them on the soccer field, playing goalie because none of the kids wanted to. You watch with a smile as some of the neighborhood women approach you.

“Sorry they kidnapped your husband,” one of them says with a grin.

“Husband? Oh, Bucky!” you chuckle and smile at her.

“No problem, it’s nice to see him so carefree,” you reply, enjoying the pleasant company as she shows you photos of her twin children. They’re adorable, and you can’t help but imagine a mini version of Bucky.

Watching Bucky play with the children warms your heart. He’s so gentle with them, making them laugh and feel safe. After an hour, the kids are reluctantly called back by their mothers. You’ve already spotted a few who seem to judge Bucky for being “childish,” but you hold back. Teaching kids about kindness is more important to you than responding to criticism.

“I’m exhausted!” Bucky complains with a grin as he walks back to you.

“I’ve always preferred daughters,” he admits as he rests his head on your shoulder.

“Why?”

“Less soccer, more tea parties and saving them from pillow fort dragons,” he replies, making you both laugh.

“See you tomorrow, Bunny!” a kid calls out, and Bucky waves back.

“Bunny?” you laugh.

“He can’t say Bucky,” he snorts.

Back home, you snuggle up on the couch together, Bucky falling asleep almost instantly while you stay awake, gently stroking his hair. Watching his peaceful face, a faint smile on his lips, you know that your life together will be wonderful. Maybe, one day, this house will be filled with the sounds of happy, noisy children.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝒹

Series' masterlist | previous chapter

[pookie-mulder]

June 2024 fic roundup

Here are my favorite June reads:

👶📝 Of Our Own Making by @television-overload

I totally forgot to put this on last month’s list! I absolutely loved reading each new chapter every morning at work. I can’t not read a marriage of convenience fic, especially when there’s a baby involved.

💌🦃 Small Lives Awake by Jesemie’s Evil Twin

You know when you read something so sweet, so pure, that you feel like it breaks your heart in the best way? That’s this fic. It’s incredibly fluffy without being cheesy, and the writing style is so elegant.

🏝️👨‍👩‍👦 The Eden Series by Jacque LaVa

Was this the best fic I’ve ever read? No. Was everyone OOC? Definitely. Did I still enjoy it? You bet. I cannot resist the siren call of a survival fic, an amnesia fic, or a kidfic, and this had all three.

👰‍♀️🤵‍♂️ The Marriage Spectacular by @cecilysass

I’ve never met a cecilysass fic I didn’t like, and this was no exception. Fake relationship my beloved! Only one bed my beloved! Mulder and Scully being idiots in love my beloved! Absolutely delightful. 10/10, no notes.

🌀☔️ Hurricane Season by beduini & rah

This fic perfectly captures M&S’s “we’re completely and utterly devoted to each other and literal soulmates yet we still doubt our place in each other’s lives and we never actually talk about it” dynamic that we know and love. It takes place when William is a few months old and they’re still trying to define their relationship. I loved it SO MUCH!

(hmu for an epub — the chapters are long, which makes it easy to lose your place if you don’t finish the chapter in one sitting)

❄️✈️ WHITEOUT by EvanBlack

A classic “Mulder and Scully get in a plane crash and have to survive until help arrives” story. (You all know by now how much I love a survival fic!)

I absolutely adored the dynamic between them in this one. They’re down SO bad for each other, and it shows. I especially loved the beginning when they’re both wishing they were sitting next to each other so they could hold hands. That’s the good stuff right there!

🛁🧪 Antidote by Rachel Howard and Karen Rasch

Mulder and Scully investigate an unknown contagion in a remote town. You can probably guess what happens from there.

This was the perfect road trip read! Engaging and exciting without being too plot-heavy.

🤰👶 40 Weeks by @malibusunset-xf-blog

What if the IVF worked?

The most delectable pregnancy fluff with a dash of smut and a healthy serving of Mulder and Scully figuring out their relationship.

🪶🐎 Omens by @lepusarticus

I cannot say enough good things about this fic. It’s definitely a new addition to the Holy Grail list.

It’s a casefic, but it doesn’t feel like a casefic…more like an exploration of magic and family and love. With its spooky small-town gothic vibe and emphasis on powerful women and strange houses and ancient magic, it reminds me a lot of my favorite book series, The Raven Cycle. (If you liked this fic, you should go read TRC!)

This fic has layers and nuance and themes and motifs and gorgeous metaphors and one incredibly hot scene that ticked all my boxes. Even the OCs are rich and compelling. I would read a whole series set in this universe!

💥🚗 Goshen by Bonetree

Emily angst plus survival plus tending to each other’s injuries plus hurt/comfort? Yes please! I love it when I find a fic that seems to be created in a lab just for me.

(After reading the summaries of the following installments, I’m not quite sure if they’re really my thing. Has anyone read the rest of the series? Did you like it?)

👦🏻🦊 A Boy and His Fox by 6hoursgirl

Mulder and Scully “platonically” coparent their son. Mulder learns what it means to be a dad. Pure, unadulterated fluff! If you like kidfics, this one is a must-read.

📚👩‍⚕️ Heuvelmans’ On the Track by The_Mythopeodic

This fic is a fandom classic, and I can definitely see why. The author uses language in unexpected and interesting ways, which is not something you see very often in fic.

I tend to go for “popcorn” fics that are addictive and easy to binge. This one is more like a hearty slab of meat. Both types are good in their own way, but this fic made me work for it.

Anyway, I got a bit frustrated with myself around the halfway mark and kept having to reread passages a few times to truly understand what’s going on. I lamented that I needed a reading guide like they used to give you in English class.

After putting it aside for a few days, I came back and DEVOURED the second half. I don’t want to spoil anything, but if you’ve read it, you know what I’m talking about. I loooooved seeing Scully be resourceful and scrappy and capable, and the epilogue is incredible. I’m glad I pushed through!

🪡🌨️ Skamania County by Sarie_Fairy

This is actually the second time I’ve read this one, which I didn’t realize until near the end when I tried to leave kudos, haha. Anyway, I loved it both times! It has everything that makes survival fics so enticing: a nice trip to the woods that quickly goes wrong, one person hiding their life-threatening injury from the other, the intimacy of tending to their wounds, cuddling (naked) for warmth, and finally resolving that UST. Chef’s kiss!

🧙‍♀️🔭 The Mars Differential by @asteraceae-blue

This one is a WIP, and I cannot wait for the rest! It’s an intriguing casefile with plenty of msr.

I also read a bunch of @o6666666’s fics thanks to this masterlist that made its way around recently!

They are the master of writing fic that hurts so good. This IVF arc one might be my favorite, along with this season 9 one that squeezed my heart like a stress ball.

[agendabymooner]

about names: the wingman of maranello || cl16 scenario (2)

dad!charles leclerc x mom!ofc (hearth sister!ofc)

EXTENSION OF OF LONG LINES AND NAMES AND THE LECLERC DAYCARE

PART TWO OF ABOUT NAMES SCENARIO SERIES

Summary: The Leclerc boys and their names go hand in hand. OR times when Charles and his wife Aimee had to explain that their children’s names are meaningful. 

Scenario summary: With his brothers coming down to sickness, Jules Leclerc travelled to Italy with his father and Uncle Arthur prior to his next karting event before them as he learned more about the ‘Wingman of Maranello’ — his namesake Jules Bianchi.

Content warning: FLUFF!!!!! What is beta reading we write with no sense of proper grammar or transitions, kids' sickness, heavily mentions Jules Bianchi (+ Jules being a good sport and matchmaker), feel-good vibes, OC (Teague; OFC's relative), Uncle Arthur Leclerc is quite unattentive, possible use of explicit language, poorly translated French and Italian(?)

Note: I have two papers due in the next two weeks lmao. Enjoy xx

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

Charles and Aimee always thought that if it hadn’t been for their jobs, their kids wouldn’t have the chance of catching a case of stomach flu from countless germs in their school. 

They were meant to travel to Italy a week before the eldest Leclerc twins’ karting tournament occurring at the track in Maranello — but it seemed like PJ Leclerc’s class had another plan in mind. Now, two days after his last class of the week, he and his brothers Hervé, Anthoine and Alain (age two) were sulking at home. 

They weren’t allowed to travel to Italy until they felt better — after all, the parents didn’t want to be running around with kids who look sickly and would probably throw up every other minute. 

Hervé, out of the four boys, took that information to heart though. He was supposed to be with his twin brother as he, too, was going to compete in the karting event — with Arthur acting as his coach. He was excited to travel with his Da and Jules, but he started showing signs of a weak stomach. 

Aimee had promised that if he got better before the race they’d be able to travel to where Charles and Jules were. It was just a translation to, “Listen to Maman and drink your tea, eat your soup and take your medicine” but they’d decided to put it in a nicer way to avoid dealing with a stubborn seven year old. 

But as Jules placed his bag down after packing up, Hervé’s scowl turned light. His face was pale, but his face showed a lot about how he felt about his twin leaving.

Neither of the parents were paying attention to the two though. Arthur was somewhere in the house, saying goodbye to his younger nephews PJ and the twins. 

“Mon cœur,” Charles started, making Aimee hum as she washed the soup bowls. There was no right time to ask his question especially if he asked his wife this but it was a shot worth taking. “Since it’s just Artie, J and I heading there for the week I’m thinking—“

“Uh oh, that’s a bad sign,” Aimee joked, now rinsing the dishes. Charles chuckled and rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter next to the sink and his wife. He proceeded with his suggestion.

“What if we took the Pista to Maranello instead?” 

It was like his world stopped. Quite literally. 

Turning off the tap, Aimee’s grin faded as she scowled heavily in the direction of her husband. Charles’s usually widened eyes shrunk small as Aimee continued to bore her eyes into his pair. 

It was a bad idea to bring up his sports car overall.

With a scoff, she then said, “I want you to say those words slowly and understand what you just said.”

“Okay…” He nodded.

“Then I want you to think about how stupid that sounds,” Aimee smiled grimly. Yikes. He was a footstep away from being banished from his own bedroom. 

“Okay,” he said regardless.

“Don’t be stupid,” Aimee warned him, “you know that the Pista isn’t for the kids.” 

“I know,” Charles told her, his voice now hitting an octave as he defended, “to be fair, I wouldn’t put the kids in your McLaren either.”

“Darling,” Aimee laughed humourlessly, “we were thinking of two different things; I thought that they shouldn’t be allowed to ride it because it’s dangerous and you said that it was a McLaren not a Ferrari. Do you get what I’m saying?” 

“Right, alright,” Charles said with a shrug, “it was just an idea.”

“An idea that isn’t even worth looking at,” Aimee shook her head, “take the Aston or something— just don’t take any of the two seater ones. Do not ever let Jules sit on Arthur’s lap on a two-seater— he has to have a seat belt, Charles. If I find out that you took either of the Pista or McLaren I will come after your head— and you’re my husband. But I won’t hesitate to be a goddamn Black Widow if—“

“Okay, geez,” Charles interrupted with a roll of his eyes, “don’t need to threaten me. Still your husband, mon cœur.”

“Not going to be anymore if you do what you just said,” Aimee gave him a smile. It was a rather threatening one, and Charles should do anything but contest what he was told. 

Meanwhile Jules stood there and awkwardly patted his brother’s head as he said, “Tu te rendras à la course, Herb.” You’ll make it to the race, Herb.

Hervé grumbled and continued to sulk, “I hope so. Tia said that Louis is going to be there. And je n'aime pas perdre contre Louis.” I don’t like to lose to Louis. 

“Eh,” Jules shrugged nonchalantly, “you know what Maman said once? Uh… don’t take it personal? Is that what she said?” 

Hervé nodded as his twin brother continued, “Louis me taquine aussi. Je m'en fiche parce que maman a dit que je ne devrais pas me soucier des gens qui se moquent de moi. Cela m'empêche seulement d'aller plus vite dans la course.” Louis teases me too. I don’t care much because Maman said I shouldn’t mind people who make fun of me. It only stops me from going faster in the race. 

Despite being a twin, one of the things that differed Jules from Hervé was his level headed trait. It wasn’t as if he never showed any form of emotion to anything worth reacting to, but he seemed to reason more than Hervé. 

Everyone around them was quick to notice this and easily pointed out that he took this rational approach from Aimee, while Hervé got his sensitivity from Charles.

Still, Jules approached things differently than his twin — and his attempt to convince Hervé to see the things he’s seeing was something that most school aged children wouldn’t do. 

“So,” Jules told Hervé, “make it to the race not because of him. Remember! Auntie Vie raced for fun! Not because she wants to fight Uncle Max!” 

“Hm,” Hervé nodded, but kept his head down nonetheless. The eldest Leclerc boy looked up and murmured, “My stomach still hurts, J.” 

“Ah, I’ll tell Maman,” Jules nodded, “why are you up if your stomach hurts anyway?” 

“Alors je peux demander à Maman si je peux venir avec vous les gars,” so I can ask Maman if I can go with you guys. Hervé grumbled, tucking his legs in his hoodie as he groaned. “Ugh.”

A four hour drive to their accommodation in Maranello and a quick trip to the Ferrari headquarters after Charles, Arthur and Jules Leclerc were found in Charles’s in-site office. Or rather, Charles was somewhere in the facility having a meeting with the PR team and Carlos while his son and brother were in his office. 

Jules kept rolling over the chair from the desk to his Uncle Arthur, growing bored of the lack of things to do inside his father’s office. Arthur was just sitting there, his eyes hovering over his phone as he continued to browse through his twitter. 

“Da should have just left me with Maman,” Jules sighed, his head slumped against Charles’s desk.

Arthur hummed, not paying full attention towards the boy as Jules sighed in annoyance. 

Arthur wasn’t paying attention to him and Jules decided to mess with him a little, “Da could just drop me off the street and let me race by myself.” 

Nothing but an utter “Mhm” escaped Arthur’s mouth. 

“I’m bored, Uncle Art.”

Still nada.

“Herb said that he should have had Auntie Vie or Uncle Max coach him instead of you.” 

It was as if Arthur got a whiplash as his mouth gaped open at the boy’s comment. “Jules, is that true?” 

Jules shrugged, “No.”

“Then why say that if it’s not true,” Arthur exclaimed and heaved a sigh dramatically, “you scared me.”

“Because I’m booooored~” Jules whined, spinning himself while he sat on the chair of his father’s office. “Da left me here with nothing!” 

“Tell you what,” Arthur started, “why don’t we take a look around the floor and see if you can find the LaFerrari car to ride in? I’m sure they’d be more than willing to let you borrow it and drive around the office.” 

“Fine~” Jules hopped off the seat, not even bothering to wait for his uncle as he ran out of the office. “Race you to Da!”

“W- Oi! Jules Lorenzo Pascal- agh, wrong- Leclerc!” Arthur grunted before he stood up and ran after the boy. “You lots have a lot of names to even call you by them- Jules! Come back! Charles has a meeting!”

The Ferrari headquarters in Maranello was, no doubt, a place that held a lot of memories for the Leclerc family. Charles’ name was engraved in the wall of fame and Aimee’s family was strongly connected to the Ferraris. Their connections to the team — one that became their family — led them to what they had now. 

Everyone inside the headquarters were fond of the Leclerc boys and Jules was no exception.

For an hour, he’d been going around the office saying hi to everyone and asking about their day — in Italian, as well, to impress them with his ability to speak more than two languages. Then he went around asking about the LaFerrari that his Uncle Arthur mentioned earlier. 

Jules gladly toured the museum with his uncle rather than finding the car he’d asked about, his eyes glimmering at the sight of Niki Lauda’s car and even Enzo Ferrari’s. When they got to Michael Schumacher’s car, however, Jules nearly jumped up and down in excitement. 

His loud excited voice caught the attention of other onlookers in the museum. It was rather funny that he was so excited, because by the time people had approached them the excitement in his features had infected the Ferrari fans as they asked Arthur for photos. 

“Oh, I’ll take the photo!” Jules offered in excitement. 

“Jules no you have to get in the picture,” Arthur kept an arm around the boy and said, “how will people know that there are two handsome Leclerc men roaming around Maranello if you’re out of the picture?” 

And find out, they did. It wasn’t even an hour after when the fans posted their photos on Twitter and became a hit tweet because of the Leclerc boy. What was funnier aside from the caption “I met Jules Leclerc with his relative today” was the result that came with it. 

Charles looked quite frazzled trying to find his kid and when the fans saw the driver they nearly freaked out. Jules merely waved at his father and said, “They said they want some pictures, Da!”

Charles sighed and smiled at the fans lightly, his eyes finding Arthur’s as he warned his brother quietly about letting Jules in the pictures.

Jules was still a child, and taking photos of him without the knowledge of either Charles or Aimee was trouble you’re asking for. 

“Jules,” Charles started as he held the boy’s hand, making their way back to the office after having some photos taken, “Do not go far from the office when Da has a meeting, alright?” 

“But I only went in the museum, Da,” Jules reasoned out, “and Uncle Artie went with me!” 

“Well I’m glad you went with someone,” Charles shrugged, “but there is someone I would like you to meet.” 

“Oh! Cool,” Jules exclaimed. “C'est le père de maman?” Is it Maman’s father? 

Charles and Arthur shared a look over Jules’ head. Yeah no.

The boys had always mentioned that they’ve never met any of their grandfathers before. They understood why their Papy Hervé was not here anymore but Aimee’s father — Julius Hearth — was still alive. How come they’ve never met them? 

“Non, mais il est proche de maman,” No but he is close to Maman. Charles replied quietly, eventually coming to a stop in front of the conference room by the Scuderia Ferrari Team Principal Fred Vasseur’s office. 

Jules stood there, expectantly looking at his father as Charles gestured to the entryway. Stepping inside without looking away from his father, Jules finally looked in front of him as his glimmering eyes turned curious. 

A man sat there. There are some signs of age in his face, but Jules could tell that he was not older than his father. The man’s smile brightened the room, the shade of his skin brightening like the sun. 

Jules looked up at Charles, who only offered him a smile before telling him to keep walking. The man stood and stuck his hand out. 

“Last time I checked, you and Aimee were still new,” the man gave a teasing look to Charles, who only chuckled. His Scottish accent piqued Jules’ interest even more.

His Maman’s accent was different from his and as he continued to think about it, his cousins’ mixture of Austrian and RP accent wasn’t like this either. He’s from a different region, Jules deduced.

The man looked down and crouched, hand still stuck out as he spoke, “My name is Teague. Teague Edmunson. And you are…?”

With a face showing a mixture of curiosity and cautiousness, Jules looked back at Charles who only gave him a go-ahead before the boy reached out to shake the hand of the man and introduced himself, “My name is Jules Leclerc.”

“Ah! Jules?” Teague smiled softly as he gave a nod of approval towards Charles’ direction. “You named him Jules?”

“Yes, we did,” Charles grinned, his hand reaching out to mess with his son’s hair.

“Seems rather fitting,” Teague teased the Ferrari driver, “the Wingman of Maranello… Ah… he made you and Aimee possible after all.”

Jules’s face scrunched up in confusion, watching how his Uncle Arthur giggled and his father’s face flush red.

It was like he missed something. He wasn’t sure what but the way his Da’s turn red told him enough about asking him about the matter later.

“I’m sorry, mister,” Jules piped up, making the men look down at him with questioning looks. He proceeded to look at the man who introduced himself as Teague and asked, “My Da said that you know my Maman well. Can I ask what you are to her?”

“Jules,” Arthur called, “do you know one of your Maman’s last names?”

The boy shook his head, making Teague laugh quietly and answer with, “Edmunson, Little Bianchi.”

“You said that is your name,” Jules pointed out, making Teague nod. “So… if Maman’s name is Edmunson then you are her… brother?”

“Well… Not quite,” Teague shook his head before elaborating, “I’m her cousin. Don’t tell me your Maman had never spoken much of me? Charles?”

“Yes we have,” Charles scoffed. But all Jules seemed to have heard was that the man in front of him was his mother’s cousin. Then he recalled that one time he went browsing through his Maman’s childhood photo album.

He saw his aunts in those photos and even his Uncles Max and Lando. He knew that some of them grew up together, but there was one person that Jules once pointed out and it was a boy with a darker shade of skin and curly hair. The boy that he saw was sitting next to his Maman. 

Suddenly it all made sense to him. Aimee once introduced him to the photo of this boy as…

“You are Uncle T.”

Jules came to a conclusion, his lips spreading into a grin as it infected the whole room. 

“Yes, I am your Uncle T!” Teague confirmed, nodding eagerly. “Gah! I thought Aimee and Charles had forgotten about me. Or even your uncle Arthur!”

“I’d never forget about you, T,” Arthur scoffed.

Jules then turned to Arthur and said, “Uncle Arthur, you cannot even remember my full name! You have put my Pascal first before Blaise!”

“Ahhh, Arthur~” Charles gasped dramatically and looked at his younger brother. Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“I forgot about it once this noon and little Bianchi considers me a criminal for it,” Arthur muttered. “You and your Da, J. You like to give me a heart attack.” 

He stood next to his father while they both brushed their teeth, getting ready to go to bed for the next day. 

Jules had spent his day with Fred Vasseur and his Uncle Teague. It turned out that Teague was to work as an engineer at Ferrari after years of working at some firm in Luxembourg.

From what Jules learned, Teague never had the chance to visit Jules and his brothers due to his work commitments. Now, he’s had every chance to— and he did make sure that his time was well spent. 

“Da,” Jules spoke after rinsing his mouth, hearing a hum from Charles as he glanced at the older Leclerc. “On reverra l'oncle Teague?” Will we see Uncle Teague again? 

“Oui,” Charles murmured as he continued to brush his teeth. He spat the contents of his mouth and rinsed his mouth before he answered his son, “He will be there for your race, Jules.” 

“Ah,” Jules nodded in understanding. Silence was shared between the Leclerc boys before Jules asked, “Est-il proche de Maman?” Is he close to Maman?

“Very,” Charles nodded, “but he is not your Maman’s best friend though. He was…” 

Jules Leclerc, if you were to compare him to his twin and the rest of his brothers, was good at reading expressions. He could just tell that Charles wanted to tell him something but refuses to.

Jules always told himself that his Da got the look that his brother Hervé had whenever he was in the verge of crying or breaking down, and this was no exception.

So rather than bringing up the situation Jules went ahead and said, “Da, pourquoi l'oncle T a-t-il dit que mon nom correspondait?” Da, why did Uncle T say that my name is fitting? 

Charles’s expression changed as he snapped his head towards the direction of his son. “What do you mean?”

“I do not know,” Jules said before he tried to recall the events earlier, “he said uh… Il m'a appelé quelque chose… W- wingman?” He called me something.

“Ah,” Charles chuckled, shaking his head lightly before he grabbed the brush from the sink alongside a hair tie. He stepped behind Jules and began brushing the boy’s hair back. “The Wingman of Maranello.” 

“Oui! That!” Jules exclaimed, wincing lightly when he moved and his dad tugged on his hair lightly. Charles muttered an apology before Jules continued, “What does that mean?” 

“Uh… so,” Charles tried to speak but he couldn’t help but focus on the detangling brush on his hand as he continued to brush Jules’ damp hair. “Do you know- Maman t'a-t-elle parlé de la Saint-Valentin?” Did Maman tell you about Valentine’s Day? Jules nodded as Charles explained, “There is something called a Cupid. Now, Cupid— he matches people with others. To find someone to love.”

“Maman said that! She said that Cupid helped you and Maman!” Jules said as his eyes glimmered at the thought of Cupid doing their work��� a masterpiece that the boy called his Maman and Da. 

“Yeah, well you see,” Charles chuckled, “long before Maman and I got together with the help of Cupid, we had something called the wingman. It’s someone who encourages you to talk to the person that you like.”

“Like Cupid?”

“Pretty much, but Cupid just helps people get together and love stronger,” Charles shrugged, “the wingman, in this case, helped me discover my love for your Maman more.” 

Charles smiled to himself. He remembered it vividly. 

BACK THEN

It turns out, being a student and a godson of a test driver — who was best friends with a stakeholder’s cousin — could lead him to a party at the Ferrari headquarters… and to her. 

Teague chuckled quietly before nudging Jules Bianchi slightly, earning a scowl from the Frenchman as he followed Teague’s line of sight, smirking lightly as Charles Leclerc — at the age of fifteen — blushed furiously and walked away from the golden skinned girl.

When the girl was out of their sight, Jules whistled as if to tease the boy. Charles gave Jules a glare as Teague laughed.

“Come on, Shal,” Jules grinned lopsidedly before he wrapped his arm around the Monegasque. “I think you should talk to her.”

“I already did,” Charles tried to shove Jules away from him, but the Frenchman was stronger than him as Jules laughed.

“Not that,” Jules shook his head, “maybe someday she’ll be your girlfriend~~”

“Jules, shhh-“ Charles hissed. 

“Careful now, Wingman of Maranello,” Teague piped up, “you might give my aunt a heart attack with all of your matchmaking.”

“I’ve done an alright job so far, don’t you think, T?” Jules winked at his best friend. “I’m sure your Aunt Amara wouldn’t mind having a handsome Monegasque for a son-in-law. It worked out so well with you and your girlfriend!

“Now Shal! Promise your best godfather Jules that you’d ask her out one of these days, hm? I’d be damned if you let go of a smart girl like her.” 

NOW

“So if I’m called Jules and he was your Uncle Jules… does that mean I get to play matchmaker too?”

Charles laughed aloud, finally tying his son’s hair into a bun before he wrapped his arms around his boy. 

“Why not,” Charles rolled his eyes before pressing kisses on his son’s face. “You can do whatever you want, little Bianchi. Just not anything that will send your Da or Maman to the hospital, hm?” 

Jules sighed contentedly, resting against his father’s chest as he looked at himself and his dad in the vanity. He then smiled and said, “I hope Hervé gets better before the race. Then Uncle T can see me and him race.” 

“I hope so, too, Jules,” Charles sighed quietly, patting his son on the shoulder before nudging the boy towards the direction of their bedroom. “Now off we go. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Will I drive the LaFerrari this time, Da?”

“If your Zio Fred has someone to find it for you, then yes. Perhaps don’t crash around the office. It’s a busy day tomorrow.”

“Uh… okay. Maybe I can make that promise.”

“You can promise? So silly of you, Jules.”

[bluedalahorse]

I think I’ll say this once, since I need to say it before I can move on to more excited posting about promos and things:

Obviously Young Royals means a lot to me. It’s become another way for me to connect with my hyphenated-American heritage and to start teaching myself Swedish again. It helped me survive a pretty brutal year of bullying at work. It made me confident enough to start the process of getting formally evaluated for autism and ADHD. I’ve been writing a 200k+ historical AU fanfic for YR—the kind of fic I always read and adored back in fandoms when I was younger, the kind of fic I wanted to write myself. I’m proud of the way that Heart and Homeland has made me a better writer, and I’m glad for the way it’s deepened my friendship with @heliza24. It is Young Royals in part that inspired by thesis on restorative justice in YA literature. When I was in the hospital last fall because I almost had a literal stroke from stress, I was comforted and kept calm by the fact that I was wearing a YR t-shirt and had a plush doll of a YR character sitting in my lap. And all of that is the short list.

As we come close to the release date, I hope that every single member of the fandom gets something they enjoy in the new season. I don’t think every person is going to get everything they want, but I genuinely hope there’s a moment, a scene, a line that brings them joy. We’ve all stuck with this series for a while, and I want us all to have something we can take with us. A little bit of sparkle for the road, if you will.

There’s of course the possibility that some of us get a lot of what we want, and others of us are let down. I know this was the case for season 2, and it feels naive to imagine that everyone in the fandom will be equally satisfied by season 3. I’ve got my fingers crossed that I’ll enjoy the hell out of it, but I’m also trying to prepare my heart in case it’s not what I wanted. I’m trying to gently talk to myself right now and say that even if the third season leaves me upset and unsatisfied—even if the writing takes a nosedive or it’s good writing but it’s just not what I wanted—that I still learned a lot about crafting stories and being myself and surviving hardship and thinking about systems and whatever else, from this show. That my experience with the first two seasons still matters, that my work on my fic is something to be proud of. If season 3 is a disappointment, Heart and Homeland will be my new canon. I’m sure there are other people out there talking themselves up in this way too. I know we’re all pushing through the pre-season jitters.

The other thing I’m trying to reconcile right now is how I feel about the promotional material that’s come out, and the conversations around that. Like on my own, I actually feel pretty great? It’s fun to see the new stuff come in? But then I think about the ratio of Wilmon to other things and some of the responses I’m seeing to that. And I see people say like “oh the show is back to focusing on what’s actually good about it” and “it’s great that they’re doing this because the audience doesn’t really care about characters who aren’t Wilmon.” And… hello? Aren’t I the audience? Tumblr isn’t too bad (most of the time) but then there’s like, Instagram, where the Netflix Nordic posted whole set of photos of different pairs and friendships from a whole bunch of shows, and there was one (1) picture of Sara and Rousseau and I saw enough comments where people were like “ew! Vomit! Give us Wilmon instead!” that like… y’all. Frida Argento is a human being and a damn good actress, and Lisa is a good writer of female characters, and like. We can celebrate that, once in a while. We can create space for her too. It’s not Frida OR Omar and Edvin. It’s Frida AND Omar AND Edvin AND Nikita AND Malte AND Nathalie AND Mimmi AND Fabian AND Samuel AND… look I could keep on listing but I’m going to get distracted if I do.

Like, man. I love Wilmon. Don’t get me wrong. I love the complexity their relationship can run with. There are lines heliza has written for them in fic that make me swoon and I am giddy about the part where I get to read them first. I love the glowsticks. I love Wilmon’s sense of humor and the part where they cheated at Vincent’s rowing race thing and their utmost commitment to being dumbass teenage boys against the world. The first week I saw the show and came into work (where we have an athletic field) I went and took a selfie on the field after covering my hands in those gross fake dots. Look. I am all in.

And also… I came to the show for Wilmon but I stayed for so much more. I would have watched Young Royals once or twice and said “that was pleasant” without ever getting back into fanfic after a decade away, if the show was only Wilmon. I do like Wilmon, but it wasn’t Wilmon who inspired my thesis on restorative justice or made me a better writer overall. I survived that year of bullying at work because I could come home and write my ensemble fanfic, especially the parts where I focused on the non-Wilmon pairing I was in charge of writing. I finally felt confident enough to be evaluated for AuDHD because of a connection I felt to a character who wasn’t Simon or Wilhelm. It was a plush doll of a non-Wilmon character who sat in my lap and kept me calm while I was hooked up to those scary machines in the hospital this past October.

I guess my one humble request is that people be thoughtful about how they use phrases like “everyone thinks” or “no one wants.” Not every member of the fandom has the same opinion, and not every member wants the same things out of season 3, and there are some of us who are happy about the new Wilmon content but who are still feeling a little hungry for more of our most beloved characters, and hope they’ll get meaningful storylines (and not get ignored) in season 3. I do know we probably won’t all get what we want, and that some of us will probably get more of what we want than others. I hope that whatever happens, we’ll all get something we want, and we can all be gracious about it, and continue to find meaning in the canon.

For the people here on tumblr who are already including me in their everyone… thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope you know who you are and I hope you know how much I appreciate you. And I do hope this Little Fandom That Could can keep going into all sorts of new creative places.

[jerzwriter]

I've Got You

I realized I had no art for Casey and Jess, and when I decided to rectify that, I knew exactly who I wanted to go to. @rosefuckinggenius did not disappoint! Look at my two sweet girls! I love them so much! Thank you for bringing my babies to life, Rose! You're the best!

I wrote a little drabble below to accompany it. I hope you enjoy it! 💕

Book: Open Heart (Pre-Series/Med School) Pairing: Casey MacTavish (F!MC) x Jessica Phillips (F!OC) Words: 696 Rating: Teen Summary: Casey & Jess are taking a little break until there is a turn of events - then it's Jess to the rescue. A/N: Participating in @choicesnovchallenge -  Go For A Ride Day - not in the traditional sense, but hey, it works! lol and @choicesflashfics "Don't put all the blame on me." My Casey & Jess series takes place during Casey's med school years in Philadelphia, so this is prior to her arrival at Edenbrook.

For more on Casey & Jess, see here.

My Full Masterlist

Based on the crowds, it seemed all of Philadelphia was out to enjoy the beautiful late spring day, and Casey and Jessica were no exception. They put their books aside for a while to take a relaxing walk along the Race Street Pier. It was just what the doctors-to-be ordered... until things took a turn. Literally.

“Ouch!” Casey winced, toppling to the ground with her hands clutching her ankle.

Jess was immediately at her side. “Case? Babe, you OK?”

“Ow, no,” she groaned. “I think I twisted by ankle."

"Oh, hon! You have to be more careful."

"Hey! Don’t put all the blame on me. I was distracted by the gorgeous woman next to me. You're a hazard, Jess."

Jess was happy to see Casey maintain a sense of humor, but she was already at her feet, fully in physician mode.

“I didn’t hear a pop when you fell, and the ankle presentation’s normal... so I don't think it was a break.”

“Trust me, if it was a break I wouldn't be cracking jokes. It's just a twisted ankle," Casey said attempting to stand. "I'll just... OW!"

"You'll just sit and let me continue examining it!" Jess demanded. "You're obviously in pain... and I can feel some instability when I move it... it's probably a sprain."

“Let’s see if I can stand on it.”

“All right,” Jess agreed, quickly rising to support Casey. “Slowly..."

Casey did her best to be brave, she didn't want to be bested by a stupid misstep. She managed to stifle a yelp as a jolt of pain shot from the tender spot, but her eyes screwed shut, and that was all Jess needed to see.

“That’s it!” the beautiful redhead insisted. “You are not walking home.”

“Jess, don’t be ridiculous. We’re only about three blocks away.”

“Yup! Three blocks too many for you to walk in this condition."

"It doesn’t hurt that bad," Casey fibbbed. "I can wobble.”

“Wobble my ass!” Jess snapped, turning her back to Casey.  “Let’s go. Hop on.”

“Wait... what?”

“Hop on! I'm carrying you back to the apartment.”

“You’re giving me.... a piggyback ride? Really?”

Jess turned around with a roll of her eyes. “This isn’t for fun... and don't get excited... it’s nothing kinky, either. We just need to get you home so I can look at that ankle better. At a minimum, you'll need some ice and elevation."

“Jess, it’s not necessary... I can...”

But Jess was done. “GET ON!”

Casey knew when it was time to hush up, and now was that time. She hopped onto her girlfriend's back at once, but she wasn't done complaining.

“For the love of... Jess... I love you, but sometimes you’re just...”

“Just what?”

Hearing the concern in Jess’s voice, Casey felt her defenses thawing.  “You’re just... too good to me.  That's what you are. I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK,” Jess said with the very smile that first caught Casey's eye. “Patients in pain can be quite crabby... I learned that five minutes into med school.”

Jess lifted Casey's thighs, and Casey wrapped her arms around Jess's neck. But when it didn’t go as smoothly as they had hoped, the two women couldn’t help but laugh.

“Babe, look. I'm laughing. Are you sure I can't try to...."

“CASEY!" Jess snapped.

“But I weigh as much as you do! I don't want to hurt you."

Jess continued to walk with a shrug of her shoulders. “Why do you think I work out so much?”

Casey's brow crinkled. "I don't know? You do work out a ridiculous amount of time. Why do you?"

"Isn't it obvious? I have a beautiful, brilliant... but clumsy girlfriend... I have to be prepared for moments like this.”

“Gee, thanks,” Casey laughed, nuzzling her face into Jess’s hair, the sandalwood scent of Jess's shampoo filling her senses.  “Jess?” She whispered, squeezing her just a bit tighter.

“Yes?”

“I’m so lucky to have you.”

“You really are,” Jess grinned. “But then again, I’m lucky to have you.”

“You are,” Casey giggled. “But try to play it safe, OK? Because if this should happen to you... I couldn't do this... I'd have to spring for an Uber."

~~~~~

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

[hazelkjt]

The Monster Hunter Wilds Beta was a nice distraction from the shit going on in my life. It was a REALLY fun 3 days, minimal performance issues so I’m happy I don’t need to update my PC. So, here are my thoughts as a decade long fan of the series on what I experienced in Wilds.

The Good-

No clutch claw. Ten out of ten change Capcom, thank you.

Removal of gender restrictions on armor WITHOUT homogenizing the armor designs. Just a win all around here, offers such a greater range of self-expression through what your hunter wears. This will be the second time I’m playing a female hunter just because I won’t have to deal with the armor designs I don’t particularly enjoy. (Only other time was because "why not?" during my revisit to Rise a few months ago)

All the monster designs have knocked it out of the park. Chatacabra is a lovable punching bag, Doshaguma’s a nice step up to have a middle tier Fanged Beast, Balahara is a great challenge with easy to read attacks but tricky timing. And then Rey Dau just taking the cake and instantly in my top 20 favorite monsters.

Weapons all feel relatively balanced, so far? At least of the handful I tried out. I’m a pretty casual MH player, never cared for optimal builds or speedruns so as long as the weapons feel fun to play then I’m all good. Still personally feel LS might be a bit overtuned with all the options and non-committal choices it has but I digress. Switch Axe is making a comeback as my preemptive Wilds main weapon with Bow being my backup.

The map is enormous but doesn’t feel lifeless. There’s always something happening just enough to make it feel like an actual environment and not just a video game level. A massive step up from the areas in Rise that all felt kind of boring with how it was just big, flat areas with connecting alleys that you could run on top of. This feels like actual topography that all flows seamlessly into one another.

Did I mention no clutch claw?

The Bad-

Even though I didn’t have any, the performance issues others are reporting are inexcusable. Other people that I know for a FACT own a high end computer can’t get more than 20FPS on medium settings, it’s ridiculous. This game is not optimized in the slightest for PC right now and for a simultaneous release that’s unacceptable. And while I have joked about wanting to see the low-poly models for myself the fact that people are seeing those for their entire time in the Beta is, again, inexcusable.

Monsters run way too often but this might just be a Beta issue with lower health values so I’ll let it off a bit easy.

I agree with the lack of impact on the really big hits but I am also letting this one off easy because it could have to do with the lack of attack power we have in the Beta. We’re literally in the basic starting gear with the basic beginner’s weapon, there’s room for the hit stop and impact to ramp up dynamically the higher our damage numbers go.

I know this isn’t something they can fix by launch (or if they’d even consider fixing at all) but having only six voices in character creation feels extremely limiting. I understand your hunter is fully voiced throughout the entire game now so getting the usual twenty-ish voices would’ve bloated the budget significantly, but the poorly implemented pitch shifter does nothing to make up for their absence. Even just going one or two notches up or down and you can start to hear the artificial “static” of the pitch filter and it’s distracting.

So many control scheme options and you CAN’T turn off the Radial Menu? Fucking why??? I’ve never enjoyed having control of the camera taken away from me while scrolling through my item bar in previous games and now I can’t even fix that. I’ve begrudgingly been forcing myself to learn how to use it, but removing an option that was in the previous two games for no reason is a baffling decision.

Still looking forward to the game’s launch in a few months and hoping that maybe a few of these issues will be resolved by then.

[snoopyliker]

final thoughts on the third season of ordem paranormal: desconjuração

desconjuração was a season like no other in the aspect of it feeling very experimental throughout all of it. i can’t say i enjoyed it as much as aop or osnf, which i believe to be in part of the pacing of everything, it felt incredibly slow at times and others too fast. and i think that is what makes it a season i’d struggle to rewatch. which is very unlike the other two seasons that’d rewatch in an instant.

don’t get me wrong it wasn’t bad. i don’t think anything done in this ordem universe can be bad. there were so many memorable moments especially between characters and so much world building alongside some amazing creatures and the new heavily implemented ritual mechanic. but i think what truly carried this season were the players themselves.

what unfortunately set it behind compared to the other seasons truly laid in the pacing for me, everything else was good! about 45% of the entire season takes place in one location which felt like a detriment to the story. even though arguably it seemed to make sense. i feel like it could’ve been disbursed more neatly as to not feel so repetitive and boring. as well as to not make the episodes feel like they just drag on and on as we watch our heros run back and forth in a single house.

additionally after episode 6 it feels like a rift between what comes after. almost like two completely different series. which isn’t surprising as it marks the point where their mission transforms into another. i found myself quickly losing interest after episode 6 where liz was killed. her inclusion in everything was cool and maybe this is my bias talking but it felt maybe even too early on in the season to kill her. i think i would’ve preferred for her to actually get the time to bond with the newer characters so they grow a similar attachment to her like joui, arthur, and kaiser had so that her death didnt feel so small for the huge character she was.

another issue i felt with this season is that the story itself felt unnecessarily convoluted. but not in the fact of the mystery because the mystery itself wasn’t that difficult i mean convoluted in the amount of side stories. there were so many individuals parts and so many pieces involved into this single story that it felt almost like the players weren’t quite following along at times. and i think that was in part with so much information being hidden in that house that it just started stacking upon everything and didn’t quite assist in the actual end of it all. in the finale the most important parts were just handed to them by the sumerian being translated for them and being told the order of the desconjuração, gal explaining kians backstory, and kian explaining his plan. everything else in that moment felt inconsequential. though a lot of it was interesting and i’m sure will be brought up again! i’m more criticizing the fact that the main questions in the investigation like what is desconjuração? who is kian? what is the end goal for the escriptas? were seemingly answers given to them at the end after spending literal episodes learning the history of a haunted house that didn’t actually assist in those main questions. awesome that we learned so much but the fact that so little of what they spent episodes learning made any difference in the end felt….. sacanagem.

anyways those were some of my criticisms for this season which i dont mean with any malice i did truly enjoy watching this season it just fell short in some areas for me.

now when i say that the players carried this season i mean THE PLAYERS CARRIED THIS SEASON. singlehandedly the reason i kept coming back. these characters were incredible. their development. their actions. their choices. everything about them i loved. i need to praise the players roleplay as well because holy fuck each and every one of them delivered some performance in this season that made their characters shine. each and every one of them. genuinely left me astonished at times. i wanna point out calango specifically here because not only did he do an amazing job entire season but even with kaisers death he gave us a moment i will not forget and then cellbit revealing the photos and the recorded message that he chose to do all by himself i wish i could hug this man for putting so much love and care into a character that im going to miss so fucking much.

i also wanna praise the npcs because cellbit has made me so attached to ivete and agatha and hugo i swear to god if anything happens to them. the way cellbit plays these characters so wholeheartedly is admirable. i also think his work as a master this season was incredible. he multitasked and juggled so much shit the entire time. genuinely massive props for telling such a great story.

another detail i loved this season was the rituals mechanic. i cannot put into words how i simply cannot go through another season without it. such a good choice for players to feel motivated to explore and search in their surroundings as well as to fight the paranormal. increase your exposure and get stronger, stand a better chance, live. its so fucking smart.

also i cannot lie despite the sadness im feeling right now looking back at every character death.. they were fucking sick as hell. every emotional scene in this season completely sold it. despite it being a season i know i’d struggle through again like i mentioned previously it is still a season i’d rewatch for the characters and all the badass scenes and dialogues the players gave us. i look forward to seeing if we learn anything else about joui despite him not exactly being all there. thinking of the reality where he didn’t join the sect and he was able to go home that day and make cake for his family and be with them all together just one more time. thinking about how kaiser sacrificing himself for everyone is exactly what joui had done. thinking about them giving everything to save the people they love. thinking about their shared grief.

you know i was gonna say the whole “a desconjuração é brutal” was a bit of an exaggeration until that last episode. it is in fact brutal. but before that it was a fucking walk in the park ya hear me!!!!

i still need to watch the revelando:) im excited to learn more about the more technical stuff

[wambsgansshoelaces]

hii! i heart ur headcanons sm, so i was gonna ask if u could right some sibling headcanons (especially with roman) of growing up and getting a chronic illness so we end up unable to work like they do so logan treats us like were useless a lot of the time. sorry if that's too angsty or u don't want to, but if you do thanks you! i have a chronic illness and it would be cool to have comfort characters so comforting and stuff but thanks again! 🫶🏻 have a good day!

(can i become raccoon anon?) - 🦝

anon, I literally love you so much!! and of course you can be THE raccoon lol 🦝

I just want to let you know that if you ever, EVER need support, my ask box and pms are open to you always. I’m here for you, I will be your best friend, whatever it is you need 🫶🏽

thank you so much for requesting, and hopefully I can make this a series for you so that you have representation - if that’s something you want, just let me know xx I will literally write whatever you want me to <3 enjoy 🩷

chronic illness (sib!roys)

ᝰ you’re a difficult to thing to talk about for the roys

ᝰ shiv is the only one who’s ever really defended you to your father

ᝰ kendall and roman still supported you, but were just too afraid of logan to do anything

ᝰ early childhood, connor made sure you took all your meds exactly when you were supppsed to, every single day

ᝰ roman would make up games that you could play that didn’t require you to run or exert yourself to the point where you got hurt

ᝰ you and shiv would read the harry potter picture books together

ᝰ kendall, in secret, would do all of your homework if you weren’t feeling well

ᝰ which was a lot

ᝰ shiv would always convince your dad to let you sleep in or stay home from school certain days

ᝰ roman would physically fight kids who bullied you or were rude at school/on the playground

ᝰ in high school, kendall wrote a five page letter to the principal and got one repeat bully of yours expelled

ᝰ shiv campaigned hard to make school more accessible for you

ᝰ roman still fought people that looked at you funny

ᝰ he tells you one night after getting a bloody lip that he’ll never stop fighting for you

ᝰ it was tradition that if you were bed bound or in the hospital, shiv, roman, and kendall would bring a deck of cards to you so you could all play

ᝰ but as you got older, you all drifted apart

ᝰ first ken moving away for college, the other two following slowly after

ᝰ they kept in contact, sure, but now you’re in this massive house, all by yourself with no one to talk to

ᝰ you did college online

ᝰ and even then, you don’t ever think you’ll really be able to work

ᝰ you avoid your father as much as physically possible

ᝰ he’s always thought you weren’t worth anything

ᝰ you’ve learned not to let it get to you

ᝰ after kendall graduates and comes back to new york to work for waystar, he visits more

ᝰ connor’s been long gone, so now it’s him staying on top of your meds

ᝰ even though you can do it yourself, you let him

ᝰ you know he feels bad for you

ᝰ some dystopian pity

ᝰ you didn’t want to talk about it with him, ever, so you just let him do it

ᝰ things only change after roman graduates

ᝰ even though he’s arguably the most afraid of your father, he came back to new york and made you move in with him

ᝰ “you don’t even take care of yourself, ro,” you tell him one day

ᝰ “so? you’re more important to me. i’m not going to let you fucking be in danger because dad’s a jackass.”

ᝰ he makes sure his fridge and pantry are stocked with solely food you can eat

ᝰ your dad never asks after you

ᝰ but oh well

ᝰ you only ever talk to roman anymore

ᝰ it changes after a particularly bad scare with your health

ᝰ and it’s just like ten years ago, the four of you cramped together on one hospital bed, playing cards

ᝰ shiv and ken never lose touch with you again

ᝰ you walk ken down the aisle at his wedding

ᝰ and at every wedding you attend for your siblings, you’re their person of honor, standing, sitting, whatever you can, right behind them

[sendpseuds]

20 Questions for Fic Writers [DRUNK EDITION]

Okay so…

I was tagged by @yourfavoritefridge and answered all of these questions while very drunk last night and for reasons I’ve decided to just give you those answers.

{Obviously I wasn’t sober enough to format it with links and stuff so I have done a little after the fact but I’ll just mark all my sober updates with these fancy ass brackets, but for the most part, I left my drunk answers unaltered and did not elaborate. ENJOY!}

1.) How many works do you have on ao3?

28 [Holy shit]

{technically 29 now}

2.) What's your ao3 word count?

380,7555 [feels fake] {and not a number…}

{also it’s 380,918 now}

3.) What fandoms do you write for?

Apart from the first fic [which we will talk about in Q19] Star Wars

4.) What are your top five fics by kudos?

Haunted Heart {293 kudos | Anakin falls for the charming ghost haunting his house} {when I tell you I thought this fic would have less hits than it has kudos when I first posted it…}

Bound and Broken {252 kudos | Satine helps Obi-Wan through his trauma following the events of Kadavo }

I’ll Fall For You If… {241 kudos | Bartender Anakin helps widower Obi-Wan set up his dating profile}

Go Fuck Yourself Obi-Wan [WHAT THE FUCK!? I love you freaks] {239 kudos | When a young padawan Kenobi finds himself in the future, Obi-Wan gets to know himself on a… deeper level}

Your Highness {237 kudos | Obi-Wan and Satine during the year on the run. The beginning of a long running series}

5.) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Not recently, and I’m trying really hard not to feel bad about it. MORE WHEN YOURE SOBER

6.) What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Bound and Broken or Haunted Heart

HonorableM: Curiosity Killed the Commander & Homecoming

7.) What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

The Resolute Theater Presents

8.) Do you get hate on fics?

Not really? I’ve gotten the errant comment here and there, there has been a lot of asks about getting back to EIYWT which… ANSWER WHEN YOURE SOBER

9.) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I love this question.

It’s the weirdest question.

I know a few other mutuals have pointed it out, and I want to be clear, I don’t mean it in a bad way, but this is a weird question in a way that I LOVE.

YES.

Yes, I write smut.

It’s pretty much all I write…

But WHAT KIND???

Oh fuck.

I write the kind of smut that will make you squirm in your seat and chew your lip as tears stream down your flushed cheeks.

I will make you feel things, and then I WILL MAKE YOU FEEL THINGS

{I’m fine. This is fine}

10.) Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Have not.

Have considered X-Files x Star Wars but I think that’s more of an AU than a crossover

[in case anyone is interested]

11.) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I’m aware of!

12.) Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don’t think so, but I mean— That would be incredible

13.) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

ANSWER WHEN YOURE SOBER

14.) What's your all time favorite ship?

ALL TIME!?

I don’t fucking know, ANSWER SOBER

15.) What's a WIP you'd like to finish, but doubt you ever will?

This question makes me itchy. SKIP

16.) What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm still finding them. And I mean that in the best way.

I think maybe my strength is that I’m learning to just write the way I write?

I’m finding a way to tell the stories I’ve always heard in my mind and to my absoltute fucking astonishment — there are people who like the stories in my head…

I’m learning to ignore everything I ever learned about writing. I’m learning to just listen to that weird rhythm that has always been in my head and just TELL THE FUCKING STORY [sometimes literally] {gods I hate myself}

I don’t know.

I think…

I think I’m a good story teller.

I think I can tell a complete story, both short and long.

I think I’ve always been able to do this — usually out loud, I’m very good at giving speeches and entertaining people but I’ve always been good at telling stories. Nothing frustrates me more than a poorly told drunken shenanigan, or a wedding speech with bad story structure…

Okay this is getting pretentious

READ THIS WHEN YOURE SOBER

ANYWAY

Yeah… even though I’ve written stories with open endings, stories that could have a follow up, stories that leave you wanting more — they’re all still complete stories. You don’t NEED to know more, you can imagine the rest yourself.

And isn’t that the best part?

17.) What are your writing weaknesses?

I’m sure I have a lot.

I choose not to think about them…

…

That’s not true but if I think about it too might I’ll tear myself apart so I’m gonna say that I’m a terrible speller and MOVE ON

18.) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I am not at all confident enough for this.

Fictional or not.

I mean, I’m totally into it! I’ll read it all day!

I’m not confident enough to write it [myself]

19.) First fandom you wrote for?

WOLF 359!!!

YOU GUYS!

THIS AUDIODRAMA WILL BREAK YOUR HEART

AND THE FIRST THING I EVER WROTE WAS A THREESOME WITH A FUCKING CENTIENT SPACESTATION AND TWO OF HER CREW AND I AM STILL VERY PROUd oh fuck I just realized caps lock was still on I’m gonna… yeah okay.

^^^READ SOBER

{the fic in question}

20.) Favorite fic you've ever written?

Fuck me,

Um.

Probably Haunted Heart. {I still think about this fic on a daily basis…}

BUT

Can I shout out another fic I’m really proud of?

A Very Strange Time in My Life {a really short, really weird first person story loosely inspired by Fight Club}

{well folks… I hope you enjoyed this weird look into my drunk brain!}

[egot1stical]

okay been a few days: finale thoughts.

first: i liked it. it wasn’t BAD. it was mid but it wasn’t Bad. I think my ranking of 6.7/10 is still pretty accurate lol. I enjoyed it. But now I complain

Pacing was crazy. I don’t know why we spent like, half of Simon’s runtime 1000 years in the future. And then the other half of Fionna’s world (which I cared a lot less about) was focused on like. 3 separate scarab fight scenes LOL.

Casper and Nova are fun concepts, but they’re not really. Accurate? They’re so heavy handed with their message of “petrigrof is unhealthy” that they kind of just. Get the dynamic wrong on how. Which is weird. Especially after we just had a whole Simon and Betty episode. It kind of paints Simon as some pushy guy responsible for all the hardships in the relationship. Like, uh, Simon wasn’t making all the choices in the relationship, guys? His problem was pretty much the opposite; he didn’t *make* any solid choices. Betty was the one that did whatever. Jerry literally establishes that Betty was incredibly impulsive about love and such. They’re still unhealthy; there’s still the thing where Betty ended up living her life around Simon because of the curse. But like. I don’t know why they portrayed Simon like that.

Also, they don’t even acknowledge in their heavy handedness that they’re literally like, doomed in every universe. That’s what this series has been building up to right? Simon doesn’t find the crown? They die in the mushroom war. The star universe plays out. Ooo is wiped out at the hands of vampires and they eventually starve too. But then they show Simon getting on the bus with Betty as The Right Thing To Do which is kind of crazy.

Missed opportunities for the whole show: Having F&C cast and AT cast interact aside from Simon. Simon and Ice King interaction. More Simon and Betty interaction. Crying Simon. Using the decade long animation error of Simon having white eyes before the crown as a plot device rather than just pretending it was on purpose (like what they did with the second crown in Crossover.) SIMON. AND. MARCY. INTERACTION. WHY SET IT UP IF YOURE NOT GONNA KNOCK IT DOWN. IT WASNT EVEN IN THE FUCKING MONTA

I did like the rest of it though.

The Simon and Betty moments were good, just wish they were more substantial. And just. More. The no regrets scene was really good. Also, seeing Fionna and Simon's friendship. They're really cute.

I'm a little mixed on Fionna's world becoming magical, but I feel like it works because it's just Slightly. She still learned to appreciate her life as is, but Cake gets to be herself - Especially important when you see the connections between Cake and Simon. (Cake robbed of her mind due to the lack of magic, desperately trying to find a way to get it back or communicate.)

I feel that it should've been way more emotional though. The closest we got was the "too much" scene, which I REALLY liked, but I kind of find it hard to believe Simon "I don't want to move on" Petrikov just Got Better after seeing his fiancée die and then being told that everything was his fault. But yeah, I wish we had More closure on like, his Panic Attacks or depression. He also just kind of. Learns his life matters out of nowhere. Like, good for him, but boy where did you get that from. Tell me in words. Also he should’ve thrown up upon seeing Golbetty (half joke, but more reaction please.)

I’m glad he's moving house though. I’m alright with this as an ending. (And even better with it as a season ending.) But also, get that man away from the bar.

[sourpatchys]

My honest thoughts on Daryl Dixon 1x5.

!Spoiler warning for those who haven’t seen it!

Honestly? I’m screaming and crying and throwing up.

Personally, I don’t ship Caryl, but oh boy, was I excited about that radio transmission.

(I don’t hate Caryl I just really enjoy healthy platonic relationships in media, pls don’t hate me)

I’m like 99.99% sure Carol said that Rick was back and OHHH BOYYYY am I even MORE excited for The Ones Who Live��� it’s honestly the perfect set up for the two series to connect. I will fight someone on this.

I feel so bad for Laurent :(

All my homies love Laurent >:[

The fact that he was lied too for so long really shines though in this episode.

And I don’t mean that in a bad way— he’s literally just a kid, all he wants is a family like it used to be.

And now? He’s on a quest with the first male role model he’s ever had that he honestly looks up to, not because he was told too, but because he wants too, knowing he’s going to be left with strangers.

Hearing him ask why he couldn’t just leave with Daryl honestly broke my heart.

And ISABELL!!!!

Girl was just going to kill herself?? Just like that??

I need to know what that note said, I will literally start eating dry wall if I don’t find out in the next episode.

Don’t even get me started on Daryl’s outburst.

I don’t think we’ve seen him like that throughout any of the main series. At least not towards a child.

I stg I thought he was going to start crying when Laurent said he just didn’t want to be alone.

I know I did. I sobbed so hard, I had to PAUSE and gather myself after that one.

This is— truly a side of Daryl we’ve never seen before. His past is coming up but by bit, he’s going in between who he’s become and who he started as.

And he was willing to lose his eye?? Are you being fr right now?

I’m absolutely losing it.

This is still fresh because I literally JUST watched it, but as for Cons, I don’t think I have any?

Obviously, he’s a little more clumsy in this series than what’s to be expected given his history.

This episode really just gave me everything I’ve been wanting in terms of storyline.

We learned about the ship, about what Daryl did, why they’re after him.

We got to see, up close, how the walkers are being mutated. It’s a man made mutation, which is so fucking interesting— you cannot convince me that it isn’t.

We finally got to see the speech

Isabell, Laurent and Daryl are all in the same place again. Granted, they’re surrounded by people who hate them but that’s beside the point.

Using people as walker food?? On such a large scale?

I have so much more to say but this is already so long.

Please leave your thoughts, I would love to hear how everyone else feels, even the negatives!

In any case, my feelings on this episode can be described as shown below.

[sorryimananti-romantic]

hi! i know this may sound a little weird and random, but i have two questions that i’m honestly really curious about. and as i don’t know anyone who reads fanfiction in real life and you’re literally the only blog i consistently follow, i figured i would ask them here.

the first one is what’s your setup for reading? like the atmosphere and circumstances you have to be in. for me, i can only read at night with all the lights off while laying down for that full immersive experience (and honestly the darkness also helps in being a little in denial about what i’m reading). not only that, but also a movie or tv show playing in the background at a low volume.

and the next question is what language do you imagine the characters speaking in? i personally always imagine them speaking in korean and so when the author writes a line that very clearly implies they’re speaking english, i’m always like ‘woah, wait a minute’. and that also kind of goes with ocs with non-korean names. it pulls me out of the stories a little because i honestly don’t like it when either of those happen.

that’s not to say that the stories are bad. the vast majority of those stories are very well written and well thought out, it’s just for me personally that i don’t prefer it that way. (btw, congrats on releasing another story! i haven’t gotten the chance to read it yet, but i’m sure it’s just as great as your other ones!)

(pps, i am very grateful for all writers. you guys keep me away from rotting from boredom, so thank you!! hopefully what i wrote doesn’t sound insulting.)

hi, thanks for popping by!

to answer your question, i usually scroll tumblr at late night and i prefer reading on laptop as opposed to phone (but sometimes i use phone too). i usually have music playing in the bg. if i know i'm gonne be bingereading a series or a long fic, i usually switch to phone. dim lights at night, sure. sometimes i'll read during the day whenever i get a break from real life.

the second question is sth i haven't really thought about until you pointed it out AHAHA hmmm i gotta think about this. i learned 3 languages at once from birth so the brain is frankly a mess (english is one of them), plus now that i know avg korean i guess i do hear some phrases in korean while reading? especially the phrases that are easily translatable into korean?

i guess when i first started reading fanfics, that's when i might have focused on the language i hear while reading. i've consumed a lot of english literature so it's usually english for me while reading, and with fanfics it did feel weird in the beginning (esp when some korean terms are kept which sometimes also icks me and there's some weird switching going on but to each their own) but i learned to ignore it and simply enjoy. when it starts to play like a movie in the head, the language does not remain the focus (at least for me)

i don't mind ocs with non korean names when you have korean idols that go by english names LOL but yeah sometimes i find a few things weird but honestly, if the story is good? i don't really mind those things and i can keep going on. it really does come down to personal preferences i guess.

thank you so much! it was random and got me thinking in a good way ahaha but it's not insulting, don't worry <3 i hope you like star 1117 when you read it hehe

[percyforever1022]

Okay Percy Jackson show rants bc I’m really trying to love stuff and like I’m enjoying watching it and I’ll keep watching it but also I have thoughts I need to get out (this started out as tv show complaints and also became about my love the lightening thief musical)

I feel like my biggest complaint is they messed with the stakes and they keep telling instead of showing like why change it to the solstice has passed that makes literally no sense and like yes Percy is smarter than he realizes but that comes through in how he makes instinctive decisions and pieces things together why does he just know things like the crusty one annoyed me the most it’s so frustrating and disappointing like I’m still enjoying watching it but I’m like I gotta be critical this is rough and I feel like they also just don’t know how to write tv like I think the best episode was 5 so far but even then like some great writing some bad writing shoutout to the lightening thief musical for being the best adaptation

Like I hope it gets another season and that they get more people in who know tv writing and pacing but like I’d still be nervous watching it and I think part of the issue too was like obviously they were modernizing stuff to fit now and like okay some stuff sure but then other stuff I feel like most changes really don’t make sense and haven’t been effective

Also they’re emphasizing stuff with the gods too much in my opinion and same for storylines that are a thing and covered in different novels like part of the amazingness of the first series is how well stuff builds!!! Show it to us slowly let us form our own conclusions and we learn more and more like yeah not all monsters are monsters you know who teaches us that? Tyson! not all heroes are heroes that’s the main point of titans curse

Another thing especially with the last episode I feel like we’re emphasizing too much just that the gods are bad with the kids and not just bad all around like Charon would’ve been such a great example with them bribing him and him being like yeah I don’t really get paid enough bring that up with hades like yeah what a bad system that would get reinforced when we later see calypso

Also I get changing stuff but some changes I’m like guys cmon like why change them going over the river Styx that would’ve been a perfect time to establish stuff naturally about it considering it’s really important later like annabeth being like Percy don’t touch that you’ll lose your soul like that’s relevant

And like one of the things I’m most nervous about is like Percy is different bc of sally like that’s a fact it’s the main reason him and Luke are foils and part of what’s so effective of the last book but I like in the books it being less intentional like it’s not oh I want him to be his own before you guys mess him up it’s just oh this is my son and I love him and I want him to live and be happy and in that Percy gets strength him choosing to not stay year round to be connected to humanity and be with his mom is so important but like sally just loves him and that love and connection to humanity is what makes Percy different from Luke and I think it’s more effective when it’s less intentional like obviously she makes choices to keep her son safe but idk it’s different

Also literally why make the solstice pass like the gods going to war is crazy stakes and now like technically they’re “prepping” but like they should be at war and that should have consequences why do that now it looks like nothing has consequences like the one day left thing worked let it be the solstice change has def annoyed me the most I literally wanna scream anytime I think about it

And then I feel like people get mad that people are criticizing the show and trying to be like well Rick is modernizing it and like there’s a way to do that that isn’t this and also if you’re going to do that than don’t market it as the faithful book adaption that we’ve been crazing like once again the lightening thief musical is great at adapting stuff and cutting what does work and making changes while still keeping the tone and all the stuff that makes Percy Jackson what it is and the show could’ve done that too and like everything up until the solstice change I was like okay I have thoughts but I’ll let it go the solstice tho that has larger implications

Also this is specifically about annabeth and no critique to Leah but I feel like the writers don’t know how to write a 12 year old girl like she’s supposed to be serious but in the way you’re serious when you’re 12 where you think you know everything and you can do it all bc duh but then everyone else is just like wow that child is doing a lot like where’s the energy where’s the passionate rants about architecture and the stuff she loves like this 12 year old should be bouncy off the walls she wants to do so much and make things permanent and be remembered and she’s going to do it just you all watch like literally my grand plan gets her this show complaint is also just another love letter to the musical oops like let her be desperate to prove herself not just to her mom but to everyone show us more of that

Also I love percabeth and I’m living for all the percabeth moments but I’m nervous we’re moving too quickly into romance territory like they seem too aware of it if that makes sense like I really like the moment where Percy imitates Athena in the arch bc like that’s so giving 12 year old trying to impress their crush when they don’t know they have a crush like give me more of that but also let them be friends let the trip goof around more and like this goes back to the show don’t tell them but let me see how they work together let Percy piece together information let annabeth make more plans let’s see her myth knowledge and then how they respond when stuff doesn’t go to plan that’s part of how they work so well together and same with Grover

Also like the musical just such a good job and like pairing Percy and annabeths issues and balancing their friendship and how they get closer with the potential of what could be in the future and like Percy singing I’m good enough for someone and annabeth singing I don’t know how or when but I promise you I’ll never be invisible again someone will notice me with the staging of Percy looking at her literally makes me insane

Also the musical did such a good job in the first song at setting up like yeah you wanna hear our story? Okay here’s our representative Percy Jackson and Chris McCarrell slid on to that stage like look I didn’t want to be a halfblood and then showed us why Percy is literally Mr accountability to the gods

Like this story can be adapted well it has all the potential literally everything is there but if you’re gonna do something in the medium it helps to have people who are passionate and understand that medium and know how to work with it

Also Luke’s good in the last day of summer lives in my head always truly iconic

[cjbolan]

 Just finished Chapter 1 of Emily Windsnap and the Tides of Time. My thoughts so far...

I feel you, Emily. I’m sad too that your adventures are probably over.

Liz Kessler throws MAJOR shade at teachers XD. Perhaps she’s writing from personal experience. I literally laughed at some of the descriptions of Emily’s teacher. Particularly this line:

“’Succinctly as always, Aiden,’ Mrs. Porter said, in that special sarcastic way that teachers must learn at college, as they all do it.”

As a former student teacher, I can confirm she’s absolutely right.

This opening is like a clever inverse version of the first book’s opening. Both open with Emily at home in Brightport having a conversation with her mom, before going to school.Except where the first book opened with them having an argument, this last book opens with them being much friendlier with each other. Shows how far their relationship has come. I love that!

There’s also shades of Book 3 that I liked. It again opens with Emily going to school, and Emily afraid of a relationship ending. In Book 3 it was her parents’ marriage, here it’s her renewed friendship with Mandy. I do like the idea that for once, maybe it’s Emily’s own fault that she feels alone, for not being a good listener to her friend. 

I love the emphasis that being yourself is much easier said than done. IRL people say all the time that they don’t care what people think or that they’ll do whatever they want, then quickly give up doing exactly that. This isn’t always a bad thing, and heavily dependent on your situation. It makes perfect sense in Emily’s case where she now has 0 friends in school and possible enemies.  (SIDE NOTE: I do relate hard to Emily in this case. At her age, for a time I had only 1 real friend. We’re still friends now ^_^. )

YAAAAAY MORE RETCONNING *sarcasm*. Seems like Emily is attending only human school. What happened to her splitting her time between human and mermaid school? Wasn’t her school situation a huge looming conflict for about half the series? It was a huge point of conflict for her parents who fought each other about where she should spend more time, to the point it made Emily fear they would split up. If she were still attending Shiprock School, she probably  wouldn’t miss the sea and Shona so much because she could still enjoy those every day. I know Emily's feeling lonely because of Aaron and Mandy, but still...either Emily’s being overdramatic, or she really did quit mermaid school for some reason.

Jake again raises so many questions. We know he eats human food, so can all merpeople eat human food? Or is Jake the only one because he’s lived with humans and got used to it? What do you think his first time tasting human food would’ve been like? That breakfast table is way above water level so... does her ever eat with his family?  It’d be really sad if he couldn’t. Does he have a floating pool table? Does he eat off the floor? Would his family ever eat off the floor with him? Is there any way he could have a wheelchair or kiddie pool for him at the table?  For a mixed human-merperson family who actively brought together the two species, how on earth would they host both species in a place designed by and for humans only? Trap door aside, the merpeople who do visit are just trapped in that tiny bit of water, and the humans make 0 attempt to bring their activities closer to the water for merpeople to join them. And Jake is often described looking upward at people in that boat...he must have the worst neck pain ever. He deserves a nice neck pillow. Or maybe a neck massage XD.

But seriously, this is one reason Jake is one of my favorite characters. He  raises so many fascinating questions about the worldbuilding.

Funny I have a rock that looks just like Emily’s! Minus 2 stripes...

Well, gonna keep on reading!