#Surely - Ginger Ale - 15

[jtl-fics]

surely you could write some surely?

5/22/24 WIP Wednesday (Open) | Surely

His mom sets the drink down in front of him and garnishes it with two bright red cherries. He looks up at her surprised, "Really?" he asks unable to hide his excitement.

"Really, now drink it while it's cold. I added a little something extra." she smiles and Abram pauses slightly in uncertainty, "It's gingerale." she adds realizing his hesitation.

"Oh," he pulls the drink closer to him and takes a sip.

<- PREV | FIRST | NEXT ->

[motherofagony]

A HEART FOR EATING // vol. 2

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: post outbreak!joel x f!reader setting: jackson, wy (think tlou pt. 2 minus the golfing) rating: mature, 18+, minors dni word count: 8.7k series summary: a vicious raider attack robs you of human connection and lights a fire of destruction in your life in jackson. joel's fixated on you, and your lives tangle. revenge becomes a needful thing. chapter summary: you take care of joel after a patrol injury, but you suspect there's more to it than he's telling you. the atmosphere shifts as you and joel grow (begrudgingly) closer. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), protective!joel, brief masturbation (f!reader), praise kink for two seconds, blood, bodily injuries, needles (reader gives joel stitches), dissociation/triggers, alcohol, angst, sexual tension intensifies, The First Kiss™, soft!joel vol. 1 // vol. 2 series playlist a/n: we're picking up speed, folks. world-building is my weakness, so i hope you enjoy this nonetheless. honorable mention goes to the readers in the trenches, waiting patiently for joel to [redacted] reader senseless until she [redacted] all over his [redacted]. thank you for the love on the series so far. taglist: @ghostwritesthings, @widowssbite, @p3rkerr, @eternallyvenus, @punkshort if anyone would like to be added/removed to the taglist (or if i missed anyone), please send me a DM!

You’ve always hated flying.

In the great before, the stone ages of family vacations and things to look forward to, fears were singular and planes were yours.

Your family never had a lot of money, not really, but on the special occasion of a death in the family, you’d find yourself trapped to a seat in a metal tube. Going nowhere but up. Sitting through safety instructions that came from smiling, lipsticked mouths that were only hypotheticals until they weren’t.

It’s like a rollercoaster, your dad would say, amused in the way only a dad can be and sleeping through damn near anything in the same fashion. It did nothing to calm the knocking of your knees, to quell the flip of your stomach as you climbed higher and higher until you couldn’t see anything but cotton ball clouds.

It was always unnatural to you that something so heavy could float, that you were supposed to go on doing human things and drinking your ginger ale and munching your pre-packaged snack option. As if you weren’t being hurled into the sky with no one walking you through it.

As if the plummet onto tarmac meant no harm, just completely normal erratic braking that felt a lot like the moments before a crash.

There was no control — it was in someone else’s hands that you never saw. And as you fell, you were supposed to say thank you, that’s exactly what I paid for.

This is your version of the oxygen mask. This is you putting yours on before you help Joel.

You’re on your knees digging through your med bag, thumbing through bandages, checking for a quick count of gloves, antibiotics, wash cloths. You fumble with the zipper, fighting with the tremor that starts in your forearms and liquifies into your wrists. There isn’t much in the way of supplies unless you ransack what’s kept in storage, but there’s no time, and you’re not sure of what you’re about to walk into.

Waiting any moment for a scream, or the blast of a gun when they realize Joel’s not Joel anymore.

And it isn’t really a big possibility in the grand scheme of things, if you consider that he would’ve likely turned on the route home. But it’s still there, tickling the back of your head, nudging your navel uncomfortably. Nothing’s impossible.

You of all people know that.

You linger in your living room, giving a final sweep. Worst case, you can run back for what’s forgotten, but something about the idea of abandoning a vulnerable Joel – if only for a minute – doesn’t settle right in your stomach.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re shoving a bottle of whiskey into the bag, the only anesthetic on hand. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you need to score back some points.

The steps leading up to Joel’s house are sturdy, and you imagine it’s because of the pride he takes in what’s his. Before this, his house was just another skeleton of roof, foundation, windows, and siding.

The kind of houses you pass by every day that are rife with familiarity but you don’t know what it’s like to see the people inside eat dinner, brush their teeth. Fight. Fuck.

Fresh paint from only two seasons ago, reinforced porch posts. A swing. It’s weird to see permanence in this day and age, but his intention to anchor himself and grow roots here flutters meaningfully inside you.

It’s always been a sacred thing to you, you don’t know why. A place you’d never dreamed of entering, but dreamed about what it would smell like. A pair of boots haphazard by the front door, small piles of organized chaos, of collected tangibles. A you never know if you’ll need this in one corner, a saving that for a rainy day shelved in another.

So when you raise your hand to knock, you feel like an intruder, an unwelcome invasion of privacy. And you don’t know why you knock at all, you nearly think better of it given the circumstances, but you’re testing the atmosphere, hoping for voices inside instead of a struggle.

Ellie’s swinging the door open, relief smoothing out the lines in her forehead when she sees you. Her presence seems to answer any unspoken questions you had about Joel being infected, and you don’t voice them to her when you can see unrest in her antsy legs.

“Hey. Sorry for the wait. He alright?”

Her teeth are worrying her lip, probably more traumatized by the sight of him than anything. A few strands of hair have freed themselves from her lazy half-bun at the base of her neck, caught in the crossfire when she ran her hands through it, you think.

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes, committing to it. “Yeah, he’s okay. Bleeding stopped, nothing seems broken. Just needs stitches, I think.”

It sounds more to convince herself than anything else. There’s a foreign fragility to her, and you hate it.

“He tell you what happened?”

The question strikes a nerve. Ellie’s shaking her bowed head, scoffing in a half-laugh that doesn’t touch her eyes. Her hand wraps around her knuckles, cracking slowly in an effort to alleviate the tension that’s reached a fever pitch inside her.

“He won’t tell me, says it doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have gone alone anyway, he was bein’ a dick. ‘I wanna think, kiddo - need t’clear my head,’” she mocks in a gruff, rolling pitch, the perfect dosage of Texas.

It levels you, potent. Are you the thing Joel needed to clear his head of?

You’re weirdly longing for it, but being flicked away like a bug, peeled away layer by layer from him isn’t something you want.

There’s hope that you’re contagious. That you’re haunting him and lurking in the darkest corners of his mind like an apparition like he has yours. And maybe there’s hope after all, something left to salvage.

But you play dumb, furrow your brow a little too expertly.

Ellie’s measuring you, and there’s a glimpse of worry but she hides it in a way that you wouldn’t know what you were looking for if you hadn’t already found it.

“Anything you wanna tell me about the other night? He was pissed when he left,” she tacks on quietly.

You go a little slack-jawed. You don’t even know how to put it into words, and you couldn’t tell her what it meant even if you tried.

What’s there to even say?

“You know what, none of my business,” she says, her hands lifting in tired surrender when you don’t answer, ignoring your near-sputter. “But you’re not off the hook, just make sure the old man doesn’t croak. And tell him he scared the shit outta me.”

You exhale and hope it doesn’t read too much as relief. You’ll have to answer to her later, but at least you might have an answer to give.

“Handful of salt in the wound, rub in circular motions – got it. Tell Tommy I’ll catch up later.”

Your shoulders scrape affectionately as you nudge past each other, and you cast a wide look at the periphery of Joel Miller’s house. The feeling of unwelcome disappears, and if anything, you’re being tugged further inside. Imagining what it’s like to be a fixture, an adornment in his weird little life.

Nooks that you assumed would be messy are neat, coiffed even. There’s that unavoidable smudge of secondhand all over the furniture – mottled ever so slightly, aged uneven in places that only an apocalypse can do. But it’s an otherwise tidy existence. Another surprise from Joel that you’d never pick up on if you only witnessed him nursing a drink at the bar.

An oak bookshelf props itself at the bottom of the stairs and it rivals your own, dust gathering in thin lines where he’s repeatedly shelved this, reread that. There are paintings hung decisively on most of the walls, breathtaking rural landscapes of wherever.

You’re lugging the bag upstairs, counting your breaths with each step. The whiskey rattles mutely against the first aid tin, and it’s a toss-up now of who you really brought it for.

The landing mirrors the ground level, a purposeful littering of tchotchkes. Doors line the second floor, some closed, some ajar but not inviting, and you realize you have no idea which one you’re looking for. You sway uninvited by the bannister until you hear the unmistakable hiss of breath between clenched teeth, then a soft moan as his weight shifts.

And you’re stepping inside a room – his bedroom – warmed in the soft beginnings of sunset. Joel’s sprawled asymmetrically on his bed, eyes pinched shut, delirious with blood loss but already looking substantially less like a corpse. A damp rag settles just above his brow, and the handiwork of Ellie.

There’s an unrecognizable hurt in him, wounded in ways that he shouldn’t be capable of.

He doesn’t give any indication that he knows you’re here until he’s rasping out something weak disguised as stern.

“I ain’t bit. Shut the door behind you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“How did you –?”

Joel just huffs in response, as indignant as his body lets him be.

“You see anyone else here? They might as well’ve jumped out the window, as fast as they dumped me ‘n left. I ain’t stupid.”

You accept that and drop the pretense, pursing your lips with a nod. He doesn’t seem that offended, knows it’s just the nature of the beast.

You move over to his bedside, unpacking the bag quickly on a side table, looping your metaphorical stethoscope around your neck and switching gears into a mode that’s strictly doctoral.

Yet, there’s still that hum beneath your skin, the fizzle of unfinished business. It’s thick in the space between you, in the way he flicks his gaze at you lazily. You’ll let him foster the anger, giving it a home. You can be the martyr he says you are.

This new lens feels calmer, almost professional. Your nerves are still firing rapidly, and your composure is forced, but it’s better than nothing.

You drag a chair from the corner up to Joel’s bed, not letting your eyes wander too far into the depths of the space. You don’t have time to dissect the idiosyncrasies of his life. Not yet.

He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but you get the sense that he’s tracking your every move. His limbs are concrete, the tendons in his forearms so tense and coiled like any and every movement is forbidden.

“Joel.”

He grunts, a pained translation. Still no effort to move.

“I need to take a look at you,” you say patiently, bargaining like you would with a kid. “Wanna tell me what hurts?”

Another grunt, softer this time. He motions vaguely, weakly to his head, then the left flank of his abdomen.

You already know what you’ll find under the rag on his head, and it bodes well that the bleeding looks to have stopped. His stomach wound, on the other hand, was enough to bleed through two layers.

“Alright. Lemme see.”

A muted whimper echoes in his throat, so uncharacteristically that it tugs on your heart. Still statuesque, unmoving.

Your fingers are deft, careful as they unbutton the first, second, third buttons of his flannel. Joel’s stock-still, and his breath comes in sharp, slow waves through his nose. Your own breath kind of sits in the back of your throat, and you pretend with a hurried exhale that you weren’t just holding it.

Your fingers reach his navel on the last button, and you’re gently tucking each panel of his shirt under him on either side, focusing too hard on not touching him. It feels like something is somersaulting low in your stomach.

You can’t even dare yourself to look at his chest, his stomach. The patch of hair leading down to the band of his pants.

Get it together. That’s not what this is.

An angry gash looks up at you, thankfully clotted with dried patches of blood. It’s about two delicate fingers long, a nasty slice. It looks clean, abrupt in shape but suspiciously manmade. Not too deep, but not superficial enough to heal without some assistance.

And thank god, not nearly as bad as you thought it would be.

Joel’s looking at you now through heavy lids, wary of you, but something like fear touches the corners of his eyes. You fight to stay medical, methodical in your diagnosis. No emotion slips out, nothing allowed in.

You sit back calmly, letting loose a sigh. Not letting yourself bathe in the intimacy of the moment, in the way he’s staring.

“You need stitches,” you announce simply.

“Like hell.”

“Joel.”

He’s scowling, a hurt animal pissed at its own vulnerability. Silence passes like a ship between you, and for a moment, you think he’ll really fight you on this. He can’t hide anything when he’s like this, the weighing of his options evident in the tick of his jaw, the pathetic pinch just in the center of his brows.

“Fine,” he grits out. “Make it quick.”

This fucker.

You’re rolling your eyes, unceremoniously tugging the rag from his forehead. The cloth is red but not soaked, just twinged pink around the edges. Joel curses, just an octave above unintelligible.

His hand is shooting to the cut near his hairline and you’re smacking it away before he can pollute it.

“Lay still, fuck’s sake,” you chastise. “An infection’ll put you out longer than a few days. Unless you have a puzzle you been meaning to get around to?”

The faux-threat calms him immediately, and the shift in restraint doesn’t go unchecked. He doesn’t say another word, but you catch a glare and a twitch of his mouth.

You make quick work of cleaning him up, squeezing rubbing alcohol on a clean towel and scrubbing patient circles through the mess of dried blood. Joel releases sharp noises you can only describe as growls when you get too close to the border of his cuts.

It’s primal, a dog asserting dominance with his leg caught in a trap.

You try to lose the attitude, and it’s difficult when your patient hates you, doesn’t hate you, won’t clarify either way.

There’s a hint of purple that’s developing like fresh film on the mountains of his knuckles that doesn’t go unnoticed. Places on the most taut peaks of flesh where his skin has split, marred with scrapes that look like indents of teeth. And in the right light, there’s a discoloration of something in the same family splayed on his ribs.

And that… you know that when you see it. Even if everything else can be explained away.

“You wanna talk about it?” you say quietly.

There’s an intermission where he doesn’t respond. Too long to be the truth, too short to come up with a lie. And you know he’s been waiting for this question, might’ve already thought of a story.

“Got clumsy,” Joel recites. “Tripped on some stairs that were caving in, hit my head.”

“Bullshit.” And it’s a statement, not an insult. It doesn’t cover why he has a certified stab wound in his side.

Another stretch of silence, lack of defensiveness, makes it clear that he knows you know. But he doesn’t elaborate, and for whatever reason, you don’t push it.

And maybe it’s enough to acknowledge this sort of thing for now. You can stow it away, let it keep you up at night. Draw parallels where there possibly aren’t any. If he’d run into a human thing, he’d be much worse off, right?

Just like you were.

You take care in lining up the supplies to stitch in neat order beside you, mulling over each step in your mind. Stalling, maybe.

You pull the whiskey bottle out of your bag by the neck and nudge Joel with the cap.

“Something to take the edge off.”

He kind of hesitates, but there’s a tenderness. Recognizing it as an act of mercy, a peace offering.

There’s nothing said, but he takes the bait, spinning off the top and swallowing a messy mouthful. A drip escapes through the corner of his mouth and slips into his beard.

You can feel the taste of it blossoming on your tongue.

He grunts his thanks and keeps a steady grip on the neck of the bottle, and the network of veins in his forearm unwind.

You clamp the needle, laced through with something thicker than thread but not quite medical grade. Joel exhales a shaky whine when you pierce the skin, and his fist grips the sheets when you twist clockwise to push the needle through to the other side.

“You’re doing great,” you murmur.

The needle weaves over the cut, greeting the other side. You pull it through and up, and his lower lip trembles, sweat beading his forehead.

“First one done,” you say, praising him but also yourself.

Joel’s still clenching the linens on the bed, ignoring you and hiding out in his own mind somewhere.

You don’t tell him that you’ve only ever practiced on fruit, that your suture knowledge comes exclusively from the one medical text you have and endless hours of TV you grew up on.

Silence envelopes you again, heavier than before if possible. The pressure waxes and wanes like nighttime waves, licking the shore between you. And it’s not angry, just something… else.

“Some house you got,” you note casually as a distraction, like you’re commenting on the weather. It comes off relaxed enough, though any conversation between you feels like flossing a crowded mouth.

His eyes sharpen, and you think it’s in excruciation, but there’s a twinge of apprehension. You straighten for a moment, hands fixed mid-stitch, and roll your eyes.

“Okay, cool it, Home Alone, I’m not casing the place.”

Joel takes a turn rolling his eyes. You swear that you see his mouth twitch again, but you hang your head, dabbing a cloth where pinpricks of blood form.

You try again.

“I like your paintings.”

You dare to look up, and his mouth is in a tight line.

“You like my paintings.” he repeats dully, not a question. Joel’s as cynical as you, and he thinks it’s a jab, not sincere.

“You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Now’s as good a time as any. You sigh at that.

“Look, the other night wasn’t my finest moment. It didn’t need to go that way,” you mutter, leaning on the concentration of sewing up Joel’s skin. Otherwise, you might feel too strongly, dissect your word choice with an uncomfortable linger. “Sorry. I know you were trying to help.”

He goes rigid as your second stitch meets a third. The bottle tips to his lips again, and you wonder if it’s an act of liquid courage. You boldly hope so.

“Nah, I shoulda kept my mouth shut. Been thinkin’ I needed to apologize anyway,” he admits, and you know he’s happy you made the first move. You can already feel him loosen, but maybe it’s the alcohol. “You ain’t a martyr, y’know.”

Oh.

The needle hooks into the final sliver of skin, your handiwork tightening into a neat line. You sit back, wiping your brow with the ungloved section of your wrist. It’s a treaty, a handshake at the very least.

“Actually, I think you hit the nail on the head with that one,” you smirk, olive branch fully hanging between your teeth now. “Keeping up the charade is so exhausting.”

Joel presses out a pained half-laugh, and you feel something crumbling between you.

You tie off the last stitch, trimming the excess thread off the knot. The clamp clatters into the tray, and you give it a final once-over before peeling a large rectangle of bandage from your kit and pressing it gently over the wound.

“All done,” you quip, peeling your gloves off. “Didn’t even have to amputate.”

“Not too bad,” he grunts.

“I’ll add it to your tab.”

While you’re riding the high of approval, you stand and move to the foot of the bed. Joel’s boots are still on, laced messily.

And for some reason, you don’t even ask permission, you just start untying, tipping them off and lining them next to one another on the hardwood.

He doesn’t say a word. Out of confusion, maybe.

You scoot your chair and makeshift flatlay along with you, positioning yourself at Joel’s head. That look is back, a side-stare that steals your breath.

That look that knows you could absolutely ruin him, and he’d either thank you or kill you.

The pads of your fingers brush back the hair from his forehead, still slightly matted with blood. It’s a surface cut, but crescent-shaped and easily hidden by a curl of brown, peppered with grey. Butterfly closure it is.

No signs of a concussion show themselves. At least there’s that.

“You might have a scar,” you murmur. Being this close to Joel makes you feel like you’re wearing two layers too many.

And he hasn’t broken the stare, not even minutely.

“Add it to the collection,” he says lowly, not an ounce of self-pity.

Your eyes flash to the scar near his temple. You’re exercising full-on restraint not to ask him about it. But it’s not the time, something you could try to pry out of him later. And knowing there’ll be a later makes you relax your shoulders, unclench your jaw.

He’s nice enough to pretend not to notice, or he’s in too much pain to mention it.

You dab the damp rag around the border of his cut again, mopping up any excess. You reach for the isopropyl.

“You might wanna take another swig,” you warn. And he obeys, down the hatch and white-knuckling through it.

“Good boy,” you’re murmuring automatically, and it just slips out.

Your mouth falls open just so, and Joel’s coughing, clearing his throat against the burn of whiskey. You’re pleading with the universe that his cough was close enough, loud enough to cover the words, but his face has turned a shade of red that’s probably rivaling the heat that reaches your ears.

Good boy? Jesus Christ.

If there was ever a heightened moment of being fucking touch-starved, it’s this.

You make haste with the disinfectant and place the closures over the cut. The bloodied towels and scraps from the DIY surgery are cleaned up, tied neatly into a plastic bag. And now, this is the part where you run and never face him again.

You’re already making plans to board up your windows, maybe have Ellie deliver your meals solely through a slot in the door.

But Joel’s pain is overriding everything, and he’s sunken even further back into the pillow, his head lolling to prop on his shoulder. He’s whispering a weak thanks that’s incoherent at best. You tug the blanket up and over him.

You grab a glass from downstairs, fill it to the brim with water and bring it to him. He groans at the sight, petulant.

“I’m not leaving until you finish this.”

His lifts his arm for it, scowling. “Gimme the damn thing.”

Satisfied, you hand it over and watch him drink it down, his throat bobbing in a hearty gulp. Your gaze can’t help but snag on it.

You have got to get the fuck out of here.

You come back with a refilled glass and sit it on his bedside table, close enough within reach. The medical bag is packed up and ready, sagging slightly in areas where you’ve emptied it. It knocks against your already-knocking knees, and you’re grateful to use its weight as an excuse for how blurred you feel.

“I need to talk to Tommy. You gonna be alright for a bit?”

His eyes are closed again, on the outskirts of rest, but his mouth pulls up in the ghost of smile.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart.”

And you hope he means it.

—

You track down an unsettled Tommy, finding him pacing in the back of the general store. He’s restocking some shelves but not quite – there’s an gross pairing of tinned fish and fresh eggs sitting on a display that’s unappetizing at best.

“He’s okay. No bite,” you add lowly, acutely aware of how many pairs of ears are in the store. “But he needs to be monitored.”

Tommy slackens, rubbing his eyes that are full of exhaustion and bruised with worry. Index finger and thumb stroking the respective tails of his mustache one, two, three times as the gravity of that strikes him.

He loops you into an embrace, and it’s kind, full of ease. The smell of firewood and smoke tickles your nose. His worry evaporates then, and honestly, so does yours.

“He doin’ alright?”

You chew on that for a moment and nod. There are complications, but nothing to do with Joel’s health.

“He was pissed about the stitches, but I didn’t have a choice. Cut was pretty deep.”

“So… he tell you what happened, then?”

There’s that question again. You feel like you should have an answer, but if he wouldn’t clue in Ellie, you sure as hell wouldn’t be.

Like squeezing blood from a stone, your dad used to say.

“No,” you lie instinctively. You don’t know why.

But it isn’t really. Not if you don’t know the full truth yourself. There’s just something about Joel’s omission that makes you feel entitled to find out first.

“He said he fell down some stairs,” you amend, “just didn’t say where or how.”

Tommy offers you the same look that Ellie gave you – a raised brow coupled with a touch of disbelief.

“If you say so.”

You shrug, playing it as cool as’ll come natural to you. “You know Joel. Doesn’t want to make a fuss.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and rolling out his shoulders that you know have been holding tension. He believes that, at least.

“Sounds like you know him, too.”

—

A few days come and go.

Ellie takes on a lot of the recovery, but she doesn’t like messing with stitches — creeps me the fuck out that you did that without puking all over him, she claims — and she’s eager to substitute for the patrol routes while Joel’s down and out. You offer to step in, with a totally normal and selfless motive.

If she thinks anything else of it, you’d be the last to know.

Your new itinerary consists of changing Joel’s bandages, cleaning up through his hissed breaths and every goddamn it. Twice a day, morning and night and sometimes in closer intervals, but never approaching the cusp of any boundary.

Joel’s fiercely independent, swatting your hands when you try to help. Donning a clean flannel in the space between your lunchtime visit and your nightcap, despite you telling him that he shouldn’t be pushing his mobility.

That said, he’s marginally better about following doctor’s orders, drinking the water you leave on his nightstand but neglecting the pills that would stop him from coiling in on himself like a ready spring. And he doesn’t say it but you know it’s because he thinks it’d be a waste.

You trade regular formalities at first, each of you standing behind your respective walls, daring the other to toe a bit closer.

Joel doesn’t ask, but you bring him some short stories to pass the time and he devours them. You didn’t think much of it other than just straying past the point of being nice, but your heart sings a bit at how he leaves his shell at your coaxing.

You learn Bradbury is his favorite, but when he finishes The Most Dangerous Game, it’s the most he’s ever spoken to you in one sitting, astounded at the perfectly tied bow of an ending, asking you questions that only the author could answer. But it’s a marvel to witness, something you think about when you’re cleaning stables or washing dishes.

He’s unraveling for you, a loose thread tugged too hard on your favorite sweater. He talks of the places in the paintings, sometimes abruptly, like he isn’t sure what his cue is or if he has one.

Mentions of pre-Jackson when there was so much uncertainty and isolation, but it was coupled with those types of watercolor skies that you couldn’t paint if you tried.

These little pieces of him that make him whole – it’s like you’re both in on the same secret. And Joel isn’t doing it to lighten the tension, to be nice; that isn’t his brand of politeness. He just revels in the holy act of confession with you as his witness.

You come to learn that his room is modest, different from the rest of his house. Clues of hobbies sprawled on his desk – leatherworking tools and hand drawn blueprints that you can’t get a good look at with just a sidelong glance.

There’s a dusty stereo tucked at the back towards the wall, and you picture a content Joel, sketching new plans for a porch swing or some small addition while old bluesy country croons from the speakers.

You like this daydream, placing him in something lighthearted where his only worry is that he’s losing daylight on yardwork.

The two of you talk about little bits of everything and nothing. Reminiscing about sending snail mail, discussing what you think places like Italy look like now. How close you came to crossing an ocean in another life.

Tonight, you have a night terror that clings to you like wet denim. Stop-motion, nonsensical. Your head ricocheting into concrete, hitting your temple just so. Flashes of the people that used to be your parents, your friends.

And just as the life drains from you, blood seeping onto the floor and into spidering cracks, you wake up a flailing mess.

You practice your routine, twisting on knobs of lamps and plugging in the twinkling lights hanging around the perimeter of the living room. You press your cheek to the floor, checking under your bed for monsters for good measure.

Bleary-eyed, you’re climbing back under the covers, pulling them snug up to your chin.

There’s a neediness crawling its way through your organs with a one-way ticket south. The juxtaposition of fear mingles with an otherness, and it anchors itself to Joel.

You never cared for a protector, still don’t, but the eagerness that sprouts from him to defend your honor — and for nothing in return — magnetizes you on a cellular level.

Your fingers are dipping into the band of your already-damp underwear, taking inventory of what the thought of him does to you. Body on auto-pilot. A pool of dripping neediness, so slick that you’re coating your clit in excess and rubbing in tight circles.

He doesn’t even have to touch you, and it’s pathetic.

Images of Joel’s beard scratching your thighs swirls behind your eyelids, your hand gliding between the glistening of your folds. Fingers crook inside you, dipping into the last knuckle, and you’re choking on a gasp, already on the edge.

You wish they were more calloused, thicker, with length that can hit the spot that’s desperately out of reach.

You wish they were Joel’s.

It takes only a minute, some curling and pumping of your wrist to make it quick in case it’ll only ever be a fantasy. The wet noises of your arousal are nothing short of obscene, and you’re coming loudly, sharply on a string of moans.

In some ways, you think, you have already died.

And fuck. It’s so poetic it makes you sick.

—

On the fourth day, Maria sends you to Joel’s with some stew — two hearty containers that're meant for the both of you.

She’s been taking her shift at his place, carrying over containers of this and that to keep him fed. You wonder how often she takes on that role anyway, sans injury. You don’t peg Joel as the type to eat three square meals a day of his own accord.

Tell Joel I can’t make it tonight. Gotta do inventory.

She makes no room for elaboration, so you don’t ask. But you thank her with a hug, and you could swear that she’s giving you a conspiratorial smirk.

When you knock on Joel’s bedroom, he gives a new, warm invitation, coated in subtle hospitality. It’s a far stretch from the unaffected what? you might’ve received a week ago.

You place the stew down on the bedside table, along with some bowls and spoons you plucked from his kitchen. He just looks up at you from his bed, uncertainty reaching the lines of his forehead.

“It’s all Maria,” you explain and he hums, catching up.

“Explains a lot,” he mutters.

You eat quietly for a little over ten minutes. Joel’s flannel today boasts a rich navy, buttoned up to the top but not far enough to hide the sprinkling of hair that peeks through.

He catches you staring and pins you with a dark glance.

“You afraid of the dark or somethin’?”

Joel’s ask cuts through the air, and your spoon stops mid-route to your open mouth. It’s so out of the blue that it stuns you momentarily.

“Sorry?”

“You turn the lights on at night.”

What you thought to be private moments of fear were actually on display for all to see.

For Joel to see.

And the memory of your thighs trapping your hand as you came over and over again on your fingers… you’re grateful to at least have had some decorum to draw your bedroom curtains.

“Um.” You dig for a way to say nope, I’m actually just a pussy and I see things that aren’t there. Also, I was touching myself thinking about you last night. “No, just nightmares.”

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s searing. A bead of sweat makes a slow descent down your spine to your tailbone. You laugh lightly to deflect.

Joel’s mouth thins into a tight line.

“It’s nothing,” you promise.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he snaps. His brows are knitted in fury, misdirected. But you get it.

Your stomach is rumbling, but you’ve effectively lost whatever appetite you had. The bowl finds a space on the side table, and you’re pulling your knees to your chest protectively, thumbing at the fray on the cuff of your jeans.

You don’t mean to scowl, but you can’t help it. You can’t even meet his eyes.

Joel’s sighing, his own bowl discarded on the nightstand, grazing the lip of yours.

“Look, it’s not my business,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “but that kinda shit worries me.”

When you do look up, he’s rubbing his beard with rigid fingers. You should feel nice and fuzzy that he cares enough to point it out, but it’s just embarrassment instead.

That, on top of everything else, you can’t even get through the night without waking up in a cold sweat.

“I know how it looks,” you say in surrender, “but I swear I’m fine.”

You can imagine what it would feel like to really mean it; it’s just on the tip of your tongue. There is a defiance there, it’s just struggling to find a way out.

“You sure about that?”

You let your feet touch the floor, straightening out your legs and busying yourself with smoothing the creases in your pants.

“You worry about everyone else like this?” you muse, hoping to redirect.

Joel’s scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed anywhere else.

“Always worried about you.”

If you were any farther away, you wouldn’t have heard him.

Outside, kids are yelling, playing tag. You watch in jealousy, can almost hear the crunch of their boots and their tiny, inconsequential conversations. It takes you longer than intended to give a response, and he waits, patiently. Just trickles a look from the crown of your head to your hands to your face. Searching for a reaction.

“You’re about ten months late, Miller.” And you’re smiling briefly. You mean it as playful, but it’s colored with sadness.

His eyes glaze, and the wheels are turning, wondering if that also means too late.

“Didn’t want you to think I was takin’ advantage of the situation. And I thought Max —” Joel bites down on the name.

“Fuck Max,” you spit in disgust. “That was never a thing.”

You don’t have to make eye contact to see that he’s pleased by that. He hums in the back of his throat. Resists a shit-eating grin. From the looks of Joel connecting the dots, you don’t need say much else.

“Yeah, well. We all failed you,” he insists. “I failed you.”

It sets an incredulous spark in some hidden part of you. Nails cut into your palm, your fists balling harshly. Everyone else? Sure, you’d give him that. Jackson spit you out, with the exception of a select few.

But Joel?

“You saved me.”

“Not good enough,” he says under his breath.

—

The next day, you let yourself inside, already learning the language of Joel’s house when you press a little extra weight against the door to seal it shut when it sticks.

It’s quiet, on the cusp of 8, and you wouldn’t be surprised if Joel’s on the brink of sleep.

The sun’s long settled over the mountain, so there’s not much in the way of guidance.

It’s dark, but you expected it to be. You draw the curtains one by one, moving blindly from room to room yet knowing exactly where your feet are. It strikes you as odd, a visitor keeping pace with an unfamiliar house.

But if Joel’s anything, it’s predictable. Unfussy in the way he keeps out of the way, even in his own space. Takes pride in it, sure, but lives in a way that demands nothing but cherishes everything, even the absence of something.

Meaning there’s nothing too unexpected, too risky in its placement. He doesn’t take up too much room in the event that it’s gone tomorrow.

When your hands fumble for the switch of the living room lamp, the bulb springs to life and bathes a wary Joel in light. Sitting on the couch, slouched with residual soreness, but waiting.

For you.

“Jesus, fuck — what the fuck, Joel —”

“You’re late.”

“— sitting in the fucking dark like a lunatic —”

He puts a hand up to stop you, as if to press your mute button.

“I didn’t fall down any stairs.”

Your hands have risen to your chest in the shock of him there, and you’re gripping your shirt in the way he had almost a week ago. You don’t miss that little detail, so much so that you struggle to piece together what he’s saying.

It punches you abnormal; you kept so busy with leaving the subject alone that it slipped your mind that he lied.

“Sit down.”

You’re obedient and you don’t know why. You find a seat across from him, pulling up a stool that’s meant for feet, not your ass. Something crackles beside you, and the embers of a dying fire glow and warm to the left of you.

Your leg crosses over your knee, creating a 45-degree angle that you rest your elbows on. “Yeah, I gathered as much, thanks. You’re a terrible liar.”

Joel’s just eyeing you. And it’s not in a way that sizes you up, more of a calculation of what to say next. What to give away. There’s a beat of this, then another, then another.

“I thought ‘bed rest’ was pretty self-explanatory.”

You’re growing impatient, filling the room just to do it. You both know what happened, and maybe that’s what’s needling at you. That you’re the one person who’d understand the most, but the one person he doesn’t want to know.

It feels wretched and seething, knowing something but not enough.

“I’m gonna need you to cut to the part where you tell me what happened, Joel.”

At that, Joel drags in a breath and leans deeper into the couch. His gaze has moved to somewhere far off, burning into the drawn curtains like he can see outside, can see directly into the window of your kitchen. And with sudden clarity, you realize that he could — it’s a clean diagonal stare.

Are you afraid of the dark?

How many times has he sat in this very spot, taking in the show, watching you make tea, watching you read, watching you stutter and shake with sobs? Witnessing the onslaught of a nightmare?

Touching yourself? Watching you undress?

You aren’t the voyeuristic type, just uncaring to the point of defenseless. But Joel keeping an eye on you in this way is the coup de grâce that does you in. There’s no question now of whether he cares.

“I took Mountain View, headed for the outpost. Not much up that way lately, maybe one or two infected every once ‘n a while,” he says, and it’s unsettling that he’s talking in a way that could be to anyone or no one at all. “Thought I’d stop at the pharmacy on the way up, check that off, too. ‘Cept I wasn’t the only one with that idea.”

He pauses only to crack his knuckles for effect. Fingertips splay on his spread knees, and what seemed so fragile earlier, watercolors of bruises stretching from ligament to tendon, seems threatening now.

“One was lootin’ in the back, didn’t hear me come in. I thought he mighta been alone ‘til his friend followed me in,” he pauses, lost in thought. “Got into it with him.”

As if on cue, the gory split-skin of his hands flexes. Offensive wounds.

You were right, but you wish you weren’t.

“His friend came up from the back, ‘n they took turns for a minute. Long enough for me to get a good look. I ended up takin’ out the shorter one, other one was gone before I could get up.”

Joel doesn’t lift his head, just his eyes. The skin around them crinkles in sinister shapes, lids disappeared, lashes nearly touching brow. You know it’s not anger directed at you, but it’s shrinking you back down into an armchair, your fingers digging and clawing at the fabric without recognizing it.

“Know what’s funny about that?”

You don’t think you can answer with the desert that runs through your mouth. And whatever it is, it’s anything but.

“Not a lot of activity along the outposts this way, unless it’s infected. Everyone else comes straight through to Jackson. The logs say we’ve only run into two groups of raiders in the last five years along the patrol route,” another pause for emphasis. “And one of them was ten months ago.”

Something catches in your chest.

And then there’s a dam that breaks, pure relief. Relief that Joel’s seen the thing you’ve been pointing and screaming at while everyone else shrugs their shoulders and squints.

Then — panic.

Ice sneaks into your veins. The tips of your fingers run numb. It strikes you that you’re standing, that the foot stool is tipped on its side.

He doesn’t move, but there’s a contained rage in his eyes and his voice. A temper bubbling now that you’ve confirmed what he suspected.

“He have any tattoos?” Joel asks roughly.

There’s a flash of stars, hand-poked, bordering on downright sloppy.

“Who?” You say dumbly, but it’s obvious what he’s referring to. He’s seen it, too, and he’s seen it this week.

“You know who.”

You do.

You could draw it from memory if he asked.

Your weight becomes too much for your legs, and you collapse back down, this time into a chair that supports your amoeba-like state as everything in you turns to jelly.

“They’re getting closer. We were in Teton, so if they made it this far —” you jumble out, not sure if it’s just meaningless vomit to his ears. By his solemn nod, it isn’t.

He’s up and out of his seat with a wince that’s not as severe as before, his eyes careful on you, on your hands that you’re gripping together tightly to keep them still.

The isolation of his side is evident in the way he closes the space between you, but he masks the grimace as best he can. There’s a reprimand in you somewhere that he should be resting, lying down at least, but you know it’s pointless.

“Hey.”

He’s kneeling as much as his flank will allow, a pain in his eyes that isn’t for himself. Those fingertips scale the cliff of your jaw, ghosting as if he’s afraid to overstep. They’re prodding you to meet his eyes, and when you do, he drops his hand like he’s been burned.

It connects fiercely to a memory that you try to hold in your hands. A snowy, reminiscent one that slips through like a ribbon of smoke.

“Ain’t gotta worry about him. I’ll take care of it.”

You laugh, a real one that’s stained with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

Joel softens now, and the shift startles you. He thinks for a beat before answering.

“Whatever you need it to mean.”

It feels incomprehensible that anyone would willingly put themselves in danger for you, even adjacently, but then who noticed you were missing that day? Who led the pack, found you bleeding out?

The weather was violent, incoherent — a lost cause, a needle in the proverbial haystack. He already toed the line of a dangerous, potentially fruitless rescue mission.

And you never even thanked him.

“Why?” You ask it for the second time in as much as a week. It’s disjointed in conversation, but he knows that you need this answer.

“You remember how you were before?”

And for a split-second, you try.

There are glimpses, a rickety reel of kids tugging on your pant leg as they beg you to join them during recess, a glittering spray of laughter with Ellie as empty beer cans and discarded guitars litter her living room floor.

Of your friends’ faces on too many relaxed, sunny patrols, sometimes forcing them into a detour into the abandoned record store through Alpine so you can see what’s left.

Dinner in warm houses like Tommy and Maria’s, so full to the brim of love and potatoes and mead that you stumble on down to your house with cheeks burning and tuck yourself in with all of the lights off.

Visions of Joel that are fleeting, taped in frames on a film strip, but friendly exchanges.

But it’s a faceless narration. The accident wiped clean of any room for interpretation. Any visitation with these memories. You can place yourself in them, but can’t for the life of you feel tethered to her.

Frustrated, eyes watering, you shake your head.

“That’s why.”

Now he’s holding your jaw like he would some fragile thing, slotting his thumb just under the pulse thrumming in your neck, feeling the echo of it in his hand. There’s a silence, as if he’s straining to hear, to know the sound and syllables of your livelihood. You wish he’d press harder, bring you to the precipice of pleasure and death.

If only to know what it feels to be glass in Joel Miller’s hands, to be given the taste of death after he’d given you the gift of life all those months ago.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. You know he can feel the adrenaline in your pulse point.

“Joel,” it falls out as a whisper, and you hate how good his name feels in your mouth.

He’s looking at you with empathy, thumbing through the pages of every agony you’ve succumbed to. It’s new and buzzing, knowing that there’s nothing you’d ever have to explain to Joel. No reasoning or fine print for how you are, he just knows. And he stays anyway.

A tear tracks a salty line down your face and it meets the pad of his thumb, an easy swipe.

And there’s a surge low in your throat, seesawing with satisfaction and the tell-tale lump of more tears if you lean in hard enough. Joel never shows his hand, the last to fold, but it feels a lot like you’re the prize he was waiting to throw cards down for.

So, you lean. Concave cheek into his calloused hand, tears without sobs leaking between his fingers down into his sleeve. The weight of only the world — your world, plural and shared — pushing you into him. The cataclysmic release that you’ve been aching for.

Your head is against his chest, cheek pressed against flannel because he’s guided you there. And it’s nice, you think, nice that he’s being a gentleman about the whole thing.

A gentleman just finger-combing through your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

It’s serene, and you’d happily make a home there and fall asleep if it wasn’t for the hammering of your heartbeat. You know he can feel it, and your quickened breath is the cherry on top.

Joel levels your faces, and his fingers are deja vu on the braille of each ridged cheekbone. He’s waiting on a cue, a line to be given to him from offstage, but you see flames licking through each darkened iris.

Something keeps holding him back, keeps holding you back. He’s too careful, afraid of cutting his hands on you. And in exploring every facet of that, it’s because he doesn’t want to bleed on you, not because the sharpest parts of you could hurt him.

You keep telling yourself it’s foreign and you’re strangers to one another.

But is it? Are you?

As if he’s reading your mind, Joel closes the distance in one fell swoop, and he kisses you.

It’s clumsy at first, in the way that clumsy is when you’re learning each other’s mouths. You taste the dregs of whiskey, of something wanton, and every unspoken word that’s ever misted between you. Years of forming smile lines and the prickle of his unkempt beard against your chin, taste the stories of every scar.

You’re tangling with him, lips pressing urgently against Joel. His tongue’s expert but gentle when he dips it inside your mouth, and you’re swapping breathless sighs. You can only imagine what he’s tasting of you, what flavor he’s been dreaming of.

His hands are still at either side of your face, thumbs pressing sweetly into the bony part of your jaw. Joel’s stilling the unrest in you that’s put its bags down and refused to leave. It quiets, tips a hat and walks out, leaving a welcome calm in place.

There’s a chasteness, but you know he’s just as desperate and hungry as you are. Wanting to claim, to devour each other entirely. And it’s not lost on you that he’s on his knees, hands clasping your face in prayer like you’re some communion he’s drinking from.

He engulfs you, and you’re moving together, fitting together like you were poured from the same mold. Joel’s fingers have moved to thread through your hair, one of his hands cradling the back of your head and tugging just barely.

Enough that magma pools in between your hips.

But he slows, letting loose a low groan into the heat of your mouth. It’s helpless, like he’s accepted he can’t swim and has submerged his head underwater.

And when you finally break apart, Joel’s pupils are dilated, on the cusp of black. Your collective breaths are uneven. He looks at you in awe.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a long, long time,” he’s saying, but you can barely hear him. Not when your heart is catching up with the rest of you, roaring above everything else. His thumb skates over your bottom lip, and the instinct to unhinge your jaw for him shouldn’t be there, but it is.

Maybe this sort of suffering is worth it, if it’s Joel you’re suffering for.

If you weren’t in trouble before, you sure as fuck are now.

[finalgirlfae]

girls got rhythm, randall “pink” floyd

summary: y/n gets a little too tipsy at a party and randall takes care of her

pairings: randall “pink” floyd x f!reader

genre: fluff

note: this might be a little inaccurate because i’m not a drinker i’m a stoner🫠

music blasted through the speakers of the house as you danced with a red cup full of beer in your hand. it was one of those better summer nights, not too hot and not too cold. it was the perfect amount of warm with a cool breeze overhead.

“having fun?” jodi asked, laughing at the way you danced when you were drunk. you looked like one of those babies who just learned to walk, stumbling around and tripping over yourself a little. this was truly one of the better nights, no more stressors of school and exams. just partying and being with your friends.

you gave no verbal response, just a big smile paired with you tossing your hands in the air. since your cup was full of budweiser the action caused the beer to splash, falling on you and jodi.

“you bitch!” jodi laughed and playfully smacked your arm, she wiped the spilled beer off her face. “i’m gonna go find darla,” jodi began to leave but turned back around and took the cup from you. “and no more drinking for you.” she teased, pointing a finger in your face.

you puffed at her, dramatically crossing your arms over your chest. “you’re not the boss of me.”

she placed her hands on her hips, matching your energy with a smile before walking closer to you. “no but i’m your best friend. same difference.”

you turned away from her, “whatever.” jodi laughed as she watched you stumble away, nearly tripping over your brown wedged heels. they went great with the high waisted denim bell bottoms and dark purple halter top.

you walked around the party, passing through sweaty bodies and clouds of smoke before reaching the other end of the house and finding the man you were looking for. slater.

“slater!” you cheesed, dragging out the last syllable of his name. he smiled at you, obviously high off his ass right now. “y/n, what’s up man?”

you turned to make sure jodi wasn’t behind you before turning back to slater and whispering, “you got a joint on you, man?”

“man you know i do.” he giggled, digging in his pocket before pulling out a pre roll. “$15 bucks.”

you raised a brow at him. “15 bucks? man the only reason you’re at this party and not home studying for summer school is because i helped you cheat in bio.”

he rolled his eyes. “fine. 5.”

you smiled and pulled a 5 dollar bill from inside your shirt. he cringed at the bill as you placed it in his hand. “really? boob money?”

“mhm.” you snatched the joint from him. “closest you’ll ever get to the twins.” you spoke, squishing your boob as a joke before backing up into the crowd again. on the other side of the house in the kitchen pink was leaned against the counter, listening to o’bannion rave to the guys about the hookup he allegedly had with some college girl.

“i’m telling you man, she was spinning on my shit.” o’bannion raved, getting overly excited about the memory. pink only shook his head, taking a sip of his cup full of ginger ale. he was a designated driver tonight, so it was no drinking or smoking for him.

“she was bouncing on my shit like a god damn bunny rabbit. i swear to you man those delaware chicks are wild.” benny sipped his beer and patted o’babnion on the shoulder. “yeah buddy, sure you did.”

“i’m telling the truth!” he was starting to get riled up again. “pink,”

“huh?” pink looked up from his cup, staring at his friends. it’s not that he didn’t wanna be here, but it’s just that he’d rather spend his time with his girlfriend instead of sitting around listening to the guys rave about how many girls they fucked this year. the only reason he came to the party was to see you, you had been hanging with the girls for the last few days and didn’t really get a chance to see each other.

“what do you think, man? they think i’m lying.” o’bannion was clearly already drunk, pink could tell by the hiccups in his voice. he humored his friend, patting him on the shoulder

“you want my honest opinion?”

“uh huh.”

pink shrugged. “i think you’re a pig.”

the group laughed and pink smiled a bit, sipping his soda.

“you only say that cause you don’t like to kiss and tell.” o’bannion put the cup down and pointed a finger in his face. he walked over to pink, tripping over his own feet in the process and falling into the counter. “if i was with a girl like y/n you’d never hear the end of it.” he hiccuped at the end of the sentence.

“okay!” donny spoke, gripping o’bannion’s shoulder and pulling him away. “let’s stop talking crazy before randall breaks your face.” donny pulled the drunken boy out of the kitchen and maybe outside to sober him up a little. it was bad to let o’bannion run around unfiltered and full of alcohol, who knows what’d he’d say?

“randy!” it was dawson’s voice called out to pink, he was peeking his head through the door frame of the kitchen.

“what?”

dawson motioned quickly with his hand, calling pink over to him. “you gotta see what y/n is doing right now man. she’s dancing with darla.”

“oh shit,” pink grumbled. he put down the cup and quickly followed dawson out the kitchen and to the dining room of the house where the music got louder.

i been around the world

i’ve seen a million girls

ain’t none of them got

what my lady got

you were stood on top a table with darla, both of you shaking your hips and attracting even more of a crowd. people stood around the table, calling and cheering the both of you on.

pink liked to call you and darla the evil twins because every time you two were paired together with music and substances, nothing good was to come of it.

she stealin the spotlight

knocks me off my feet

she’s enough to start a landslide

just walkin’ down the street

he pushed through the crowd until he was at the table. pink stood next to jodi who had her arms crossed and an amused look on her face as she watched you and darla dance.

“and you just let this happen?” pink spoke above the music, crossing his arms and not pulling his eyes off the way your body moved.

jodi shrugged. “you know you can’t stop y/n when she parties. look at her.”

pink and jodi both tilted their heads, looking at the way you pressed your back to darla and how the girl began to grind against you.

wearin dresses so tight

and lookin like dynamite

about to blow me away

“i’m not gonna lie, i’m actually a little jealous right now.” pink spoke to jodi making her laugh. darla had a firm grip of your hips and definitely wasn’t letting go any time soon. she turned both of you, making you face pink as her arms slid around your waist and rocked you to the music. she smiled at your boyfriend, sticking her tongue out and continuing to dance.

no doubt about it

can’t live without it

that girl’s got rhythm

“yeah,” pink spoke, watching how the both of you moved. “enough of that.”

jodi laughed as pink moved closer to the table, wrapping strong arms around your legs and lifting you up. you screamed a little as you were thrown over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes and carried out of the living room.

pink walked back to the kitchen and sat you in the counter, looking at how your face pouted. “you are such a party pooper randall floyd!” you slurred, leaning back and hitting your head on the cabinet. you groaned in pain. “ow.”

“how many drinks have you had tonight?” pink stood in between your legs, looking at you closely and running his hands over your thighs. he put a hand up to the back of your head, massaging it gently.

you titled your head at him, ignoring the question completely. “you’re so pretty.”

your boyfriend smiled at you and laughed before digging in his pocket for the car keys. “yeah, i’m taking you home.”

“noo!” you whined out, gripping his arm. “i wanna stay and dance.”

“you are way too fucked up to be here right now. you smell like a dispensary too.” he spoke, commenting on the heavy weed smell from the joint you had smoked earlier.

“i haven’t even smoked tonight.” you lied, rubbing his arm gently. pink looked down at your manicured fingers and how they traced over his muscles. he gripped your hand, stopping you from feeling up his arms. “nice try, you can’t flirt your way out of this.”

“noo let me stay. i promise, ‘m good.”

pink thought about it for a second. “alright. if you can walk in a straight line back to the living room i’ll let you stay.”

you smiled deeply at pink. “observe.” you spoke in an overly cocky tone, sliding off the counter top to stand. you stumbled a bit, the room was spinning in about three different directions and right now to were regretting the shots you took with darla before your impromptu table dance.

you turned your head to pink and he gave you an amused look, motioning with his hands for you to go on. you turned back and took a deep breath.

just walking in a straight line, i can do it

you couldn’t even take a full step before you came crashing to the floor. luckily your boyfriend had fast reflexes and was able to hook your waist with his arm, tugging you into his chest before you fell down.

pink kissed the side of your head before whispering in a teasing tone, “you’re smashed.”

you didn’t respond, much too embarrassed to justify yourself to him right now. pink put your arm over his shoulder and kept his arm around your waist as he began to walk you out of the house. when you reached the front lawn you got away from him stumbling around a few before falling on to the grass.

pink sighed. “you plan on getting up?”

“it’s so comfy.” you muttered, rolling over on to your back. the cool grass was a nice feeling in your drunken state, it felt good against your skin.

“i’m sure it is.” pink spoke, getting in his knees and pulling you to sit up. “but you know what’s he even more comfortable? your bed.”

your eyes widened at his statement. “that’s so true!”

he couldn’t help but laugh at you, pulling you up to stand and practically dragging you to his car.

“you really are so beautiful, you know?” you smiled, looking at pink as he unlocked the car door. pink smiled back at you, “thank you. you are also very beautiful.”

he opened the door to the backseat and helped you in, reaching over and clicking your seatbelt for you. he was so close and was making you feel so strange and it didn’t help that he smelt like heaven.

“do you have a girlfriend?” you asked making him turn his head. pink’s confusion turned to laughter.

��yes, as matter of fact i do.”

“fuck.” you tossed your head back, “she’s so lucky.”

pink sighed. “y/n, you are my girlfriend.”

you snapped your head up at turned to him. “i am? aww that’s so sweet!” you smiled, cupping his face and bringing him in for a kiss. he could taste the alcohol on your lips and normally he wouldn’t like that, but it was you so he couldn’t resist kissing back. you pulled away from the kiss after a few seconds, “i love you.”

he gave you his full smile. “i love you more.”

pink cupped your face, “okay, let’s get you home.”

“so we can fuck?”

he sighed and and pinched your cheeks before letting go of your face. he decided to humor you. “yeah, as soon as you sober up i’ll show you a good time but for now let’s focus on getting you in bed- to sleep.” he closed the back door, sitting in the driver’s seat and turning on the child lock. he wasn’t taking any chances with your safety.

“why not now?” you whined, slouching forward and pressing your face to the back of the drivers seat. the leather was cool against your face. pink backed out of the driveway and pulled on to the main road as you sat up straight.

“because you’re drunk. that’s why.”

you were silent after that, leaning back fully into the seat and looking at the cars and houses he drive past on the main roads.

he checked on you through the rear view mirror numerous times through the the drive, just making sure you were good and weren’t like- choking on your own vomit or something.

when pink pulled on to your block he drove cautiously, saying a silent prayer that your parents weren’t home.

he parked in front of your house and pulled the keys out of the ignition, silently thanking god that your parents were away.

pink opened the back car door, taking off your seatbelt and picking you up. you grumbled incoherent nonsense and he walked up the front door, using the house key in the lamp to open it and pull you upstairs to your room.

pink sat you on the bed and immediately you flopped over on your side. the room was still spinning and the weed mixed with the alcohol made you feel like you had no gravity pulling you down the earth. right now you were simply floating in the stratosphere. pink laughed a little and pulled you to sit up.

“what do you wanna wear?” he asked as he took off your shoes for you. he began to look through your dressers for cloths after that.

“i really want doritos…”

pink sighed. “as soon as we get you changed and in bed you can have all the doritos you want, sweetie.”

he pulled out one of his old jerseys from your dresser and smiled, it was all the way from sophomore year.

“you kept this?” pink asked, walking over to you with a smile. you looked at the jersey and nodded.

“yeah, it’s comfy.” you flipped over again causing him to sigh. pink moved his hands to your pants, unzipping your jeans and pulling them off before helping you put on some shorts. after your pants were changed he removed all your bracelets, necklaces and rings. he left the room for a second before coming back some makeup wipes and a brown wash cloth.

you laid there, watching and letting him take care of you. when he finished changing your clothes he removed your makeup and then pressed a cold wash cloth on to your forehead.

“do you think you’re gonna throw up tonight?”

you only nodded a bit, sitting up and using what ever strength you had left to stand. again, the room spun and you fell back. pink gently grabbed you, sitting you back down on the bed. “woahh, take it easy babe.” he grabbed the wash cloth and pressed it all over your face. “what do you need? i’ll get it for you. just stay here.”

“water please.”

pink nodded and kissed your head, tucking your body under the covers and leaving you in the room for a minute.

he came back with a glass of water, a bag of doritos and a bucket in case you puked during the night.

pink began to walk towards the door but immediately stopped when he heard your voice call out. “you’re leaving?” there was a slight hint of sadness in your tone that made his heart soften.

“no, baby. i’m not leaving. i just gotta go grab some clothes from the car and i’ll be back.”

you nodded and laid down. as soon as your head hit the pillow, you were out like a light. when pink came back into your bedroom, he was careful to be quiet and not wake you. the boy had changed into a black shirt and some flannels to sleep it. he turned off the light, walking over to the bed and slipping in with you.

even in your sleepy state, you felt his body press against yours and his arms wrap around you. soft kisses where placed on the side of your face until both of you fell asleep.

[dougielombax]

Heck I’ll make a list of Irish inventions now just to prove my point!

In no particular order.

Feel free to reblog.

Behold:

1. Whiskey. Let’s get the obvious stuff out of the way. The Scottish got it from us. Shut up. Anyway.

2. The Ogham script.

3. Hurling. One of the oldest sports in the world.

4. Gaelic football.

5. Penitential manuals (it’s an early Christian thing!)

6. Modern chemistry! (Founded by Robert Boyle- also Boyle’s Law)

7. Milk of magnesia.

8. Modern meat curing techniques. (Bacon rashers)

9. Column stills.

10. IV therapy (invented by William Brooke O'Shaughnessy)

11. Kyanizing process for wood preservation.

12. Croquet.

13. Induction coils.

14. The field of seismology.

15. The Kelvin scale.

16. The binaural stethoscope.

17. The first transatlantic telegraph cable.

18. Boycotting. In its modern form.

19. Steam turbines.

20. Cream crackers (YES!!!!!!)

21. The first modern submarine.

22. Ginger ale.

23. Reflector sights.

24. Radiotherapy.

25. Nickel-zinc batteries.

26. Duty free airport stores.

27. Seasoning for crisps.

28. Portable defibrillators.

I can recall that much.

Just saying.

I’m sure there are more things. These are just the ones I can recall.

[littlefaefeather]

Black Butler manga foods/drinks

I'm sure I missed some things, but it was all things that weren't really named or specified, or I couldn't tell with certainty what they were. @sebastian-ciel-mutual-bullying this is for you! feel free to take and use as you need o7 Book 1 breakfast: poached salmon and mint salad with toast, scones, and pain de campagne on the sides, ceylon tea horribly salty lemonade dinner: Japanese green tea, gyuutatakidon, Italian red wine, apricot and green tea mille-feuille dessert: orchard fruit cake with pears, plums, and blackberries dessert: deep-dish apple raisin pie milk

Book 2 assam tea afternoon tea: keemun and summer pudding of currants and other berries lunch: stuffed cabbage and minted potato salad chocolate earl grey afternoon tea: cornmeal cake of pears and blackberries salty rosehip herbal tea

Book 3 hot milk with honey or brandy peeled apple assam tea with milk oranges with shalimar tea steak and kidney pie and salmon sandwiches messy birthday cake and donburi strawberry-decorated birthday cake

Book 4 fish chai with ginger breakfast: shrimp curry and French toast with ginger mackerel with gooseberry sauce and cottage pie

Book 5 British-style Bengali chicken curry chicken curry afternoon snack: gateau au chocolat beef curry blue lobster with seven curries curry bun assam tea white darjeeling tea champagne sushi

Book 6 Christmas pudding cookies shaped like bones fish and chips, meat pies, bread

Book 7 rice porridge dinner: milk risotto with a three-mushroom medley, a pot-au-feu of pork and wine, and a warm apple compote with yogurt sauce

Book 8 oranges afternoon tea: chocolate macarons with fruits and three-berry shortcake

Book 9 custard cream puffs red wine white wine brunch: herring pie and spinach quiche dinner: curry, and chopped vegetables for an appetizer

Book 10 dinner: soybean hamburg steaks

Book 11 elevenses: darjeeling tea and petits fours tonkatsu, shougayaki, tonjiru, tonshabu, yakiton

Book 12 cake with strawberries on top

Book 13 spiny lobster saute, roast turkey, sticky toffee pudding, fairy cakes (cupcakes) warm milk with honey

Book 14 watered-down darjeeling tea darjeeling tea dinner: roast duck and gateau chocolat

Book 15 golden syrup sponge pudding tea cakes lemon myrtle souffle glace with milk tea

Book 16 lunch: beef mince pie

Book 17 dessert: strawberries, cream, and meringue (Eton mess) with a side of iced summer pudding

Book 18 chicken pie coffee and walnut cake

Book 19 ravioli (maultaschen) and wurst soup, stewed pork with herbs and spices (eisbein), and rote grutze (sour berries boiled and chilled to jelly, served with cream) evening snack: caramel macarons, coffee cream eclairs, dark chocolate florentines. black tea ceylon tea

Book 22 earl grey tea with orange almond cake and berry tarts

Book 23 smoked salmon sandesh (milk sweets)

Book 24 soft licorice candy apples

Book 25 berry-filled pudding fish and chips and steak and ale pie gulab jamun (fried balls of dough drenched in syrup)

Book 29 kidney pie, fish and chips, and ale wild-hare pie tapioca steak

Book 30 nilgiri tea breakfast: pea soup, meatballs, croissants, boiled egg, orange jelly chicken and steamed vegetable salad, oxtail stew, pain de campagne with butter oolong tea

Book 31 candy cigarettes

[eerna]

I understand you. First time that I tried ginger ale was when I moved to the states. I’m not 100% sure if it was available where I lived but I am certain that that my first time drinking that soda flavor. I was also able to try candys and snacks that were not available or were more expensive back home.

Yeah!! I went googling to see if there ARE marshmallows sold over here, and there seems to be a German brand imported into one store brand, but no one I know eats them so I concluded that it really doesn't matter if they are sold here or not, they are simply not part of our habits. And omg you just unearthed a memory of an American store (selling stuff that wasn't cola we have cola) opening near my high school when I was 15 and all the kids going there for snacks... We got to try legit USA candy and soda for the first time...

[mindibindi]

Was it Perfect? No. Was it Joyous? Yes.

Okay, I did a bunch of shitposting yesterday but now it's time to collect some coherent thoughts on what I liked and didn't about "The Giggle", the Doctors' bi-generation and RTD's HEA.

───── ⋆⋅*ੈ⋆｡✶.ೃ࿔𖦹 ✩₊˚⋆ ─────

Donna: I would’ve liked Donna to have a little more to do in the final ep. She just worked out the arpeggio thing and followed the Doctor round trying to have earnest conversations with him. When she was sat with the Doctor and the Toymaker, I kept thinking she was gonna insert herself into the game and insist she be dealt in too. Instead, it became another case of supernatural male genius vs supernatural male genius. Maybe this is me being greedy though. Because the last ep was ALL DT and CT and the whole anniversary season has been very focused on Donna and the Doctor. They had to make room somewhere for a fabulous villain (which he was), a new Doctor (also fab) and the UNIT ensemble (fab-est of all), so I guess that meant a little less Donna.

Donna did have some great moments, including annihilating those creepy puppets (which made me lol), meeting Mel and refusing to let the Doctor die alone. I do think Donna should’ve been the one to lust after 15 (much like she did when meeting Captain Jack), but maybe this older, settled version of Donna is less thirsty. As for UNIT, no doubt she will be fired regularly but then promptly rehired because she’s so indispensable (and beloved). Best of all, I love the idea of her, Shirley, Mel and Kate going out for post-work drinks while Donna’s two husbands wait at home, tapping their watches and wondering where their ginger chatterbox has gotten to.

Male Parthenogenesis: Now, RTD knows his DW lore far better than I do and apparently there is some precedent for this. But I still say the metacrisis from ep 1 could have been used to better effect in this episode, with Donna essentially healing the Doctor with her excess regeneration energy and Rose creating the new Doctor with her share of the metacrisis/regeneration energy. Because, modern understandings of gender and deep-dive fan knowledge aside, Doctor Who pretty much revolves around the idea of male parthenogenesis, man birthing man, passing on history, tradition, power, experience and greatness. Socioculturally, asexuality is fairly unfamiliar to us, but we are all indoctrinated with patriarchal, heteronormative narratives from birth. And historically, men have expressed their fear and envy of the power and potential of women/pregnant people by attempting to steal it for themselves, control creation myths and birth male gods and monsters. All the while, they completely disavowed (even denigrated) the role women/pregnant people have played in birthing this world. Through the lens of heteronormativity, regeneration offers men and boys eternal power and godlike creativity. So yeah, I would’ve liked a grown woman/mother and a trans girl just coming into her power as a woman to get a little of that regeneration action that usually belongs to the boys (with the exception of 13). Not because women and birth parents are defined by this biological function but because the male urge to own and control birth, creation and reproduction still has very real-world impacts for girls, women, enbys and trans people.  

Bi-generation: So. The big question is: Does bi-generation diffuse the power and pathos of THE Doctor? Yes. Does it follow that this is a bad thing? No. Not necessarily, not in my mind. I am not a fan of showrunners rewriting known history for shock value or fan service, but I’m not sure this is either. I understand the argument that there is power and meaning in the idea of death and rebirth, letting go and moving on, changing and learning with experience. But for all of that to be owned and embodied by one usually male/male presenting person and played by a popular, powerful cis-het male actor is a problem embedded in this show from the get. NuWho has consistently made an effort to alleviate the inherent power imbalance built into the format, distributing the incredible power of the Doctor amongst a community of extra/ordinary human beings. Some showrunners have been able to do this better than others. That said, we’ve also had a good long stint of the Doctor being a singular, tortured genius who no one quite understands, no one can ever really equal. Whatever gifts companions and their families bring, the Doctor will always be bigger, older, wiser, eternal. But, through the magic of bi-generation, his power can be shared, his centrality dispersed, his reach limited, his experience idiosyncratic, and his knowledge discrete.

Over the years, the Doctor has accrued a lot of trauma and tragedy and suffering and longing, all by virtue of this incredible power. This burden was never been more wetly portrayed than by DT so it’s fitting that he be the one to release both the power and the burden of the sad, wet, lonely Timelord by SHARING IT, by becoming plural rather than singular. It may not feel satisfying, partially because it feels unfamiliar. The trope of the lone tortured genius is recognisable and relatable. We know it well, from so many narratives. Personally, I can’t imagine Ncuti Gatwa as a lone tortured genius. I want him to have a new joyous start. And hey, if you miss the tortured Doctor then 15 has all of time and space in which to once again start accruing trauma and tragedy. But I think it’s good, and time, for 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 and 14 to drop their load and come down to earth. No longer a god, an avenging angel, an objective overseer, but essentially, a human being. Which is kinda what he/she/they wanted to be all along. This IS the death of one version of this show, one version of this character, but it isn’t being offered without regeneration and rebirth right there on the horizon.                   

Happily Ever After: RTD is not like other showrunners. He’s a bold and marvellous beast who isn’t afraid to change things up, especially when they’re not working or have outlived their usefulness. We’re often told that happy endings are trite, trivial, insignificant, unrealistic. Drama, tragedy, sorrow and suffering: that’s where all the weight and meaning of life lies. And look, RTD can write tragedy and pathos as well if not better than the best of them. He could have given us “Journey’s End” or “The End of Time” redux. He could have given twisted and complicated and harrowing. He chose not to. Because, unlike SO MANY SHOWRUNNERS, RTD knows when to write an ending, when to resolve tension, when to heal wounds. It’s common practice, especially in the American television industry, to just…never end, never resolve, never stop, never state, never land. To just flog a creative horse until it drops dead. (At least, this was the television I grew up with; streaming services have altered this model somewhat.)

Doctor Who is exactly the kind of intellectual property that could’ve (and could still under Disney) fall victim to the capitalistic urge for moremoremoremoremoremoremore, despite the fact that such endlessness eventually exhausts creativity and, with it, audience interest. A capitalist never wants the revenue stream to end. But a real writer, a true creator is bold enough to know where to place a well-timed full-stop. In my opinion, RTD read the room and wrote an ending. An ending that the show and the world needed. An ending that shared power. An ending that celebrated ordinary humanity. An ending that healed trauma and prioritised love. An ending that still allows for new life, new potential, new discoveries, new structures, new understandings, and new joy. All of that is totally on-brand for RTD. Those themes of multiplicity, humanity, healing, love and possibility pervade the 60th anniversary specials from beginning to end. They were built into the fabric of each episode. And they’re also the very essence of Doctor Who.     

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A plate full of thick noodles in a light sauce, topped with carrots, cabbage, scallions, red pickled ginger, and vegetarian beef. Second image is a close-up showing the texture of the beef. End ID]

焼きうどん / Yaki udon (Japanese fried noodles)

Yaki ("fried" or "grilled") udon combines thick, chewy udon with vegetables, seared meat, and a savory sauce. It's flavorful, filling, and, if you already have udon on hand, fast!

Udon have a place in 和食 (washoku; "Japanese food" or "harmonious food")—'traditional' Japanese food that predates the increased opening of Japan to foreign trade and influence in the Meiji period. Yaki udon, though, like curry udon and yakisoba, is a more recent entry into Japanese cuisine, and is associated with 洋食(yoshoku; Western-style food).

Udon may be purchased dried, frozen, or, if you have a local east Asian grocery store, fresh; or, you can make them yourself at home.

Recipe under the cut!

Patreon | Tip jar

A couple different types of sauce are commonly eaten with yaki udon; instructions to make each are given below.

Serves 2.

Ingredients:

For the dish:

2 servings (400g) fresh uncooked udon (180g dry; 500g frozen)

1 small yellow onion, thinly sliced

3 leaves green cabbage, cut into bite-sized pieces

2 inches (55g) carrot, julienned

3 scallions, cut into 2-inch (5cm) pieces

3 shiitake mushrooms, thinly sliced

1 Tbsp neutral oil

Ground black pepper, to taste

Benishoga (pickled red ginger), to garnish

Green "cannonball" cabbage (the kind most commonly sold in the U.S.) is the type usually used for yaki udon; if you choose to use napa cabbage, add it in a bit later in the cooking time than the rest of the vegetables.

For the meat:

1/4 cup (9g) heo lát chay or bò lát chay (optional)

1 cup hot water

1/2 tsp vegetarian 'beef' stock concentrate, or 'beef' pho seasoning

Heo lát chay (vegetarian pork slices) or bò lát chay (vegetarian beef slices) are Vietnamese meat replacements that can be found in the dried goods section of an Asian grocery store. They may also be labelled "vegetarian food," "vegetarian meat slice," or "vegan food." Pork belly is the most common meat used in yaki udon, but any meat or seafood substitute will work—or just omit the meat.

For the sauce:

Version 1:

1/4 cup usata sosu (ウスターソース), also often known as sosu (ソース)

1 tsp Japanese soy sauce, such as Kikkoman's

The linked recipe is for a from-scratch version of usata sosu, but you can also check my yakisoba recipe for a quick version.

Version 2:

Another common choice of sauce for yaki udon combines mentsuyu and soy sauce, instead of combining usata sosu and soy sauce (in the same proportion given above). If you don't have mentsuyu, you may substitute for it by combining:

2 Tbsp Japanese soy sauce

2 Tbsp sake

1 tsp mirin or granulated sugar

3/4 tsp kombu dashi powder, or powdered shiitake mushroom

Along with the 1 tsp soy sauce from above.

Instructions:

To cook the noodles:

1. Bring a large pot of unsalted water to a rolling boil. Shake excess starch off of the noodles and add them to the pot.

2. Cook, stirring occasionally with chopsticks or a pasta spoon, until the noodles are cooked through and no longer taste raw. This will take 10-13 minutes for fresh or dried noodles, and 13-15 minutes for frozen. If your frozen noodles are parboiled, they will only need to be blanched for 30 seconds to a minute: be sure to read the package instructions.

The noodles should be slippery and neither hard in the center (if dried) or mushy on the outside, but firm and "koshi" (こし or コシ; "with body," "al dente").

3. Drain and rinse with cold water to halt cooking and rinse off excess starch. Set aside.

For the meat:

1. Whisk stock concentrate into hot water until combined. Add heo or bò lát chay and allow to soak until rehydrated.

2. Simmer lát chay and stock in a small sauce pot until all the liquid has evaporated. Set aside.

For the dish:

1. Heat a large skillet or wok on medium-high for several minutes and then add oil. Sear lát chay, turning once, until browned on both sides.

2. Add sliced onion and continue to sauté, stirring occasionally, until translucent.

3. Add carrots, cabbage, mushrooms, and black pepper and stir to combine. Fry for a few minutes until vegetables are softened.

4. Add noodles and scallions and, using tongs or a spatula, stir to combine. Cook for a minute, until scallions are wilted.

5. Add sauce ingredients and stir. Cook for another few minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sauce has thickened slightly.

Top with more black pepper and benishoga and serve warm.

[mrs-dr-reid]

My Personal Dean Winchester Headcanons

Part 1/?

FOREHEAD. KISSES. If this man doesn’t kiss your forehead at least 15 times a day, he might die. He MUST ALWAYS kiss your forehead, whether he’s saying “hi”, “good morning”, “I love you”, “I missed you”, “goodnight”, “how are you?”, whatever the occasion or conversation, you bet your ass a forehead kiss is coming with it

You get him a record player for Christmas the year after you guys start living in the bunker because you found two gigantic boxes of vinyls in a storage closet, and now whenever he’s cooking, researching with you and Sam, or cleaning his guns/knives/other objects that kill things, he’s listening to his records

Will take any opportunity to get his hands on you in both every day and nsfw situations. Whether it be putting his hand in your back pocket while walking somewhere, kicking Sam from the shotgun seat solely so he can hold your hand while he’s driving, throwing you over his shoulder while you’re doing chores and forcing you to snuggle with him, or kissing your neck while you’re doing stuff because he’s a horny little shit, he’s gonna do it

During really long stretches between hunts when you guys are just hanging around the bunker not doing anything, he organizes “Nostalgic Media Nights” with popcorn and snacks and the works, where he either locates an old cartoon, movie, or sitcom from when y’all were kids/teens on a streaming platform or bootlegs it, and y’all sit down in the living room to watch it, and it doubles as an “Introduce Cas To Mortal Pop Culture Night” as well. He nearly threw up when Cas said he genuinely enjoyed One Tree Hill when the rest of you guys only put it on to make fun of how bad it was

All of his flannels are organized in his closet in the order of how much he wears them, with the most often worn on the left and the least often worn on the right. Sam hates it and always tries to arrange them by color, but he just puts it right back claiming his system is better anyway

Very handy. He always fixes things in the bunker before you or Sam even notice that they’re broken, and you only learn that they were broken when you ask him what he did that day and he offhandedly mentions that he fixed a thing

He collects vintage cookbooks. He finds them in thrift stores and at flea markets, and a couple times a month you three pick a random book and scour through it to find the most offensive and war crime adjacent recipe you can and try it out. You all like jello much less than you did before you started this tradition

When he gets sick, he’ll deny it and try to keep on trucking until he actually passes out from exhaustion, so you have to borderline barricade him in his room to make sure he stays in bed and gets some rest. And he’s a total grump about it, but he’ll still thank you quietly when you bring him ginger ale and tomato rice soup like his mom used to make

He watches cooking shows for the sole purpose of shit talking the contestants. It’s hilarious to watch him while he’s watching Hell’s Kitchen, because he turns into an American Gordon Ramsay and just roasts the hell out of all the competitors. But when he’s watching Great British Baking Show? He was once heard saying, “Oh come on, Barbara, those bagels are flat as hell! STEP UP YOUR GAME, WOMAN, OR YOU WON’T LIVE TO SEE THE END OF BREAD WEEK!”, and you and Sam proceeded to die laughing

He sings in the shower, but he does it in a way that he puts on a SHOW in the shower. He exclusively listens to hair metal while he’s in the shower, and he acts like he’s actually on stage with all of his favorite artists while washing his pits. Although one time you did hear him singing along to "Shake It Off" by Taylor Swift, and you had to fight every urge you had to not record him for blackmail purposes

When he sleeps by himself, he starfishes on his stomach so he can reach the gun under his pillow easier. But when he sleeps with you, he lays on his back with an arm slung around your waist while you’re partially sprawled over him and snuggled into his chest

He’s very bi. Sam always makes jokes that Cas is his boyfriend, but you’re his wife, which always earns a “Confused Angel Head Tilt™️” from Cas, an eye roll from you, and a facepalm from Dean

He taught himself Morse code on a whim because he was bored out of his mind, and for a while he was able to get away with making fun of Sam or “creating chick flick moments” for you, but then you and Sam taught yourselves Morse code and totally call him out on his attempt at being sneaky

He’s absolutely TERRIBLE about keeping New Year’s Resolutions. He makes a list, and he actually follows them for a while as lofty as they end up being, but come February 1st, he’s back to being the same dumpster fire of a human being he was before, but he still gives himself a pat on the back for lasting as long as he did

He’s secretly a cat person. He loves dogs, but he has to admit that cats are badasses. He’s never met a cat that he didn’t immediately like, and cats seem to gravitate towards him because they share his “no fucks given” attitude

He’s insanely good at guessing games like Guess Who, Charades, Pictionary, all that shit. You guys even came up with a way to play Guess Who where the questions you ask are almost too oddly specific based on the vibes of the little character cards, and he still always wins

His favorite way to kiss you is with both of his hands in your hair with your hands on his elbows. He always trails a few cheeky pecks down your neck for fun because he loves it when your cheeks flush bright red when he does

He always texts you to let you know he was thinking about you and what prompted his thoughts. Like “Saw a really pretty sunset earlier. You’re really pretty, too, so I thought of you” or “Saw a really cool car in your favorite color. Made me think of you”, and he always tacks on either a heart emoji or the “<3” because he’s an old man. You can’t help but smile every time you read one of those messages

[vuutarros]

Despite needing to call in sick again today, it was overall a pretty good day.

I spent most of the day placating my tummy with saltines and ginger ale, and by 3 I could eat the brownie I had from a few days ago.

@crechum and I went to the trans meet-up this evening, had a lot of fun and I totally chickened out on asking the trans woman I'm crushing on for her #. Val is not going to let me get away with that again...

Went to Walmart after to get a bucket for the A/C condensation to drain into, and I got super catty about the angry man in line ahead of us. I almost went over to tell him to cool it when he started kicking the cart with his kid in it. Like, this grown ass man who makes $42 an hour is throwing a tantrum in line because there weren't many self-checkouts open 15 minutes before closing. He very loudly brought up his wage during his tantrum. We both made sure to mock that.

Val and I get back to the car and before we can pull out, Mr. $42 walks past pushing his cart, while his wife struggles to carry the gigantic pail of kitty litter that his kicking could not get back onto the bottom of the cart. Val and I were both so pissed off at this man.

But we didn't say anything, because 2 trannies confronting an angry man has the potential to end in a hate crime...

[jtl-fics]

Surely please!

5/15/24 WIP Wednesday (Open) | Surely

So Abram sits in the silence and faint light and he waits and when he hears a key in the door he feels his heart in his throat. There's a pause and then there's the knock that he and his mother use to announce that it was them before they came in. It had become a necessity after Mary had almost gutted him when he'd come back from taking out the garbage when she'd been asleep.

His shoulders loosen and the door opens to reveal his mom.

She has a small bag of groceries in her hand and she secures the door after a few moments. She says nothing to him but does come into the kitchen proper she puts a pot of water to boil and grabs a glass.

"I'm making mac n' cheese." she says and Abram knows she hates it after the two months where it was all they had eaten but Abram hadn't gotten sick of it yet and enjoyed it.

<- PREV | FIRST | NEXT ->

[canyouimaginethatstory]

Wrongfully Accused Part 14 (Lucifer X Reader)

PART 1: Here  PART 2: Here PART 3: Here PART 4: Here PART 5: Here PART 6: Here PART 7: Here PART 8: Here PART 9: Here PART 10: Here PART 11: Here  PART 12: Here  PART 13: Here  PART 15: Here

Things went smoothly for the next two months. You and Lucifer were happy. He passed every random drug test and visit Billie threw at him. Lucifer got his license renewed. As you predicted Bobby did end up liking him enough to give him his own car to keep and fix up. An old 1985 black Porsche. That's how you knew Bobby considered him a hard worker. He only gave the really good old cars to the employees who did the best and most work. Jessica and Sam were getting more anxious as Jessica just entered her eighth month mark. You were standing in your kitchen. Today was the day you were finally gonna tell your brothers about you and Lucifer. You were especially worried about how Dean would react. You know your oldest brother. It was more than likely not gonna end well. You grabbed a ginger ale from the fridge as Lucifer walked out of the bathroom ready for work. Your stomach always acted up when you were nervous. "You sure you wanna do this?" he asked as he walked over and gently rubbed your back.

"It's time they knew," you told him, "especially if we decide to go to your dad's book thing,". He nodded

"Ok, well call me if you need me," he said kissing your forehead "Bobby will let me go early if he knows you're upset,". You grabbed your bag and keys. Bobby was the only one who knew you were together and though he didn't like it he promised to keep it between you three.

"Have a good day my sexy mechanic," you said giving him a kiss. He softly patted your butt as you left. You got settled in your car and tried to calm your nerves. You hated feeling so nervous. "I can do this" you chanted to yourself as you headed off to the restaurant you decided to meet your brothers at. You decided on a public place so hopefully, your brothers wouldn't make a scene. You pulled up to the restaurant and cut off your engine. "You can do this," you told yourself again. You grabbed your bag and threw your keys in it before getting out of the car. You scanned the parking lot and spotted Dean's Impala so you knew they were already here. You walked in and up to the hostess.

"Can I help you?" she asked

"Yes, I'm looking for a table under the name of Winchester?" you told her.

"Yes, right over here," she said walking you to a corner booth where your brothers waited. She handed you a menu and went back to her podium.

"Hey Y/N," Dean said getting up and hugging you.

"Hey little one," Sam greeted pulling out your chair for you.

"Hey guys," you said sitting down, "have you ordered yet?".

"Not yet," Dean said, "what's this news?". You wanted to tell them but not too soon.

"Later," you told him, "let's just talk for a bit,". So you and your brothers enjoyed your lunch and talked. You listened intently as Dean bragged about taking down a killer who proudly called himself Hitler So now Dean goes around saying he killed Hitler. Which is completely something his goofball self would say. Sam went on about his worries over being a dad soon. You knew he could do it.

"Come on Y/N, we've finished eating," Dean said, "tell us what you need to tell us,". You took a calming breath as your stomach started to feel queasy again.

"Ok, but before I do I want you two to remember I am a smart woman and I am fully grown got it?" you asked and they nodded. "Sam you remember that pin pal project you started for your law class?" you asked. He nodded. "well one of the guys caught my eye," you admitted.

"Y/N did you enter the program?" Sam asked.

"Not exactly," you said.

"What does that mean?" Dean asked confused.

"I snuck a file out of the folder," you admitted, "the guy just caught my attention and we started writing each other and now we're in love,".

"Y/N most of these guys could be dangerous" Sam pointed out.

"He's not," you said.

"Who is he?" Sam asked. This was the moment you knew they'd freak out, but like you told Lucifer you were tired of hiding him. You looked your brother straight in the eye and confidently answered.

"Lucifer Shurley," you said.

"No, absolutely not Y/N," Dean said.

"Dean you are not dad," you pointed out, "and we've been dating for a while and it's been the best relationship I've ever had,".

"He's a criminal Y/N!" Dean said raising his voice causing people to look over at your table. You didn't care.

"No he's not," you said, "He was accused wrongly of a crime,".

"Oh come on Y/N," Dean argued, "did you really fall for whatever sob story he sold you?".

"It's not a sob story!" you spoke a little louder than you meant to, "Lucifer's story has never not once changed Dean,".

"He ripped his own father off Y/N," he pointed out, "stole from his own parent,".

"Oh please Dean," you said, "everyone knows how shady Father Shurley is,".

"He's always done the best for the town," Dean pointed out.

"No Dean he kisses up to the biggest names to keep funding for his lame ass books," you corrected.

"His books aren't that bad," Dean said.

"Seriously Dean?" you asked raising your eyebrow, "have you even read any of them?"

"Well, no," he said, "but people talk about them all the time,".

"Yeah and do the stories sound at all familiar?" you asked.

"What?" he asked confused.

"Like his novel A Fated Hunt. It's literally about dad accidentally killing Jo's dad during a deer hunt,". you pointed out, "and how her mom never fully got over it,".   "So he wrote a story matching a real life event doesn't mean anything," Dean said.

"Or the story of Sam's tiny drug use in college," he asked, "which he cheesily titled Demon Blood,".

"I guess that was bad," he agreed.

"And what about his book about you?" you asked.

"Me?" he asked back confused.

"Heart Throb," you said, "he talked about how you were the lady's man of the high school and how you had that daddy scare with Lisa Brady,".

"Oh yeah, I still don't see how he knew about Ben," he admitted.

"He probably paid Lisa to tell him," you pointed out.

"Look it doesn't matter," he said standing up, "he isn't good enough for you Y/N".

"He is beyond good for me Dean!" you said getting up, "You don't have to like it Dean. But you will not big brother your way into breaking us up and you will not tell me who I can and can not date! I love him and he loves me," you grabbed your stuff and hurried out of the restaurant. Dean started to head after you but Sam stopped him.

"Dean, she's right," Sam said, "it's her life,".

"He's an ex con Sam!" he argued.

"I know and yeah I'm worried too, but she's not a little girl anymore,".

MASTER LIST: Here

PROMPT EVENT: Here

REQUEST INFO: Here

1K FOLLOWER WORD PROMPT EVENT: Here

[watchingspnagain]

Rewatching Wishful Thinking

Welcome to “Teddy Bear Docs and Deep Cuts”: A Supernatural Rewatch Blog” with Lor and Mace!

 Up today, s4e8: Wishful Thinking.

 When Sam finds a possible case about a woman attacked by a ghost in the showers at her gym, Dean can’t get to work on it fast enough. But the lady’s story is weird—not their kind of weird—and they’re about to give it up as a bad job when they get wind of a Big Foot in town. But—Big Foot isn’t real. As they dig a little deeper, they realize that people in town have been making wishes at the fountain at a local Chinese restaurant. The wishes come true—but quickly go bad. A little girl’s teddy bear does come alive, but he’s depressed and suicidal. A man’s unrequited love suddenly loves him dearly—too dearly. The boys track down the source of the shenanigans—an ancient coin tossed into, and stuck to the bottom of, the fountain. Once they convince the man who put it there to remove it, all returns to normal. Dean finally admits to Sam that he remembers hell, but refuses to talk about it, claiming he has no words with which to do so.

 Below is a log of our real-time reactions as we watched. Remember that there may be spoilers for any part of SPN’s 15-season run here. Note also that the nature of our conversation is adult and thus it may contain adult language and themes.

 [and we begin:]

 Lor:

 oooh right, Uriel is shitstirring

  Mace:

 YUP

  This is the one with the teddy bear doctors, right?

   Lor:

 i think so

Mace:

 I love that line but kind of hate the teddy bear

  Lor:

 yeeeeeah

it's dark

  Mace:

 it sure is

 omg this waiter

  Lor:

 haaaahahahaha

  Mace:

 omg did dean just check out his ass?

  Lor:

 I BELIEVE HE DID

poor Dean. he just wants to drink a billion shots, Sam

  Mace:

 “down under” yep, that checks. I’m convinced Australia is indeed hell

  Lor:

 LOLOLOL

it certainly has monsters

  Mace:

 IT DOES

  Lor:

 lol Dean equal opportunity ass checking tonight

  Mace:

 Sammy looks SO GOOD in that shirt

 YES

  Lor:

 "we gotta save these people"

 he DOES

 "the working title is Supernatural" SAMMY

  Mace:

 YAS

  “yeah that’s weird"

  Lor:

 Sam is giving excellent "wait what" face

  Mace:

 HAHAHA

  Lor:

 "damn right I wanted to save some naked women"

  Mace:

 HAHAHA

  Lor:

 how many pockets does he HAVE in that coat?

  Mace:

 i dunno but I’d like to find out

 Lor:

 YAAAS

 Sammy with his snaps and Dean with his flannel

 that is a... big foot

  Mace:

 YES

 I love how flustered they are

  Lor:

 YES

 omg Dean shoplifting some liquor

  Mace:

DEAN WINCHESTER YOU PAY FOR THAT

  Lor:

 LOLOL

 omg unison confused bench sitting

  Mace:

 YES

  DEEP WOODS DUCHOVNY

  Lor:

 lol

AND HIS FACE

  Mace:

 YES

  Lor:

 omg peering around the bush

  Mace:

 PEEKING AROUND THE SHRUB

  HAHAHAHA

  Lor:

 YAAAS

 omg Harry and the Hendersons. that's a deep cut, Dean

  Mace:

 it really is

   omg Dean’s FACE

  Lor:

 omg Dean. he's so done

 YES

 THEIR FACES

  Mace:

 YES

  Lor:

 smells like the bus

  Mace:

 SNORK

 omg Dean

  Lor:

 he's like I don't get paid enough for this and then he remembers he doesn't get paid

  Mace:

 HAHAHA

 the conversation about whether they need to kill it omg

  Lor:

 LOLLIPOP DISEASE

 YES

  Mace:

 YAS

  Lor:

 it's not uncommon for bears his size

I love them

  Mace:

 SNORK

YES

 the sandwich omg DEAN

  Lor:

 YES

 he can't find the right ID omg

  Mace:

 SNORK!!

 FUCK YOU 839862

  Lor:

 oh oh is he not that guy anymore? fuck 327

 HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

  Mace:

 HAAAAAHAHAHAHA

  Lor:

 the way they just walk in with the tools and poor Mr Chin is like HANG ON NOW

  Mace:

 poor guy

  Jensen is giving SUCH good faces in this one

  Lor:

 YAS

he has such range

  Mace:

 he does

 smarty sammy with the squeeze

  Lor:

 YES

  Mace:

 good boy Sammy

  Lor:

 omg Dean "what? no"

  Mace:

 Dean is confused and impressed

  Lor:

 YES

 "the wishes turn bad, Sam. the wishes turn very bad"

  Mace:

 “wishes turn very bad"

HAHAHAHA

  Lor:

 DEAN WINCHESTER don't drink that beer. go get a sprite or something

  Mace:

 I was about to say.

i think it may be ginger ale?

  Lor:

 oh okay then

  Mace:

 ugh i hate this part

not funny

  Lor:

 yeah

 oh no bad dreams

  Mace:

 oh dean

  Lor:

 dude, Sam. I know you're annoyed he's not telling you about hell, but give the man a little break

  Mace:

 yeah, but I get Sam’s side, too. He’s so worried

  Lor:

 yeah

  Mace:

 I mean, he’s acting better than Dean with Sam’s...abilities

  Lor:

 THAT is true

 the florists

  Mace:

 snork

  Lor:

 "and on Thursdays we're teddy bear doctors"

  Mace:

 Is that Sam Raimi?

 HAHAHA YES

  Lor:

 no idea

he looks familiar though

 omg their faces

  Mace:

 YES

 It’s Ted Raimi, Sam’s brother

  Lor:

 they play off each other so well in these funnier episodes

  aaaah

  Mace:

 they really do

  (do you know who he is?)

  Lor:

 (I do not)

  Mace:

 (he’s a horror movie director)

  Lor:

 (ooooh. I know I’ve heard the the name)

  Mace:

 (the evil dead movies)

  Lor:

 "Something bad. like us." omg Sammy. stop being so hot

  Mace:

 (and also the toby mcguire spider-man movies)

  HAHAHAHAHA

  Lor:

 (aaah)

 omg they just run over the kid

  Mace:

 (so lots of people who love SPN probably LOVE him)

(because his horror movies are all cult favorites)

  Lor:

 (that is really cool)

  Mace:

 (YES)

  Lor:

 "Kneel before Todd!"

  Mace:

 YES

  Lor:

 omg the Spider-man line!

  Mace:

 THE SPIDER-MAN QUOTE

YAS

  Lor:

 YAAAAAS

  Mace:

 so clever

  poor sammy

  Lor:

 yeah

he keeps losing those shoes

  Mace:

 HAHAHAHA he does!

  Lor:

 omg Dean. after all that he's gonna help Todd with his bullies

  Mace:

 YES

  Lor:

 I love him

  Mace:

 you do?!

  Lor:

 I know. I've been keeping it under wraps

  Mace:

 mind. blown

  Lor:

 I feel you are making fun of meeeee

  Mace:

 NEVER

  Lor:

 were they specifically waiting to make sure Audrey's parents got back?

  Mace:

 oh DEAN

 it seems so

sweet boys

  Lor:

 that's adorable. and of course they did

 "tell me about it." "no"

  Mace:

 “so tell me about it.” “no”

  Lor:

 oh boys

  Mace:

 YES

 LEAN ON ME, Dean, LEAN ON ME.

  Lor:

 "there aren't words. there's no forgetting"

 DEEEAN

  Mace:

 his little lip quiver

  Lor:

 YAAAAS

  Mace:

 I mean, DAMN, Jensen

  Lor:

 Cas come hold him

his stupid little freckle face all tortured

  Mace:

 YES

[nbula-rising]

Peach Bellini

Prep Time 15 mins Cook Time 5 mins Servings: - 4 glasses

Ingredients

   3 medium-sized peaches, peeled and diced    1 tablespoon (15 ml) freshly squeezed lemon juice    ⅓-½ cup (109 - 164 g) simple syrup, (recipe below)    1 bottle sparkling wine or champagne    fresh mint, for garnishing    extra 1-2 peaches, for garnishing

Simple Syrup

   1 cup (200 g) sugar    1 cup (237 ml) water

Instructions

Simple Syrup

   In a medium saucepan combine sugar and water. Bring to a boil, keep stirring until sugar has dissolved- about 5-7 minutes. Let it cool.

Peach Bellini

   Place peaches in a blender and blend until puree- remove and add to jar.

   Pour in a large pitcher, followed by lemon juice. Then add syrup to taste. Stir until everything comes together. Add sparkling wine.

   Serve with ice cubes. Garnish with mint and sliced peaches.

Recipe Notes

   Want an alcohol-free version?  Use sparkling water with a splash of lemon juice or go for equal parts of sparkling water and soda (like 7UP). Ginger ale or sparkling cider makes a great substitute too.    You may remove or not the peach skin. Just be sure to rinse it with water before cutting.    You may replace peach puree with store-bought peach juice or nectar.    To make a Frozen Peach Bellini, freeze the peach puree in an ice cube tray and then add and blend them all with a little juice before you add the sparkling wine.    You may experiment and replace the peach with other fruits like raspberries and strawberries. Or you can go for half peach and half pineapple combo for a more tropical twist.    Please keep in mind that nutritional information is a rough estimate and can vary greatly based on products used.

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

okay but now we need Peter Two mother-henning a sick Peter One and Peter Three 👀 :D

15. Hugging each other + 45. Feeling their temperature

Peter Three wished he could say Two was being silly. He wished he could wave it off as a change in the weather, allergies, anything other than the truly miserable bout of flu it was building up to be. He wished he could tell Peter Two that all of this fussing was unnecessary and unwanted.

But of course he would be lying. Sickness always had a way of swaying his state of mind and emotion far too easily. It usually came in two stages: firstly, the snippy and standoffish phase. He would take any less-than-positive interaction as a personal affront and square up for a fight, even if it was one he couldn’t win—or one that hadn’t been there in the first place.

The second, longer stage came when he was fully immersed in the ill experience: what the others had affectionately dubbed the “spider squid” mentality, wherein anyone in the immediate vicinity found themself with a sad, sullen, soppy Peter Three suctioned to them. Maybe it was the prickly, shivering sensitivity in his skin that his body mistook as a craving for comfort by proximity.

Whatever the cause, there was very little chance of escape once he got his arms around them. He was currently draped over Peter Two, sniffing in vain attempts to catch a whiff of the smoothie he had prepared on the counter. It couldn’t breach the wall of mucus in his sinuses.

“You may not be able to taste it but at least it’ll be nice and cool for you, huh?” Peter Two murmured, rubbing circles into Three’s back before pressing his palm to the back of his neck. “Mm, still too warm…Let’s get you tucked in and then you can sip on this while I make you a cool compress, okay?”

Three sniffed again, hoping it sounded no different from the others, cursing his stupid fever-brain for its tendency to threaten him with unanticipated waterworks at any available moment. “You already did,” he mumbled, guiltily grateful. “What haven’t you already done?”

No outsider would ever guess that Two had only assumed the role of an older brother in the past year. He had all but shot down Three’s standoffish phase in its tracks by being so infuriatingly soft and kind and considerate from the get-go—helping him peel off his sweat-soaked suit and tug on soft pajamas, always keeping his touch light so he wouldn’t exacerbate the aches. After making tea, rice and toast and deciding it wasn’t enough, he’d gone out to buy the fruits for this smoothie, ginger ale, popsicles and the typical array of medicines. He’d even changed the sheets and pillowcases on Three’s cot so they would be crisp and clean.

“MJ gets a lot of the credit for inspiring me. She spoils me rotten when I’m sick—although I suspect it’s just so she can make sure I stay in bed and actually rest,” Peter Two chuckled lightly, as if all his effort were nothing particularly noteworthy. “I’m just paying it forward. You deserve it.”

“N-No, I don’t…You’re just too good. You shouldn’t have to worry about me; y-you shouldn’t even be here. All this stuff you’re doing to take care of me, it’s just gonna wear you down and then I’m gonna get you sick too a-and Peter One and…”

“Hey, hey, shhh…all this worrying is gonna wear you down, buddy,” he soothed, already resuming the circles between his shoulders. “The only thing you need to worry about right now is getting better. If I can help, I will, and so would you. It’s what we do.” A brief shuffle across the apartment interrupted him and he looked up. “Hey, Peter One. Maybe keep that window cracked after you come in, please; Peter Three would probably appreciate some cool, fresh air.”

“Nnnh, d-do I have to? I feel f-freezing…” There was a hoarse whine in Peter One’s voice, followed by a few rattling coughs that he muffled in the crook of one shivering arm.

Peter Three lifted his heavy head to cast a resigned stare upon the youngest over his shoulder, while Peter Two accepted what he knew was coming with a small, firm nod.

“Close that, then, and come over here to the couch for a bit. Peter Three’s running hot at the moment; if he sits with you, he can warm you right up while I put your blankets in the dryer. We’ll get you changed and then they’ll be nice and toasty for you to climb in. Three, why don’t you have your smoothie while you wait with him? Remember, just small sips, and then I’ll make you another cold compress after I plug in his heating pad and put on the next pot of tea.”

As they were deposited onto the couch, the pair of sick spiders shared a glassy-eyed but no less amazed glance—a mutual awareness that they would owe Peter Two a lot of favors the next time he was in their shoes.

“…Take your time,” they said together.

[acherontiarchivist]

Status Update: Koi No Yokan

Ok everyone, progress report is Koi No Yokan will soon be leaving hiatus. I have given a lot of thought about where I want it to go from here, and honestly I am dying to get the plot I had planned out for it really rolling. At first I wanted to take more time with the slowburn romance, but more than pining I want to cultivate the feeling of fear and anxiety. Yes, there will still be romance, obviously, and lots of smut! But fear has been a driving force with me creatively lately, and I am dying to get that ball rolling more with the plot that i have planted the seeds for, and also so I can move on to other fic ideas. (I have plans for a gabirel fic and a danny johnson fic in the works). There is an end in sight for koi no yokan, but fear not, it is not near, only hovering the horizon. I haven't completely figured out how exactly I want to end it yet. It could go two ways– a good end, fuzzy and romantic and comforting, and a bad end, with loss and tragedy and fear of what is to come. I'm honestly leaning towards the bad end, but that's where the readers come in (that's you)! As it stands I have seven chapters outlined and more to go, and a few chapters partially written. I'm not quite sure how many chapters are left truthfully, if I had to hazard a guess I'd say 10-15, including the chapters I've outlined.

As a thanks for waiting so long, I'll post a little teaser from the next chapter under the cut

(Also, sorry for the long post)

Two glasses of ginger ale sit patiently on the table, collecting condensation. You try not to sweat as much, nervously biting at your nails, wondering how to best bring up the night you came home naturally. Sure, he was occupied for a few days riding a wave of inspiration, you've been there, you could understand that. But was he really? Could that just have been an excuse? He is certainly taking a long time to bring over a few sketches and paintings. Maybe he didn't really have anything to show for his excuse.

A bead of water drips down the glass and collects onto the wooden coaster, captivating your vacant stare. Steady, rapid klinks begin to overlay the fizzy bubbles of the drinks. You worry that Selina's message on her business card pressured him to move more quickly than he was ready for. Was he really going to confess his feelings for you that night, or did he dig himself into a hole and spend the last three days hiding from the mess he made? Either way, you just want to make things right. You can't keep fighting the heavy weight bearing down on your chest, the sense of guilt that has shackled your ankles since he left your house in a hurry with a slam of your front door. God, why do you always do this? You're catastrophizing again, you worry yourself too much. Maybe it's a habit picked up from the constant paranoia that plagued your not so distant past.

Keys release the deadbolt, knocking you out of your spiral just in time. Vincent peers around the door carrying a large, aged leather portfolio. You dart your hand away from your mouth and sit on them both to avoid the scolding for picking up that nervous habit again. "Hi, Vinny," you smile, trying not to look too perturbed.

He approaches your side and places the portfolio flat on the table. When he gets situated on the couch, he places one hand on your knee, steadying your bouncing leg and ceasing the hypnotic klinking noise. How long have you been bouncing your leg?

"Sorry," you look down to the floor out of disappointment in yourself. His thumb rubs your knee as a soothing gesture and you fight back a blush. "So, you gonna open this baby up or what?" You try to sound more chipper and meet his stare with a lopsided smile, letting your hair fall over your face slightly.

Vincent hesitates momentarily before nodding and leaning over to gingerly untie the bound leather. He takes in a heavy breath to brave himself for what he has no doubt is the serious embarrassment and rejection to come, then almost half heartedly flips the top wing of the portfolio over to reveal the sketches and paintings he had spilled his heart into underneath. The couch creaks under his weight as he retreats back into the couch and releases a breath he didn't know he was holding onto. His hand reaches out to grab your own, but goes unnoticed as you sink to the floor on your knees.

 You can't believe what you see spread out on the table before you. Countless loose sketch papers spill from the portfolio, pushed to the floor and falling in your lap as you grab each one and examine it briefly before taking in the next. You. They're all you. Some you can tell are drawn from memories the two of you share– you at the dinner table, laughing with Bo and Lester, you celebrating your miraculous win at a game of pool, you cooking breakfast in the Sinclair's kitchen. Shaky breaths fight to enter your lungs, all the while your chest rising sporadically.

Composure threatens to slip your grasp. Finally, you try to neatly gather them and set them aside from the oil painting that laid beneath the piles of paper. A woman stands in a dark forest, the full moon a halo behind her head. She holds antlers on top of her head and three wolves lay by her feet. This, you realize, is you as well. Your back meets the couch as you try to process it all. All of the words slip your mind, as if you've suddenly forgotten to speak English. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing escapes the void.

Vincent can hear his own heart beating in the silence of the room, threatening to deafen him, even drive him mad. He can't take it, he knows what's coming. His leg twitches as he decides to get up, leave and run away, to never turn back, to lock himself away in his safe place and never see the light of day again. But something happens, something he didn't quite expect.

As soon as you feel him move, your hand almost instinctively meets his knee as if to freeze him to the spot. Now the only sounds occupying the space are his wavering breaths hitting cold wax and the loud pulse that you could no longer tell whether it was his or your own. For the first time in a long time, Vincent finds himself fighting back tears. You swear you could almost hear him whimpering as you pull yourself onto the couch, sitting on your knees and facing him. "Vincent," you whisper and stare at the rise and fall of his chest, unable to make eye contact, still trying to work up the courage.

"Vincent, the other night, I thought I–" you take a deep breath and look him in the eye, "I thought I really fucked up. I thought I had pushed you to– I don't know, rush things I guess?"

He looks at you, unmoving, waiting. You shake your head and look at your hands, picking at a hangnail. "Fuck, I guess I still could be jumping the gun here," you laugh nervously. "Vinny, I just have to hear it from you, okay? Before you run away and hide again and avoid me and leave me a nervous wreck. Please, just tell me if I'm reading into this too much," you gesture to the pages littering your living room. No response from him still, only his grip tightening on the arm of the couch, threatening to rip the upholstery.

"I need to know you want me, too." It comes out as a whisper, tailed by a halted gasp that slips past his lips. Time stops for just a moment between you two, no movement, not a sound. You almost admit defeat and begin to nod your head and turn away, but a strong, calloused hand meets the side of your face and returns it to its previous position, now met with the smooth texture of his mask pressing against your skin. His right arm snakes around you to hold you steady against his chest by the back of the neck, sending Shivers down your spine. His grasp is firm, but not rough, you feel his other arm moving outside of your periphery, then you hear a clatter on the end table directly behind you. You close your eyes, partially because you know that's what he would want and partially as a reaction from his hot breath meeting the bare skin of your neck. His lips ghost your ear and you swear you can almost hear some semblance of 'want you' in his breath before he pulls back to kiss you once again.