#because I feel like I comment a whole lot nowadays

[athousandblessings]

GOD snzblr, the hotness of your OCs is off the charts. It's terrible AND wonderful. I lov. @dopaminty @silklined @theladywakefield @gay-for-the-snz @evilfloralfoolery @cravatsandcolds @mimikusu @mongooseblues and so many more, I'm a little loopy right now but it's a LOT and HOH GOD @thedevillionaire you realize that your avatar change is going to kill me yes? OK well just so that's understood, and yes I will be dying happy. ❤️

[muu-kun]

Speaking of fashion, I will eventually have the appropriate amount of time to dedicate myself to a proper attire headcanon post. For now, I only have examples for silhouettes pertaining to dresses gathered. Which at this point can ultimately be narrowed down in explanation as Muu holding preference for a bodice that does not require even just a modest breast size.

Although he does wear bralettes (which is not out of gender dysphoria or euphoria on any account actually. Instead, it is more so like a running joke with himself at this point due to the fact he's actually had an infatuation with wearing them since he was a sixteen year old boy that found a bra lying in the street) he doesn't do so with the intent of applying padding to them-- especially when considering the fact he has some minor gynaecomastia due to stubbornly persistent baby fat going on. He can deal with those, but he definitely doesn't want to even so much as imply he has "real breasts."

He also isn't one to gravitate towards those built around the necessity for breasts due to the fact that he does not wish for the attire adorning his body to appear as though something (or somethings) is missing. Which is also the given reason why even in his decision to wear what is considered women's underwear underneath the dresses similar to above, he does not engage in the act of tucking. Yes, that does come within treacherous territory per the fact that he is then advertising himself as a flamboyantly youthful individual with an occasionally visible (and not incredibly well endowed, mind you) genitalia outline in his attire. That's not even to mention the detectability of his disabilities on establishing conversation with him.

Beyond that, he's not too partial to much else. Length and material is otherwise irrelevant as long as he can freely move within it to accommodate an in-between active and sedentary lifestyle. He would also best appreciate those that are not overwhelming to the senses in one manner or another-- this includes itchiness, heaviness, lack of breathability, and so on. Textures usually aren't too worrisome to him, however, as he has been raiding the closet of his female friends (such as Hannah of @kannojo predominantly) for years, so by now he knows what he does and doesn't like with enough ease that even unexpectedly finding something is unappealing to him van be easily remedied without any fit.

The bottom line with all of this is while Muu strictly wears what is primarily marketed as women's clothing, he does not do so out of the desire to be a woman. In fact, he's asked that question within himself many times only to come up with the same conclusion each time: He is simply an aged up boy caught up in having to navigate too many things at once, therefore eccentricities intended to lighten his load have transpired. Being that 99% of abusers have been men throughout the years, and women his sanctuary from them, it became sensible at some point for him to cease one struggle for favor of mirroring his safety while he sources through another. Muu has no idea even how to be a person yet, let alone a gendered one.

That is also not to say he wishes to abolish entirely in favor of utilizing they/them pronouns. In fact, it still remains quite the opposite. At this time in his life, he's not looking to be othered more than he always has acquired for himself. Being gridlocked into a perpetual state of regression in his present has been isolating enough as is that he doesn't wish for more beyond that. It also has intriguingly been almost beneficial in keeping some of his identity centered, though, as being so interwoven with his inner teen provides connection with the perspective of character held back then.

When he was sixteen, he was very self assured in nearly all aspects in life until led to second guessing the bulk of them. Of those is one of which where he was well adamant that he was a boy with a preference for he/him pronouns to demonstrate that. And while he's been able to find appreciation for femininity that he'd have otherwise mocked in his youth, that is as far as it goes for the time being. Working beyond the semantics of that just isn't on the table at this time in his life.

Where he might go with it during Pride Month is still up to him, but, really, his focus is far more centered on fulfilling and answering other aspects of his person at this time. Generalized comfort and safety are of the utmost importance to his emotionally led manner of living. Once that is established, whether or not he opts for reintroducing what is considered men's attire back into his wardrobe is completely up in the air.

[raineydays411]

My Father's Daughter

Part 9

Summary: You've been at the Wayne Manor for over a month.

In some weird way you understand Christine.

You understand why she tries so hard to spend time with you while you're in her home. Why she begs for you to get off of your phone and cook with her. You get why she tries to make the other kids be nice to you. Scolds them harshly when they make snide comments underneath their breath about you.

Truly, you do.

You just...genuinely don't give a shit.

You don't care that she feels bad that she abandoned you for a completely other family and you don't care that she feels like she's losing time to create a bond with you.

You did not care.

Really, you didn't.

"Um,kid... you know I love you but I'm really not that kind of doctor" Bruce Banner said awkwardly over facetime.

You sigh. "Yeah I know B. You were just the first one to pick up the phone."

"Ouch." Banner laughed, " you know, you really are your fathers child."

You smile, one of the rare times you actually did nowadays. " How is the old man?"

You haven't been able to call him since he was paranoid whoever wants you would track your phone calls and find out where you are.

"Your father is even more annoying now without you than he ever has been in my entirety of knowing him" Banner deadpans, " He misses you a lot kiddo, we all do."

You smile sadly, missing your family.

It was hard, seeing these people you barely knew, with a mother you barely knew, stuck in a house you barely knew.

And the fact that they feel like a family. They argue and play jokes on each other. They eat with each other every afternoon ( Bat activities at night), Bruce kisses Christine goodbye when he goes to work. It was so domestic in its weird little ways.

But you didn't fit in.

They laughing and the jokes stopped whenever you walked into the room. The conversations were stale.

It was depressing.

It's not like they ignored you, oh no. That would've been preferable.

No half of them trip over their feet to try and include you in whatever they're doing.

Dick will turn blue chatting your ear off about whatever he thinks will get you to open up to him and Christine?

She will bend over backwards, frontwards, and sideways just to get you to acknowledge she gave birth to you. Every night she comes into your room and tries to talk to you about your life. And every question is met with a dull answer

"So any boys that catch your interest here?" " I don't know, I can't leave the premises"

"Were you in any sports? You look like you'd be a cheerleader like your momma!" " I was in mathletes and debate like Pepper"

"You really are beautiful my baby" "Thanks, everyone says I look like my dad"

It really was a struggle to get you to open up. Almost everyone at the manor had a hard time even starting a conversation with you.

Everyone except of course Alfred and surprisingly Jason Todd.

Alfred won you over as soon as you moved in. He vouched for you when you needed time alone and brings you snacks>

Jason is a whole different story.

See, the reason why it's so hard for everyone to talk to you is because they all refuse to acknowledge the elephant in the room. They're treating you like you were some other orphan Annie they decided to adopt and you just have no family waiting and missing you.

Jason doesn't.

In fact, it was him who caught you trying to sneak out of the mansion the first week you were there. Instead of scolding you or telling on you, he took you out.

"A cap and sunglasses? Kid, that's not a disguise."

"What do you mean?"

He took you to a diner he frequents, a tour of the rooftops to avoid people, and to the safe house he took over from Bruce.

"Tell me about your life." He demands, not asks.

You smile and tell him about it. Your life growing up with the Avengers, school and what major you're going for, that brief fling you had with Pietro before you had to move to Gotham.

It was nice. To be with someone that didn't want to change you. He didn't try to force you into forgiveness and let you vent. He even gave some pretty sound advice.

"You know, at some point you are going to forgive her." He says ignoring your indignant stare, " You don't gotta be bestfriends with her or anything, but that anger is going to either slowly consume you or slowly go way. And believe me, you want it to slowly go way."

And he was right in some ways. The longer you're there, the less anger there is and the more hurt replaces it. It festers inside you like some disease. The symptoms slowly leaking out every time one of them calls her mom.

Every night she comes into your room and tries to pry into your life as if she didn't voluntarily leave it, you feel it.

Everytime you see her brush Cassandra's hair out of her eyes, or kiss damian on the forehead. It's the gentle way she smiles whenever she sees Tim hyperfocused on mission reports, and the way she gets so excited whenever Dick or Jason walk through the front door. Hugging them and chiding them for not visiting more.

It hurts you that they truly are a family.

And after a while, it gets hard for you to try and say that you truly didn't give a shit.

Because honestly, you did

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @stupendousnightmaretrash @opheliaas-stuff

[manicpixiefelix]

he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way) // epilogue

{ head, heart, hand. masterpost }

Summary: Oliver is haunted by what he's done to get his happy ending in Felix's arms. His guilt is only made worse when he meets the first member of your family to actually remind him of you. Unfortunately, he does not find it to get better from there.

{ context; please read he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way) first }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD IN THIS ONE, but you do get to haunt the narrative. congratulations?

Warnings: discussions of death/overdose, lots of guilt, manipulative oliver, felix being upset, vaguely unhealthy oliver/felix, lotsa angst, oliver quick reckoning with the sunk-cost fallacy.

A/N: 6828 words. first, i don't usually do part 2s when i say something is a oneshot, so this is a rare occurrence. secondly im sorry this is almost 7k there's something wrong with my brain i think. thirdly bro, bro, listen to me; ANGST. HURT NO COMFORT. HURT NO COMFORT. it's soft in the middle THE SOFTNESS IS A LIE. ITS GONNA HURT ALL THE WAY DOWN (apart from nana i love her nd i hope you will too)

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

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One hour and fifty three minutes.

Rounded up, because all things considered, he should round it up, that's two hours.

Two hours. Like the blink of an eye in the scope of a whole life. But a very long time when you sit and count it out.

One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven thousand, two hundred seconds. He's always counting two hours, seeing exactly how long it feels like, how he can fill that amount of time. Seconds pass like a steady heartbeat.

He can do a lot in two hours.

Oliver tries to occupy himself nowadays more than ever, and really tries not to be alone, but it's hard. Farleigh left for Oxford. Venetia, before she decided to backpack across Europe and find herself, wouldn't let anyone touch her anymore.

Oliver doesn't like leaving Felix alone, but sometimes he has to be. You're laying cold in a family crypt somewhere next to a grandfather you never knew, and while Elspeth and Sir James don't comment on it, they both scowled when your parents sprung the announcement on everyone at the funeral.

Felix spends a lot of time alone at the edge of the maze. He's making a fairy garden where you had waited. Sometimes he'll drive into town without telling anyone, and come back with quaint, second-hand miniatures to add. It's beautiful, shining with greens and golds when the setting sun hits it just right.

So Oliver finds time to occupy himself, when he's alone and all he can think about is you sitting by the maze. You laying by the maze. You alive when he'd run from the maze. And the two hours that followed.

Sometimes he leans out of his window and shouts to the gardeners so far away they look like ants; even at this distance, his voice carries, and he sees them turn, search for him, ask if he's okay. He is, and he apologises, and he think about how far his voice carries.

On occasion, out of the blue, he'll lift Felix up when he hugs him, able to get his feet off the ground as Felix wriggles and clutches him out of surprise. Of course Felix lifts him with ease in return, spins him around, but that's not the point. Oliver is stronger than he looks; he wonders if he could lift you, could carry you far, if he could have dragged you if it had come to it.

Some nights he wakes up in a fright, your rapid heart rate beneath his fingers and he swears he could hear you whispering for help amid your shallow breathing. Please. Pleading. Begging. You were alive when he'd left you. He presses two finger to Felix's pulse point beside him, and tries to calm his breathing, to focus on Felix's slow, steady heartbeat.

And some days he sneaks into the computer room and curses how long webpages take to load when he looks up statistics on overdoses. Symptoms. Niche forums where he can learn what it felt like from survivors. People luckier than you. Their words, their stories, the recollections of those horrifying sensations stick with him, even as he diligently erases any trace of his browsing history.

And he thinks about how fucking long two hours is.

"Nan's coming over later," Felix tells Oliver idly one Sunday afternoon, "we're having tea of you'd like to join us." They're laying out in the grass, Oliver in the grass finding shapes in the clouds, Felix on his side, chewing on the stick of a lollypop he'd finished an hour ago and gently tracing abstract patterns on Oliver's chest.

"I thought you said your granny haunted Saltburn," when Oliver looks at Felix, he still can't help the way his heartrate picks up. Felix Catton touching him in the most gentle, caring way; he'd never stop feeling lucky for getting here, and never forget what he did to earn it.

Felix's gaze moves with his fingertips, up Oliver's warm, bare chest, twisting two fingers in the delicate chain around his throat. He looks pensive; but shakes his head after a beat.

"Different nan," he says distractedly, plastic straw trapped between his teeth. He tugs the chain experimentally, like he's forgotten it's attached to Oliver at all. He's in his head again; Felix is always in his head nowadays, but there's still often echoes of who he was, echoes of what Oliver has fallen for in the first place.

And he's finding himself falling more and more for this version of Felix too. So he tell himself that it was all worth it.

"Love," all these pet names - Love, Darling, Sweetheart - because if he slips up, tries to call him Fi, Oliver knows he'll only get ice in return, "is everything okay?" Oliver carefully reaches up to cover Felix's large, warm hand by his throat with his own. Felix meets his gaze, and gives a faint smile, an attempt to reassure him when he says he's fine. It doesn't work, but Oliver lets it go, and lets Felix tug him in by his chain for a kiss.

"Tea sounds lovely," Oliver murmurs against his lips.

There's something about this visit has Felix alive and buzzing the he way he hasn't in a very long time. Still he's quiet, but his eyes are bright as he follows behind the staff members setting up tea and biscuits in the garden. He goes through all the DVDs the family has and picks out a stack he thinks would be suitable, making sure they're all perfectly stacked by the DVD player. Oliver floats along behind him, and simply allows himself to admire Felix's energy.

Still, Felix finally takes a moment to breathe right as it becomes noon, and decides to have a bath to freshen up before his guest's arrival; two hours before she'd be here, Felix reminds him.

Two hours.

Oliver feels drawn to his own room. He doesn't allow himself to be alone in Saltburn often anymore, doesn't like the thoughts that crop up when he does. Perhaps it's a kind of punishment, a painful reminder, penance for what he's done.

There's a scrap of paper that he keeps tucked in a book in his nightstand, his own handwriting stuffed amongst a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's short stories, words he'd clung to and scribbled out the minute he'd gotten the chance so he'd never forget them exactly.

From the coroner's report, according to Duncan and Sir James. Time of Death; around 2am. Cause; narcotics overdose, and there were signs of alcohol poisoning.

On the back, he'd written '12:07'.

"Mum and dad both say it was a tragic accident," Felix's voice in the dead of night, the night they'd gotten the full report, riddled with guilt and unspilled tears, betrays his disbelief regarding the sentiment. Felix doesn't talk about how his last words to you were shouted with anger. Felix doesn't talk about how your last words to him were a desperate plea for him through tears. Felix doesn't think that it was an accident; only Oliver knows that he's almost right, just not in the way he thinks. Or dreads. But he has to bite his tongue on the truth, and let the man he loves live with this unjust guilt.

The water starts loudly draining for the tub, and Oliver isn't sure how long he's been sitting on the edge of his bed with his eyes squeezed so tightly shut, but he scrambles to stuff the page back into the book, and toss it back into it's drawer. He can smile again, and admire whatever outfit Felix chooses for the rest of the day, and pretend like he doesn't feel your rapid heartbeat or hear your shallow breathing every time he touches that paper, like he had the night he left you.

With the hour drawing ever closer to two, Felix keeps checking his watch. The minute he deems it to be time, he gives up all pretence of small talk - which had been another thing severely lacking as of late - and snatches Oliver's hand, pulling him through the house. They even outstripped Duncan and the footmen by the door when there comes a firm knock. Its the only time Oliver has ever seen any of the Cattons open the doors for themselves.

And it's not Felix's grandmother.

"Hi, nan," Felix sounds so genuinely happy as he hugs the older woman at the door with a warm smile and your eyes.

Oliver feels like he's frozen, like he's seeing a ghost. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Duncan actually standing aside, giving Felix and your grandmother a quietly fond smile.

"I swear you get taller every time I see you, oh, my lovely boy," she says with a warm laugh that sounds so damn familiar, "or maybe I've been shrinking, you get to my age and people tend to do that," and Felix laughs, actually fucking laughs. Oliver realises it's been a long time since he'd heard Felix give a proper laugh like that. As the hug ends, Felix let's her tuck her arm in his as she continues, "just you wait, one day you'll only be six-foot tall." Another laugh, and Oliver can see how genuine and broad he's smiling, how his eyes shine when their gazes meet. She's surprisingly sprightly for her age, it seems. Oliver recognises your grandmother from your funeral, but hadn't made the connection at the time, so he's surprised when Felix goes to introduce him and her eyes sparkle with recognised.

"Nan, I don't know if you've been properly introduced, but this is -"

"Your Darling, Oliver," and it's said with such warmth; her hug feels almost like home, "you strange, little thing," she laughs, "it's called a hug; are you not a hugger? I should have asked," but she doesn't apologise, nor does she let go for a few more beats. Oliver gives into this moment, closes his eyes tightly and hugs her back.

"Our Darling Oliver," Felix echoes with such admiration, and when Oliver opens his eyes, it's the first time since you'd passed where his gaze has held only the love and pride Oliver had been craving since he'd first laid eyes on him.

Once Nana - she'd insisted Oliver call her that too - lets him go, she tucks her arm in his, and is waving Felix over to her other side, briskly asking where tea was to be held. Duncan leads the way and she fawns over him too, apparently downright overflowing with love for Saltburn and everyone and everything in it. She talks more than she doesn't, but considering who Oliver is and who Felix has become, that suits them both just fine.

It's been too long since they've had tea together, she insists, and doesn't talk about why exactly that would be. She doesn't bring you up, not while you were all making your way through the house, but once she's settled outside, she takes a moment. The way she looks at Oliver in this moment makes him queasy; the smile, that look in her eyes, the way her gaze takes all of him in. A woman, whose time is so precious to her, taking her time to make him feel seen. Felix is quiet, intrigued by the exchange.

Your phantom heart beats beneath Oliver's fingertips.

"You're Y/N's grandma," Oliver says quietly, breaking the tension. Present tense still, they all play pretend. She smiles, and finally leans back. The moment is broken; Felix pours them each a cup of tea. Nana takes a jammy dodger and looks over the gardens with a smile.

"Of course, dear," she says sincerely, taking a bite of the biscuit, but being so eager to talk that she spoke through half a mouthful, "and when they were thirteen they told me I was Felix's grandmother too, because they'd overheard Felix's mum talking about how she hoped they'd get married some day." Felix snorted a laugh at that, turning pink around the ears as he prepared everyone's tea, as if on autopilot.

"Does that -" Oliver begins awkwardly, but he tries to smile, "do you think in time, they would have ask the same of you about me?"

"Considering how they spoke about you," there's a twinkle in your Nan's eyes as she turns back to him, smile knowing, "there's absolutely no doubt in my mind, my dear." All you had ever done was love him; love him and stand in the way of the love he desperately craved.

Oliver watches his tea for a long while, spinning the ornate cup on its matching saucer, while your Nana almost immediately picked hers up and took a tentative sip. Watching out of the corner of his eyes, Oliver notes the way her face goes on a journey of emotions, from pleased, to confused, to a sudden realisation as she looks to her cup.

"I should have asked you how you liked your tea," Felix realises too late, apology in his voice as Nana puts her cup down with a forlorn, yet fond look.

"No, darling, it's nice to know you know how my grandchild liked their tea," and she holds her cup delicately, looking into it's warm, brown depths, "just the same as I always made it for both of us when they were much, much younger."

"I am so sorry to ask," Oliver hears himself blurt out, unable to help himself, "but how does all this love just skip a generation?" It comes out far worse than he intends it to; he means to ask how someone so loving as you come from parents so uncaring, yet how did either of those parents turn out the way they did when the woman in front of him was clearly bursting with just as much love as you had been. Thankfully, instead of being offended, your grandmother laughs.

"My daughter is a wonderful, intelligent, compassionate, impressive woman," she begins, but sighs with unmistakable disappointment, "but my late husband was never capable of even trying to be a father over pursuing his own interests, and it's one of the few traits she actually inherited from him," she shook her head, "and she went on to fall in love with a man who loved her but suffered from that exact same defect," after a beat, she looked up with a warm, reassuring smile, "it's why I love Y/N so fiercely, and so hard," her grin turns soft and adoring, looking between the two boys before her, "the only way my daughter has ever disappointed me is as a mother, but I will never be disappointed in Y/N as my grandchild."

Oliver knows there's tears in his eyes, and Felix has ducked his head. Immediately Nan begins apologising, realising she'd set both of them off. Despite this, Oliver tries to wave her away, insisting it's fine, before he asks about her; he's heard bits and pieces he thinks, but Y/N had always been so cagey about their family. Honestly he's surprised that your grandmother knows so much about him when he feels like he's barely heard about her.

Despite turning out to be an incredibly decorated artist, with paintings selling for more than Oliver's pretty sure his own family's house is worth, your Nana is quick to downplay her own successes, simply insisting that it took decades of hard work. Again, he sees you in her eyes.

"We've got a few up around the house," Felix adds, "most of them actually from before we even met Y/N," and your Nana gives him a shove, as if flustered and embarrassed by the idea. But Felix is beaming, happy to be showing off her accomplishments, just as he always took joy in celebrating you; "there's one in your room."

"What?" Oliver asked, and your grandmother also seemed surprised, though touched by the thought.

"It used to be their room, actually, but Ollie moved in there, so Y/N was staying with me," he explains a little awkwardly, wanting to skim around as many implications as he could. Thankfully she doesn't comment. All she asks is which one. Felix and Oliver both think about the room; Felix about the few pieces of art on the walls, Oliver about your time of death in the drawer. You were alive when he left you -

"That one of the stars, and that person smoking; I think you actually gave it to them as a gift," he frowns for a beat, "for when they turned seventeen, I think?"

Oh, Oliver knows that one. It's enchanting, blues so deep, so rich it's like you could swim in them, stars that seemed to actually glow on the canvas, and the hazy, dark outline of the window in the foreground, and part of a figure against the windowsill, lit cigarette the lone spot of fire, of red or orange, that makes everything else warmer for it.

"That one really surprised me actually," Nana admits, giving Felix a shrew smile, though he only seems confused, "did they ever tell you anything about it?"

"Said you painted it for them; pretty sure I remember them crying about it," he says fondly, reminiscing, "one of the best gifts they ever got, I'm not lying, they say it every year. It's beautiful." Then, as if recalling what she'd actually said, he looks at her curiously, "surprised you?"

Her smile widened into something both knowing, and endeared.

"I asked them to send me a photo, a postcard, their very best drawing, anything, as long as it was their favourite place in the world - do you really not recognise it?" The tea and biscuits are gone by now, the tea portion of their afternoon is coming to a close. Felix shook his head, almost looking like a lost child, as if he was aware there was something he was supposed to be understanding but couldn't quite get it, "Felix, my dear boy, they sent me a photo of you; that's their dorm room window from boarding school."

Felix looks winded, and a bit like he's about to cry.

"Oh you two were impossibly sweet," she reaches over and holds his hand tightly, looking over to Oliver earnestly, "you take care of this dear boy and his heart, you hear me?"

"Yes," Oliver all but trips over his words to agree, "of course, nan." And she gives him a pleased grin.

They move indoors after this, Felix quiet but lending his arm to Nana, which she takes, while she explained that usually you and Felix would visit a few times a year when they were on break, but she thought it would be best to come to Saltburn this time, given the circumstances.

"You should come see the place when you get the chance," she insisted, patting Oliver's hand.

"It's mostly where Y/N was raised before they ended up staying at Saltburn," Felix supplied with a grin, piquing Oliver interest.

"Y/N's childhood home? Oh I have to see that," he grins, and your grandmother grins brightly for a long moment.

"I'm sure Y/N would love that, they can give you the grand tour -" but her face falters, falls, as if she'd just remembered. Sombre silence, the spell is broken. "I'd love to have you around, dear," she corrects, much softer this time.

Felix lets her pick a movie, while Oliver settles himself awkwardly on the sofa. He wants to reach out to Felix, to touch his cheek, feel his boyish smile and know that it's real. But Felix isn't really even looking at him. There's something childlike about his enthusiasm here, about how he sits on his knees on the floor, watching with rapt attention as your grandmother pores over them. He practically glows as she praises his choices. When she picks one, she hands it over and he scrambles on all fours across the short floor space to the DVD player, fumbling with the case like he can't put it in fast enough. There's a softness in your grandmother's eyes as she watches the boy who has seemingly forgotten the man he is; when she looks at Oliver, its like he sees her asking how easy is he to adore, what a beautiful young man.

"You don't mind watching a movie do you, Oliver, dear?" She asks, though it's clearly an afterthought. He's already shaking his head, assuring her it's fine. Felix is already scrambling back, remote in hand. Oliver tries to make space for him on the sofa between himself and your Nana, but he seems content to sit on the floor in front of her, leaning back against the sofa with her knees gently pressed against either of his shoulders. Handing her the remote, Felix twists to give Oliver an expectant smile.

"Come here, mate," he insists, patting his lap, his legs kicked out in front of him. At Oliver's obvious confusion, Felix blinks for a few moments. It's like he's waking from a dream. His face falls, he goes to apologise, strained smile on his face, "sorry, I know that's weird, you don't have to -"

Slowly, Oliver moves from the sofa, sitting beside Felix on the floor. Your grandmother's knee is pressed gently to his back, but he's not quite sure if he's capable of relaxing enough in this moment to mind. She's playing with Felix's hair, having already started the movie.

"This is what you and Y/N would do," Oliver said softly, and rested his head on Felix's shoulder. Felix takes his hand, and laces their fingers together.

"Do you like it when people play with your hair, Oliver?" Your grandmother asks idly.

"Um, sometimes," he answers, still feeling rather awkward. He hears her chuckle warmly.

"It's okay if you don't want me to; Felix likes it so much he lets me braid it when it's long like this."

"Oh, I know Felix loves it," Oliver hears himself agree, "if he were a cat he'd be the kind to purr any time someone scratched between his little cat ears." And while both he and your grandmother share a fond laugh, he can hear Felix's smile in his words. He gives Oliver's hand a squeeze.

"I can't even argue; I wish I could purr right now."

Oliver wants to bottle this moment forever, keep it locked tight in his chest.

But the movie is a long one. One hour and fifty six minutes. Two hours rounded up. A whole two hours. Enough time to fall asleep with his head in Felix's lap the way they both said you used to. He wakes with your heartbeat in his ears, rapid, alive, left for dead.

"You okay buddy?" Felix looks at him with genuine love and concern; it's been such a long time since he'd seen that look, even with everything that had been happening, "I'm here, you're okay," he assured. Over by the television, putting the remote back, your grandmother glances over at the interaction with a warmth that makes Oliver feel queasy in this moment.

And he'll look up from the book, from his notes from the coroner's report crammed in, obscuring the end of one story while The Tell-Tale Heart begins on the other. Felix will be getting ready for bed in the other room, but he won't sleep there. He can't sleep there. Can't sleep in that bed without you, can't move the costumes from that night that hang side by side as a reminder of the hole you'd left behind in his life. Oliver will read approximately two am in his own messy handwriting, and look at the digital clock on his bedside that had read 12:07 when he'd crashed into his room and locked the door and sunk down against it. The numbers had been shining red in the darkness. On the wall behind, that starry night sky and the hint of Felix and his cigarette; a home you'll never return to hung up in the home you'll never truly leave.

He put enough coke in that bottle to kill a fucking lion. He'd given you the bottle. He'd told you he loved you. He'd left you like that.

He knew you were dying.

He'd left you alive.

Two hours.

The book snaps shut. In the silence he thinks he hears your breathing. Please, Ollie, help. Paranoia is a cruel thing, he has to tell himself; paranoia and guilt.

"Can I ask you something?" Felix joins him just as he's putting the book back in it's drawer. Oliver, heart beat racing - never as fast as the memory of yours, oh now it's all he can think about again - nods quickly. Felix sits on the end of the bed, clearly preoccupied, fussing with the buttons of his pyjama shirt. The days are getting cooler now; Oliver misses his bare skin against his, but he still feels too precarious to make such an observation.

"It's about Y/N," Felix swallows, can't meet his eyes, "about that night." Oliver feels his mouth go dry; the worst fucking night of his life. The night he doesn't know if he'll ever figure out if he regrets all he'd done.

He nods again.

"Were you the last person they spoke to?" It's like Felix is forcing himself to not shy away from this moment, giving Oliver the attention he thinks he deserves for such an important question. Then, after swallowing hard, he can't help but drop his gaze, "why," he can barely get it out, there's already a lump in his throat, "didn't they come into the maze too?" Oliver can't even give him that.

You'd been such a mess on your way to the maze, even with Oliver supporting you. Crying, furious, apologetic; you were everything at once. Even when you couldn't bring yourself to go in, everything about you had been sliding from one emotion to the next. But then it had stopped.

"I can wait for Fi here." It's the most sure that he'd seen you all night. It's when he knew. It had to be you, even if he loved you too. He'd never forget how clear your smile was, how sincere you'd urged him into the maze to follow the tail of what he thought was right. The sight of you, waiting, obedient and loyal for your master to return; "I'll be here, I promise; I'll wait."

Oliver knew before he'd even entered the maze that Felix's return to you would be too late.

In the present, Felix waits too, diligent, expectant. Oliver thinks about lying. Oliver thinks about how the truth will break his heart. Oliver thinks about how close Felix will hold him in his guilt riddled grief.

"I don't think they wanted to interrupt -" Oliver tries to start, but Felix immediately swears, hangs his head.

"Can't fucking believe I did that," he spits, "I was angry, and off my fucking face, sure, but that was fucking low, even for me," he admitted, pitching himself back on the bed, whole face scrunched up with guilt, barking out an upset fuck far louder than the others, prompting to Oliver to tentatively ask what he means. Felix took a moment, as if forcing himself to calm down, before he admits, voice low like he was sharing a secret, "I never even took Eddie into the maze," he sighed. After a beat, he conceded, "no, okay I did, but we didn't do anything - we made out a bit, but -"

"You didn't fuck you ex-boyfriend in the maze," Oliver connected the dots quickly, "but you did fuck your best friend's ex-not-girlfriend who you kind of stole from them, out of spite after kicking them out of your the bed you've been sharing all Summer?"

"Fucking hell, Ollie!" Felix sounds especially wounded when he lays it all out like that.

"Sorry," immediately, Oliver apologises, knot in his stomach when he hears Felix's pained tone. He wonders if this was what it was like for you all through the night of his birthday. Fuck, he can't think about that.

"No, but you're right," Felix admits, eyes finally opening, looking all hurt and vulnerable. Oliver lays himself down next to Felix, going the other way, both of them looking up at the ceiling. Oliver's hands rest on his chest, trying again, softer this time.

"So was a special place to them?" He gets no response other than a guilty nose from Felix, "you think that's why they wanted to wait by the entrance?"

"They wanted to wait for me," Felix says weakly, clearly in his head about that night once more, "didn't want to interrupt even as I was fucking defiling our-" but he catches himself turning bitter again, mouth snapping closed, "after everything I said that night," he mumbles, "fucking hell," he chokes out. The pain in his voice is audible. This is the sweet spot, Oliver thinks.

"I can wait for Fi here," Oliver whispers amid Felix's faint sobs.

"What?"

"You asked me what their last words were," Oliver told him as softly as he could manage; Felix sits up, eyes wide, distraught, so full of guilt and love and - "only thing they were properly coherent about; waiting for you," Oliver props himself up, reaches out to wipe a tear from Felix's cheek.

"You're not- Ollie, please tell me you're not kidding," Felix practically begs.

"I can wait for Fi here," Oliver reiterates, making sure to meet Felix's gaze as he holds his face, "'s the last thing they said- they said; I'll be here, I promise; I'll wait."

God he can see it in Felix's eyes; it's like the man's entire world crashes down around him. But he clings just as Oliver had hoped he would. As Felix holds him tightly, Oliver can't look at the glaring, red numbers of the clock on his bedside, the constant reminder of the two hours where he could have done something. Two hours and those wouldn't have been your last words.

He looks at the painting. At the stars. At Felix and his cigarette and your idea of what home looks like. The stars look just like they did that night. Just as bright. Oliver closes his eyes. Guilt twists people into shapes they don't often recognise; Oliver just holds Felix, hopes they twist into something together.

Except Oliver's guilt isn't the kind that twists, it's the kind that bites. It's like moths, eating him from the inside out. The guilt leaves him with jagged edges and thoughts he'd rather not be having; there are shades of Felix Catton that he loves, but shame and revulsion bites just behind the guilt as the months pass and he realises more and more this is not what he wanted. This is not the Felix he wanted.

Felix is like an echo, like the sun without it's warmth; he can look just the same, smile, talk, charm just the same if it was required of him, but there was something clearly missing from every interaction. Guests to Saltburn would pull his parents aside and ask if everything was alright. He is, but he is not the same as he once was.

Every day Oliver looks in the mirror and sees something grotesque behind his eyes that no-one else seems to notice. Felix Catton was meant to be the prize, the one who tossed aside everything but the best, the one who made the world fight for his attention, and feel heartbroken when he merely looked the other way. After all this, Felix Catton was not someone Oliver expected to be bored by.

Oliver Quick had lied for, lied to, betrayed the trust of, worked to gain the trust back of, loved, made fall in love with him, and literally murdered the love of his life who he also loved and was themselves also in love with Oliver while still considering Felix the love of their life, just to get a chance to spend his life by Felix fucking Catton's side. He wasn't allowed to not want this.

Felix smiles at him, says he loves him, fucks him, but it's not the dream Oliver once had. Something is always missing. No. Oliver deliberately took that thing away. But he can never admit that, nor can he ever regret that; too far gone. Oliver doesn't want to talk about the past, Felix can't being himself to talk about the future. Trapped together in the present, living lives that no longer feel like enough. Their routine becomes suffocating. Even Venetia, the few times she's stopped back at Saltburn, can barely manage a disdainful look, as if merely inconvenienced by Oliver's presence.

The growing apathy of the estate and it's occupants is exhausting. The cost of this lifestyle has long since surpassed it's value. He's even bored of being haunted. Two hours feels like fucking nothing when the days drag on the way they have been. Behind his eyelids he doesn't see you begging for help, you hiss for him to run, to get out.

He should have listened.

"Ollie, can I show you something I found?" Felix sounds bright today, and though Oliver wants to roll his eyes at the idea of anything in this house being new or novel enough to show off, he smiles back instead.

"'course Felix, what is it?"

Except Felix isn't smiling at him. Felix is looking far more serious and determined, sitting on the edge of their shared bed. Oliver immediately frowns.

"Have you been hiding something from me, Ollie?" It's a trap; a forced confession. Oliver shakes his head, plays dumb. Felix takes a deep breath, the kind that shifts his whole body, his expression remaining firm, "before I show you this thing, I want you to be honest with me; you promised you wouldn't lie to me anymore, you remember?" Oliver tries to lighten the mood, leaning against the window with a warm smile.

"Of course, my lovely Felix, no more lying," he assures, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with the way Felix remains quiet.

"What's seven-past-twelve mean?" Felix is watching him closely; too closely. Scrutinising his every move. It's like Oliver's been doused in ice water, even his tongue frozen in his mouth, "and what's it got to do with what happened on the night of your birthday?"

Felix doesn't even look at the night table as he opens it; his gaze is solely on Oliver. It's clear he'd done this before, pulling out the book, flicking through it's pages, and pulling the delicate, incriminating piece of paper out from where it had been safe for so many months.

"Felix, I-"

"What does twelve-oh-seven mean?"

Oliver is the deer again, trapped in Felix's accusatory gaze. For just a moment, Felix's voice drops, pleading with him for some other explanation, that Oliver wasn't somehow caught up in what happened, more closely, more malevolently than he'd ever said -

"Tell me," there's tears in his eyes, the furious kind, the ones where he's desperate to love and hope against all odds, "Oliver," he pleads through gritted teeth, "tell me you didn't know."

"Know what?" Oliver's voice is a hoarse whisper; he knows he is caught, all he has left now is borrowed time and a desperately silver tongue he doesn't know if he can rely on anymore. But Oliver's tragically weak denial is enough for Felix to all but jump to the right conclusion.

In a rush, Felix has Oliver by the collar of his shirt, pressed to the window -

"You knew they were dying and you fucking left them there."

This is the tipping point, the end of whatever good this had been. Felix could hurt him, Felix had hurt countless people on your behalf, he'd seen it himself. But Felix had always been the bleeding heart; you were the one who had to be kept on a leash. Felix could hurt him, could probably maim him for what Oliver was about to say, but he never shared your stomach for true Machiavellianism.

"Of course I knew," Oliver managed coldly, despite Felix attempting to crush all the air from him, "the amount of coke I gave them in that champagne could have killed a rhino-" it needed to be unforgiveable, the confession, so Felix would let him leave, would never want to see him again. He hadn't expected the force of Felix's rage to have the glass behind him give out.

Oliver falls from the second story window into the hedge garden below. Felix's shouting is tearing through the whole house it seemed, making his way downstairs, while Oliver tries to regain his breath and figure out if anything's broken. He's pretty sure it's not, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt as Felix drags him by his feet from the hedges, demanding at the top of his lungs that Oliver get the fuck out of Saltburn.

Every single person who'd been in the house comes outside to view the commotion, to see Oliver struggling to his feet, to get away from Oliver. Elspeth looks helplessly between the two boys, wondering what happened -

"Tell her what you did," Felix demanded, once more getting into Oliver's space, jabbing at his chest, "tell her what the fuck you just told me -" and Oliver's strength isn't insignificant, but Felix is in a fury, flooded with rage and adrenaline, and he grabs the back of Oliver's shirt like he's scuffing a cat, shoving him towards his mother like an offering. Oliver struggles because he feels like he has to, feels wild, feels feral, but it's the most of anything he's gotten from Felix in so long. His mouth stays shut, won't give him the satisfaction of a confession.

"He killed them," Felix doesn't even let Oliver have his power play before he grows bored. He shoves Oliver just a little, grip unyielding despite Oliver's best efforts, like he means nothing to him. Elspeth and Sir James are confused, looking between them both, but Felix isn't done with stringing Oliver up for all of Saltburn to see, "Y/N; he intentionally dosed their drink and left them to die outside the maze."

The Catton parents immediately look crestfallen; it's the first time in months Oliver's felt genuine guilt again. Oliver stops fighting. Felix lets him go. Elspeth asks him if this is true; that heartbroken hope is going to make him sick.

"Just send me away already," he drops his head.

"Oliver," Elspeth's voice is firmer this time; when he looks up, she's stepping towards him, tears in her eyes despite how hard she's clearly trying to hold herself together, "is Felix telling the truth?" Is this it? Is this the final gate to his freedom from Saltburn.

"Yes."

Elspeth slaps him so hard her ring draws blood. Oliver hadn't thought that was even possible, but his head is ringing from the collision.

"Get. Out." She hisses with absolute malice as he's hunched over, clutching his face. Felix is by his mother's side in a heartbeat, arm around her, looking at Oliver with contempt. Behind them, Sir James is ordering Duncan and the other staff members to get Oliver off of the property as quickly as possible, but the look in Elspeth's eyes is burning, "this is my family, you monster."

At first, it almost feels worth it to leave Saltburn. To leave the Cattons and their bullshit and their games behind. He thinks he knows them well enough to trust that they don't want the kind of scandal a murder on their hands would be, and for the most part, he's right.

It's not the Cattons who haunt him after Saltburn, though they may be pulling the strings. It's you. It's you sitting on Felix's bed in his dorm room reading every single detail of Michael Gavey's file with threats on your tongue. It's the casual way you talked about being able to access his academic files to change his grades if he wanted. It's you, tipsy at Saltburn, admitting that you got Eddie transferred without his consent to a university on the other side of the country after he cheated on Felix with Venetia.

There's no place for Oliver to return to at Oxford... He's not entirely surprised about that, however, there's also apparently no record of him ever attending. Any calls or enquiries he makes are shut down with the kind of immediacy that seemed reserved for shows about government conspiracies. When applications open for other universities, it seems websites shut down the minute he fills out his damn name. Nowhere in the world seems willing to consider him.

Having him audited seems like overkill. When it happens the next year, despite no employer willing to even consider him for an interview, the existential dread of his situation sets in.

Felix never had the stomach to finish the job; he'd let you haunt Oliver forever.

[fruitywritter]

Why do you have to be so stupid?

Summary: stupidity gets you killed. (Nearly)

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x gn!reader

Tw: mentions of past suicide attempt, injured reader

Words: 3.5k

a/n: This is my second work I’ve posted here, I had wrote this a few days ago and I decided to post it. Even tho nobody’s gonna read this, but hey if you’re a reader here. Hi! 🫶🏼🥹

The sky was dark, the moon and the stars were shining bright that night. I walked through the dark alley, feeling my blood running down my stomach. The mission didn’t go as planned. It seemed that they already knew I was coming, they were ready. I put on a good fight and got the flash drive, but it wasn’t enough for me to escape. The moment I heard the gunshots and felt a sharp pain on my body, I knew that I needed to leave. They were too many, I was only one. I couldn’t call for back up. Nobody from the team knew that I was going to that mission. Fury had said it was too dangerous for someone to go alone, he was planning on bringing the whole team there in a few days. But it would be too late in a few days. I knew it was a stupid decision, but I wanted to help the team. Even though the mission was a success, my chances to survive were very low. The bullet wounds al over my body looked serious.

Standing with my back against the wall, I tried to breathe. I had already lost a lot of blood, I was feeling so weak and my vision was blurry. That was it. That was the way I would die. Not by some heroic act, but because I was an idiot for having to go alone there without telling anyone. I started to think about my friends, back at the compound. The avengers had become my family. I thought about Tony and his sarcastic comments, I thought about what he would say if he saw me like this. Tony was like a father to me, the father I never had. I thought about Steve, that old man.. He would probably lecture me if he was here, telling me that I need to think before acting.

Bruce. We were never that close with the man but I’ve always respected him. He was a very clever guy, he had also saved me from many dumb injuries. Thor. I didn’t see him that often nowadays, he had go back to Asgard something about having to deal with his idiotic brother, Loki. He would always tell me stories about other planets and people he had met. I was closer to Clint from the other guys. I could say he was a great friend and very loyal to me as I was to him. He was a great spy, and he was usually the one I trained with.

Wanda would be probably mad at me if she saw me like this. She had scolded me many times, usually when I made dumb decisions like this one. But we loved each other, we were friends since day one. We were always by each other’s side. I didn’t want to leave her alone in this world, even though she had the rest of the team. I was the only closest person to her, as she had said many times before.

And Natasha… I slid down the wall, wincing as the bullets inside me moved. I clenched my fist as I pressed down on my biggest wound. I didn’t want Natasha to see me like this. Even though she was used to seeing people dying, I couldn’t do this to her. I didn’t want to die. Natasha was a closed person, only Clint and I were able to read her as an open book. I couldn’t leave her alone. I brought my hand to my neck, touching the necklace she had gave to me. A small golden spider was hanging from it, with her initials engraved on the back of it. It was a gift for my 23rd birthday. It was the best day of my life that day.

I started thinking about how things would be after my death. I guessed I still had a bit of time left. I used to want to end it all. In my teenage years. Back then it was hard for me. I had no one to call family. No friends. I was close to that railing, so close to my death. Ready to jump off, I was so done with my life. But she was the one who saw me, she was the one who ran up to me and tried to call me down so I wouldn’t jump. And she succeeded. She saved me from killing my own self. Natasha Romanoff, she saved my life. Many times. She was my person. And I loved her.

But now she couldn’t save me. Right know she thought that I was out for a simple walk. Eventually she would start to realise something was wrong after I was gone for hours. She would start looking for me, calling me, calling the team. Then they would all search for me, until they’d finally get the news that I was dead. All because I couldn’t stop being stupid.

Looking one more time up in the sky, I whispered softly more to myself. “I’m sorry..” Breathing out, I tried to find my peace but the universe had other plans. Footsteps were heard in the distance, every second it was louder until it reached in front of me. I tried to open my eyes, trying to figure out who was standing in front of me. When I felt soft hands on my face, I opened my mouth to speak but was stopped by a familiar voice speaking louder to someone in the distance. “I found her! She’s here, come help me.”

Finally, when my eyes focused again I recognised the person in front of me. Those familiar green eyes, and the familiar red hair made me smile a bit and whisper. “Hey, love..” I watched as her lips curled up in a soft smile, but her eyes remained worried. “Hey, sweetheart..”

I went to talk but a pain on my chest kept me from speaking. Natasha was quick to notice and she pressed her palm against my cheek, carefully caressing it. “Don’t speak too much, дорогой. We will get you out of here, just hang on..” She said as she pressed her lips to my forehead and turned around as more footsteps began to appear around us.

“The jet’s ready, we can get her inside now..” I heard Steve’s voice from my left. “Is she okay?” He asked Natasha.

“She will be when we get her home. Come on guys, we need to move.” Natasha said as she gave me a soft squeeze before she stood back up. “Damn it, y/n. When will you stop being stupid..” Hearing Clint’s voice made me feel so bad. They were all worried about me, they didn’t deserve what they were going through because of me. “I’m -I’m sorry..” I whispered but it was enough for the team to hear it.

“It’s okay, y/n.. You’re gonna be okay..” A soft hand landed gently on my shoulder, caressing it carefully. I looked up to see Wanda, looking down at me. I smiled at her as the guys came closer and pulled me up. I winced and grabbed Steve’s arm to get more steady as they walked me inside the jet.

The whole flight was a blur. I remember Natasha sitting beside the bed I was laying in, holding my hand the whole time. We didn’t talk much. They had stopped the bleeding but still I had lost a lot of blood so I had to be at the hospital asap. Clint was flighting the jet, while the others were in some conversation about the flash drive I had retrieved. Wanda was sitting close to me but away enough to give me and Natasha some privacy.

I wanted to close my eyes but Natasha didn’t let me. She would say dumb things to distract me from closing them. Even though she tried to mask her emotions, I could really see right through her. I’ve learned to read her over the years, I knew when she was anxious, sad, mad, annoyed and happy. Even now that she tried to mask her anxiety and fear, it didn’t work to me.

When we got there, they quickly took me inside and brought me to the doctors. I couldn’t remember what happened exactly next. I could hear Natasha talking to me but I couldn’t hear any word that escaped her mouth. My vision blurry and not being able to feel my legs. Then everything went black.

—

I woke up by a beeping sound, trying to focus my vision to the bright light of the room. When i did that, I slowly looked around. It looked like a hospital room, a small TV in front of me on the wall, on my left a window and a door on the other side of the room. I was laying in a bed, it was comfy but my body felt numb. I heard soft snores beside me and turned my head immediately towards the noise. I relaxed when I noticed the redhead sitting in a chair beside my hospital bed, sleeping in a clearly uncomfortable position.

I tried to move but everything felt so weird, so I tried to speak. After a few tries I finally got to speak softly, hoping to not scare the green eyed woman sleeping. “Tasha..” I spoke but she didn’t even stir. So I tried again a bit louder this time. “Natasha!” I whisper-yelled. As much as I didn’t want to wake her up, I couldn’t just sit there and watch her lay there so uncomfortably.

That’s when she finally woke up, she looked around clearly confused by who woke her up. When she found my eyes she relaxed and smiled. She sat upright and took my hands, “Glad you’re awake, моя любовь.. How are you feeling?” She asked.

“I don’t know.. I feel kind of numb. What happened?” I asked her, hoping for some information. Natasha sighed and began talking, “You passed out the moment we got you inside the hospital. You had lost so much blood, y/n.. If we were late a few minutes, you wouldn’t have survived.. Thankfully, the doctors took you in immediately, saying that you needed surgery.” She paused to see my expression. It didn’t scare me at all, I was glad that I was still there. I was thankful to the doctors who saved me. I couldn’t imagine the reactions of the team if they found out I was actually dead. “They took out the bullets from your body, seven bullets y/n.” She closed her eyes, trying to calm down herself.

“How long I was out..?” I couldn’t help but ask. Natasha looked so tired, like she hadn’t slept for days. “Six days. After the surgery the doctors said that they put you into a coma so that your body would recover properly. They weren’t sure when you were going to wake up.” She let my hands and stand up from the chair, walking towards the window of the room, looking down the busy street. “The team came to visit you, all of us hoping you would wake up. Clint and Wanda stayed for a few days but I told them to go back home, staying at the hospital isn’t really that great and sleeping in a chair is also uncomfortable..”

“But you stayed..” I whispered, my face suddenly getting sad. She was really a wreck because of me.

“Of course I stayed, why wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t leave you alone, y/n.” She turned back to look at me with that sad expression. Slowly walking towards me, she crouched down beside my side, her face at the same height as mine. “I’m glad you’re okay.. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

I smiled and mumbled, “I’m glad I’m okay too..” but the next thing I felt was a slight pain on my shoulder, looking at her eyes in disbelief I said, “Did you just punch me? What was that for?!”

“That was for being stupid, you dumb idiot. Why would you go there on your own, even when Fury said that it was incredibly dangerous for one person?” She said, clearly frustrated. “And I didn’t even hit you that hard, stop being a baby.”

“Ah, fuck of..” I shook my head but quickly regretted it as I saw Natasha’s face. The murderous look she gave me made me shut up and mumble a “sorry” to her. As silence surrounded us, I decided to look back towards her. “Look.. I’m sorry, I know what I did was stupid. And I’m so sorry I made you go through all of this, that wasn’t really my intention. The plan was to finish the mission and come back home, I didn’t know that things would get bad..”

“It’s okay, I’m just glad you’re alright now.” She sighed and moved to hug my side so softly as she was afraid to hurt me. I moved slowly my arm and pulled her more into the bed, making her lay there beside me. Natasha put her head on my chest, with her strong arms around my waist. We laid there for what seemed to be an eternity, just relaxing in the presence of each other’s. We made a small talk, with her telling me that I was in big trouble when we would go back to the compound. Something about Tony being extremely mad and talking about grounding me until I was thirty. I knew he couldn’t do that, and that really made me wanna laugh. He couldn’t really ground a twenty-five year old, but it would be fun to see him trying.

A few days later I got the okay to leave the hospital, and I was over the moon. I really hated hospitals, something about them made me want to go as far away as I could from them. But with the company of Natasha’s, it was a bit more enjoyable. Wanda had visited me while I was still at the hospital, we sat for hours and talked. She was also kinda mad about my idiotic actions, at first she wouldn’t talk to me but then she gave in. Natasha gave us time to catch up and brought us lunch when it was time. Clint sadly couldn’t visit, he had gone back to his family for a few days. But he promised to be back when I got back home.

The ride home was calming, Natasha was driving with Wanda on the passenger seat. I was sitting in the back, looking out the windows. I couldn’t exactly walk with my left foot. A bullet had caused a bit of a damage there, but I had started physical therapy to make it better. As my doctor said, I would be able to start training in a few weeks. The bullet hole in my chest also started to heal faster, the one on my abdomen was a little bit bigger and it still hurt when I walked. The doctor said I needed more rest so everything would full heal.

When we arrived at the compound, I noticed Steve waiting outside. Natasha parked the car and helped me get out from the back. As Steve went to take me from her in order to get me inside, she simply gave him a look and he backed up. I nodded towards him and continued walking with Natasha inside the building. Nobody else was there so I supposed the rest of the team was in some mission. As the red head helped me up to my room, Wanda passed by to ask us if we wanted something to eat. When we kindly declined, she left and Natasha set me into my bed. “Alright, I have to do something first. Can you wait for me? It won’t be long.” She said, tucking my injured leg in some pillows. I nodded and gave her a gentle smile as I watched her leave the room.

I reached the TV remote that was beside me on the nightstand, switching it on and selecting a movie to watch while Natasha was gone. It didn’t took her long to come back and when she finally came in she had in her hands many snacks and drinks. I looked at her mesmerised, my mouth was hanging open as I watched her come and sit beside me on the bed. “What’s all of this?” I asked, even though I knew.

“Snacks! I thought it would be less boring if we watched a movie and eat together until we have to go downstairs.” She said with excitement in her voice. While I was still in shock I laid there, don’t knowing what to say. “You’re staring..” She grinned, knowing she had caught me.

Shaking my head, I looked down at my hands suddenly getting nervous around her. Still after all these years she still had that effect on me. “How can I not? You’re perfect..” I said, finally looking over her face only to see her blush. “Awh, look at you. You’re blushing! I made the Black Widow blush!!” I grinned, throwing my fist in the air like I won.

“Shut up..” Natasha said, looking away. It never got old. I liked teasing her, she wanted everyone to think like she was a baddie but in reality she really was a softie. At least when she was with me. I smiled softly, making her look at me weirdly, “Why the fuck are you smiling?” She said, trying to look serious but she failed miserably. That only made me laugh more. “Seriously, y/n.”

I threw my hands up, like I was surrendering. “Okay, okay. Sorry, no need to give me that look.” My laugh had stopped by now and I was just grinning at her. “I was smiling because I’m happy. You make me so happy, Natasha.” I sighed, gently turning my body a bit so I could face her fully. I took her hands in mine, squeezing them slightly. “And I want to thank you. Thank you for being here the past few days, you never left my side and I’m thankful for that. Also I want to thank you for being with me every day for the past few years. You saved my life so many times, because of you I’m still here.” I watched as her eyes watered but she didn’t dare to speak so I continued. “You know I was in a place where there was no escape, I was so done with life. I didn’t have anyone by my side. No one to call my person, no one to talk to about my problems. But you Natasha, you came into my life and helped me to understand that life’s worth living. Damn it, you made me scared of death. You know how fucking scared I was in that alley? I had realised that I didn’t want to die, I didn’t want to leave you alone. I wanted to live, I wanted to stay here with you. I wanted us to keep having picnic dates, movie nights together, to spend time together doing absolutely nothing. I wanted us to keep sleeping together at night, to keep waking up together in the mornings. I wanted you to keep yelling at me whenever I made a stupid decision, to see your face when you were so mad at me for something so dumb. But more importantly I wanted to be able to see again that smile,” I motioned to her face. Tears spilling down her cheeks as she tried not to cry. I took a breath before speaking again. “Natasha Romanoff, you make me want to live. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I can’t believe that I can’t go a day without seeing those beautiful eyes. You mean everything to me and I don’t know how long it took me to realise it but I can say now that I’m literally so fucking in love with you.” I finished, softly looking at her.

“Love..” She paused as her voice broke. “I’m so in love with you too.. So much..” After hearing those words my heart jumped, I shot towards her taking her in my arms and holding her. I pulled away from the hug, catching her lips with mine, kissing her slowly with love. Honestly it was one of these moments where Natasha would be so comfortable with me that she let herself cry in front of me. Being vulnerable in front of me. And I loved that, not that she cried. But because she was comfortable enough to show her true self, she was open about her feelings.

Natasha Romanoff, was in love with me. And I was in love with her. And it only took for me to nearly die for us two to accept it and confess it to each other. But now, that all of this was over, that I was okay and alive with my girl beside me. I felt like I could win everything.

[emswritingsstuff]

How about a Daryl Dixon x male!reader fic where they’re already dating but because of Daryl’s upbringing, he was scared of openly being with the reader and it takes someone else flirting with the reader for Daryl to be like “Fuck off, he’s my man” (with Rick being the most supportive ofc because I support their brotherly bond)

i had so much fun with this. i got a little carried away with this request but i was ITCHING to add relationship lore, so i did. hope you enjoy!!

--

Charming Man (Daryl Dixon x Male! Reader)

Slight Warnings: Unsupportive family, Daryl's dad mentioned, Homophobia, nothing explicit but it's there!

WC: 3.2K

--

Your relationship with Daryl Dixon was something that even caught you by surprise. You’ve both known each other since everything started, meeting at the Quarry. If you were being honest with yourself, you’d always had a thing for Daryl. Even if he did seem to be the stereotypical rude and offensive redneck. 

Daryl wasn’t like that though, the exact opposite actually. But Merle Dixon on the other hand? He totally was. You never hid your identity, what was the point of that anymore? There's no harm in it, people have bigger issues than gay people nowadays. But unfortunately, Merle always made sure to get a rude comment in. But it was always met by a big slap or hit from Daryl. Which would then cause Merle to turn the ridicule onto Daryl, which you hated. But he took it like a champ so you didn’t have to, which you admired a lot. Defending someone you barely knew like that? It was oddly attractive to you. But you pushed that down, not wanting to create more unwanted tension within yourself. 

After Merle's disappearance, Daryl seemed to shift. You’d found him getting closer to you, emotionally and physically. It made you happy to see him finally open up, it just sucked that he had to lose his brother to let it happen.  

Just observing him, you had also realized that when he was angry or frustrated with the group he would confine in you. It seemed like you had some sort of spell on him, which you definitely got in your own head about. 

It took the Greene farm falling for you to eventually come to terms with the fact you liked him more than in a platonic sense. You had escaped with Rick and the whole ride to the highway you were scared you weren’t going to see Daryl again. What if he separated from the group? What if he didn’t make it out at all? All the thoughts raced in your head. Then it hit you and you realized that you were in too deep.

You loved him. 

Hearing the familiar sound of the bike filled you with an indescribable feeling, one of joy but also nervousness. You felt your heart flutter when you saw him again. You stood back in the group, letting him greet the others. Getting lost in your head you didn’t even notice the strong figure that put his arms around you, holding you tight for a second before letting go to get a look at you. 

“Happy to see ya, tough guy,” Daryl said with a smirk on his face. Giving you a light pat on your back he walked away, leaving you frozen and a blushing mess. You had prayed no one saw you in that state and it seemed to be luck was on your side with that. 

The feelings only grew and grew, there was no chance they were going to stop anytime soon. 

Once taking the prison, Rick started to assign watch shifts within the group, most of the time you had got night shifts. Which you didn’t mind at all, more peaceful you thought. Though every time you had a moment of peace, Daryl plagued your thoughts. With no doubt you were absolutely whooped for this man. 

During one of your shifts, you had gotten lost in thought again, this time just thinking about the past. Missing the old world, in the sense that you didn’t like fighting for your life every single day. You had gotten snapped out of your thoughts when you heard a jingling sound approaching you, quickly turning around only to be met with Daryl himself. 

“Hey,” he moved his chin up when he greeted you, crossbow in hand. You did the gesture back and looked out into the distance, trying to act like you were actually watching. But you could never focus when he was around, all you wanted to do was look at him. Look at his strong arms, his face, his shoulders, God you just wanted to look at him all day. 

A soft tap on your shoulder brought you back to the real world, it was Daryl offering you a piece of meat. Probably leftovers from dinner, you happily took a small piece and ate it. “Thanks, appreciate it,” you smiled at him. 

“Don’ mention it, figure ya wanted somethin’. Ya been up here while,” A subtle redness hit your face. You knew he cared, but to come up to you on his own time meant a lot to you. When he stayed there afterward, you decided to at least try and talk, at least have sort of a conversation. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” You looked up at him, he wasn’t even looking at you but he just shrugged in response. “Can’t sleep in a cell, tha’s for sure,” 

“Agreed, too cramped, also cold and gross.” That made him chuckle under his breath, you mentally high fived yourself but quickly got off your high horse and continued the conversation. 

“It reminds me of my old man, hate thinkin’ about his ass all the damn time,” He was messing with his thumb, he probably felt awkward bringing it up. But you listened. 

You had known a little bit about Daryl’s father, nothing super detailed but you knew he wasn’t a good man. You sometimes caught glimpses of the scars his shirt couldn’t cover, so you just put two and two together. 

“Whats yer history? Barely know anythin’ about ya.” He pointed at you and he invited you to speak, but only if you wanted to. Which you appreciated. You took a deep breath and decided to tell him, what's the harm in that? 

“Grew up in Georgia, both my parents were around and I had a sister. Parents worked good jobs, treated us well. Or at least up until I came out to them. Treated me like an outsider ever since. Not the no contact type either, the type where they won’t admit I’m gay and sweep it under the rug,” You said the last portion with a shrug, it hurts to think about sometimes but it's far away in the past now. Daryl shook his head, “Tha’s some bullshit, why the hell they’d care?”

All you could do was shrug again, “Judgment I guess, my parents didn’t want to be the ones with the ‘gay son’. Or whatever. Stopped caring about it after I moved out.” He nodded along and smacked your shoulder playfully. “Good shit.” 

It got silent after that, you had hoped you didn’t make anything awkward. Which you obviously haven’t. The smell of smoke filled your lungs as you looked over to see Daryl nursing a cigarette, you finally let yourself watch him, just absolutely getting lost within him. But quickly turning away as he looked right back at you. 

He’d looked nervous now, which was very unlike him. Once the cigarette was out, he turned to look at you again. “Can I ask ya somethin’, and ya can’t judge,” 

“Never would, whats up,” a nervous pit welled up in your stomach, you hoped he couldn’t see the sweaty palms you had equipped. 

“Is askin’ out a guy the same as a girl?” Okay, maybe you were going to judge a little. You tried to hold back a laugh, but Daryl saw right through you. “C’mon ya said ya wouldn’t judge, answer the damn question.” 

You had calmed down and you were finally able to answer, “Depends on the guy but yes, you just sometimes got to be prepared for the worst case.” He nodded in response. 

“So, If I were to ask ya out right now, I wouldn’t get punched?” The meaning of his words didn’t process in your brain until you started responding. “Well no, I certainly wouldn’t punch-” you cut yourself off and looked at him in the eyes.

“Are you serious?” The butterflies that lived in your stomach were back with a vengeance, making you feel like you're on cloud nine. Daryl nodded a simple yes and you took the opportunity to play into the joke. 

“If you were to ask me out, I would say yes,” and there it is. The start of your relationship with the archer. 

It was casual at first, hanging out one on one in privacy, eating dinner together, going out on runs, all the simple things in an apocalypse context. When you both realized you really wanted this to work, you both had a discussion on the boundaries you both had. Daryl's main one being about being out. 

He had issues with his identity in the past, with his father and Merle, you knew he would be scared to be his authentic self so you understood. And you didn’t want to pressure him especially when all these feelings were so new to him. 

Once the prison fell, you had lost Daryl in the mess. Ending up with Carol and Tyreese, as well as Judith. You were unsure what had happened to the two little girls Carol had started to take care of, but you had known it probably wasn’t anything good. And finding out everyone in your group had been taken to a cannibal farm made your stomach drop. 

Thinking you had lost Daryl was a continuous feeling, he’d run off to do things for everyone and sometimes getting hurt in the process. It made you stressed, but without a doubt he would always come home to you. He kind of reminded you of an outside dog or cat, which you would tell him and he’d just push you off chuckling to himself. 

Seeing his strong figure again after being separated made you emotional, bringing you to tears. He was crying too, but trying not to show it off to everyone else. His arms engulfed you in a massive hug keeping you there for what felt like an eternity, but what was probably a few seconds. The reunion of the group was very short lived, you all needing to get on the road again to fully escape Terminus. 

The months on the road were long and hard, you all were praying for a break. And it seemed to come true when Aaron showed up. Inviting you all to Alexandria, you had felt a weight lifted off of your shoulders. Everyone was of course off put by this offer, but eventually realized they were legit. 

Finally having a place to call home, you had gotten all your belongings settled into the shared house. You were unsure where Daryl was going to go, but you wished he would share a room with you. Sighing, you walked out of the house to see Daryl messing with his crossbow, looking harshly at it when he injured himself. 

His expression softened when he saw you though, and he silently greeted you before going back to the crossbow. You made a spot beside him and sat in front of him, just wanting to have some familiar company in this new place. Suddenly remembering the party Deanna was going to have for you all tonight. You figured Daryl wouldn’t want to go, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask him. 

“You want to go to that party at Deanna’s tonight? It would be nice I think,” He just shrugged in response. “Not my thing,” was his response, not even looking up from his bow. Your head looking away caused him to look up at you, “Ya want me to go?” 

“It would be nice, a good opportunity. But I know you aren't going to have fun socializing,” He just scoffed and smirked at you. “I’ll go for ya, but only for ya,” his hand moved from his bow to point at you with a joking scold. You just softly laughed and squeezed him arm with your hand. “Thanks, love you.” 

“Love ya too,” he smiled up at you as you went to leave. Pausing quickly to get one more word in, “Oh, wear something nice, and shower.” Shooting a smirk directly his way, he leaned his head back and rolled his eyes. 

“First Carol, and now ya?” You simply shrugged and walked away. Leaving him on the porch until the party. 

When you started to get ready you heard a soft knock on your door, creeping the door open to be met with Daryl. Surprisingly already prepared to go, dressed up in a black button up, his vest, and a nice pair of jeans. The whole outfit screamed Daryl. Your eyes looked at him lovingly, and he grinned at you. “Like what ya see?” he said as he let himself into the room. 

“A lot actually,” he placed a soft kiss to the top of your head as you continued to get ready. Throwing on a button up shirt and a pair of khaki pants, clothes you had gotten from the resources at Alexandria. Giving Daryl a spin, you showed him your outfit “Lookin’ handsome.” He winked at you and walked over to give you a quick kiss on the lips before officially heading to the party. 

The walk to Deanna’s was nice, it felt like everything was normal again. It was quiet though, Daryl was clearly thinking about something, chalking it up to him not being sure about Alexandria yet. 

Once there Daryl hesitated to go inside, it took you physically dragging him by the side to even get him to the door. Grumbles left his mouth before you opened the door to let yourselves in, only to be immediately overwhelmed by all the people. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” you mumbled so only Daryl could hear. He patted your back softly and left to grab a beer and probably hide in a corner, which you had debated doing yourself. 

But you ended up chatting with Noah, making nice conversation. Never really getting the opportunity to meet and talk to him before. It was really nice. Until one of the Alexandrian women came up to you both, she obviously had some intentions that you really couldn’t read. 

Whatever, you thought, maybe she just wanted to be friendly? That's what you were hoping at least. You and Noah both exchanged awkward glaces, just looking wide eyed at each other as she kept trying to pull your attention without even saying a word.

Right as you were about to say something, she had beat you to the punch. “You’re quite the sight, pretty boy, what’s your name?” The pet name made you gag, but on the inside as it felt rude to physically do it in front of her. “Oh uh, I’m (Y/N), and this is Noah,” as soon as you finished speaking her hand shot up to shoo you. You were taken aback and looked at Noah again, still wide eyed. 

“I don’t care about him, I just wanna talk to you,” she said, pointing her finger at you and touching your face. Still looking at Noah, you were speechless. You had no clue what to say, genuinely. Mind went totally blank. You had looked behind you to see Daryl standing in the corner of the room eyeing up the situation you were in. A subtle head tilt from you was enough he needed to spring to action. 

Making his why over he stopped right beside you looking between you and the woman. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked, looking right at you. You went to speak but the woman soon spoke up for you, “Just getting to know the new guy,” Daryl nodded his head looking back at you again picking up on your uncomfortable body language. 

She then went to touch your arm, trying to get a feel for you. At this point Daryl officially understood what was actually happening and he shot to grab her arm. “Not gonna happen, don’t touch him,” his voice was deep and stern and getting the attention of everyone surrounding you guys. 

The woman quickly pulled her arm away and scoffed. “Why not? It’s not like he’s here with anyone. I just wanna have some fun,” she said in a sly tone making you want to gag again. You could see on Daryl’s he was fuming, preparing to hear what he was going to say next. 

“Jus’ fuck off, he’s my man,” he said, quite loud in fact. Louder than anything else he had said that night. That was definitely something you were not expecting him to say in front of everyone. And he wasn’t either because as soon as he said it, he walked out with your hand in his. Storming out and slamming the door leaving everyone there in shock. 

“Okay, what the hell was that Dixon?” he was breathing heavily and trying to calm down with his outburst. His hands met his face as he wiped his eyes, finally calming down. “I don’ know, I jus’, had to finally say it.” A smile creeped up to your face and you put your hands on the side of his head. “I’m glad you did,” kissing him on the lips gently. You both made the choice to go home, just to relax for the rest of the night before the interrogations start tomorrow. 

It was the first night Daryl had slept in bed with you since the prison and it felt nice. Though the next morning Daryl was gone early, you had assumed he had gone out hunting so you just ready for the day and left the home. Only to be surprised by Daryl and Rick having a conversation on the porch. Rick noticed you and immediately walked over and engulfed you in a massive hug. Shooting a glance over to Daryl, he had just laughed. 

“Just wanted to tell you both that I was happy for you guys, glad to see Daryl and you are happy together,” you gave Rick a genuine smile and another hug, this one more emotional than the other one. It felt good to be fully supported in your relationship from people so close to you.  The hug separated and he went on to ask you generic questions like how long you both have been together, when it happened, he wanted to know it all. Which was very heartwarming and it made you feel giddy. 

After a while, Rick had left because he had to do work elsewhere. Leaving you and Daryl on the porch by yourselves. You look over at him, “how are you feeling?” 

Looking back at you, he smiled more than he had before, “Fuckin’ great.” He grabbed your head and placed kisses all over your face. He stopped and quickly reached into his pocket, pulling out two chains with rings on them. He held them out to you letting you pick between a silver and a gold one. You picked the one you liked the most and examined it closely. 

“What's this?” gesturing toward the necklace in your hand. “Necklace, was tryin’ to find promise rings but that all I found. Assumed they didn’t fit so put ‘em on chains.” He explained this like it was no big deal, but to you this was the whole world. 

“Promise rings?” you asked, happy tears threatening to spill from your eyes. 

“Yeah, wanna marry ya one day. And I wan’ everyone to know yer mine.” After he spoke he pulled you into a sweet kiss. Making you the happiest man ever.

[bau-drabbles]

a/n: heavily inspired by those all posts but i can't find who they're from, i'm sorry 😭

your instagram but you're dating aaron hotchner :)

except i have no idea how to write for hotch/the team so it's definitely ooc 😹

part 2, 3, 4

liked by its.emilyp, d.morgan and 501 others

y/n_xo: bearded aaron hottie >> 😮‍💨😮‍💨

view all 100 comments

a.hotch: you tell me this after i shaved it all off

y/n_xo: you're still a hottie! just a beardless one 🤍

a.hotch: i'll grow it back for you

y/n_xo: my whole husband 🫶🥹

penny.garcia: you both make my heart so warm 💗 the ice king has finally melted his heart, this'll be such a good story for your kids! 🥹

d.morgan: yall make me so sick

its.emilyp: i feel like this man popped outta the womb with a glare looool

a.hotch: 🤨

its.emilyp: 🙂***

itsjj: suddenly i fear you have a whole stack of paperwork to complete

its.emilyp: and you'd be correct 😪

penny.garcia: SIR 🗣 AYO SIR 🗣🗣 SIR YOU LOOKIN FINE SIR 🗣🗣🗣🗣

reid.gram: not you thirsting over our BOSS 😦

d.morgan: i don't like this, babygirl

itsjj: sometimes sharing is not caring

its.emilyp: i hate it here ☹

penny.garcia: that wasn't me!! 😩 @/y/n_xo grabbed my phone!

y/n_xo: my bad, can't be thirsting on the main 🧍‍♀️

d.morgan: you can barely even see me, why we so blurry?

reid.gram: did you really expect high quality pictures from @/y/n_xo, be honest

the.davidrossi: always the blind ones out here taking 240p pictures

y/n_xo: always the old ones with the most audacity

d.morgan: FOULL 🤣

reid.gram: see, me personally i wouldn't take that type of disrespect

y/n_xo: all that iq and you still can't find a date 😔🤞

its.emilyp: that's my girl 😏

a.hotch: you stop influencing her right now

liked by blake_alex, the.davidrossi and 430 more

y/n_xo: new boyfriend applications, this one is mean 😒

view all 200 comments

a.hotch: wait does that sign not mean something good?

its.emilyp: no it does! nowadays it means peace and happiness

d.morgan: yeah it's also a way to say you love someone a lot

a.hotch: really? @/y/n_xo 🙂🖕❤

itsjj: LMAOOO

reid.gram: I CANT BREATHE

penny.garcia: IVE ALREADY SS THIS AND SENT IT ON THE GC 😂

y/n_xo: my poor man 😭

a.hotch: all of you are getting into trouble

its.emilyp: so worth it 😹

yourexname: i miss you ❤

a.hotch: you're going to miss when you didn't write this

penny.garcia: currently documenting every second of this

reid.gram: we're watching a historical event unfold, you guys

itsjj: i'm a little concerned for this man's safety

its.emilyp: hey, alls fair in love and war 😍

liked by a.hotch, itsjj and 532 more

y/n_xo: never leave your phone unattended pls

view all 300 comments

reid.gram: of course you choose the one picture of my double chin

y/n_xo: it's always out wdym

reid.gram: .... oh

d.morgan: you walked straight into that one, pretty boy

penny.garcia: you guys are so mean 😭 my poor boy wonder

reid.gram: all these haters and for what? 😒

its.emilyp: i smell the cheetos from here

itsjj: i did not eat any 😡

y/n_xo: liar. they were on the side

its.emilyp: called it. my cheeto girl ❤

penny.garcia: time to play cupid, methinks 😌

y/n_xo: budge over will, emily's taking your place ‼️‼️

its.emilyp: 😏

itsjj: 😳

liked by itslukealvez, reid.gram and 609 more

y/n_xo: two best friends in a room.... they might kiss 😳

view all 400 comments

the.davidrossi: how can i delete someone else's picture?

d.morgan: don't be embarrassed rossi, embrace your truth ✊

itsjj: we support you ✊

its.emilyp: sassy king ✊

reid.gram: hey, at least you and @/its.emilyp have something in common ✊

its.emilyp: literally choke

penny.garcia: you owe me 5 bucks @/y/n_xo 🥳

the.davidrossi: i hate all of you

itsjj: aww they look a little like henry and jack, forced to take a picture

a.hotch: that's because we were. this was the 10th picture

y/n_xo: that's cause you're so pretty ❤

the.davidrossi: i genuinely got heatstroke after this. never ever take pictures if @/y/n_xo is near

y/n_xo: :(

a.hotch: ignore him, he's on his sixth wife for a reason. i love all your pictures sweetheart ❤

y/n_xo: :")

penny.garcia: the absolute CUTENESS i CANNOT 😩🥹💗💗

its.emilyp: i can be a better boyfriend than him

y/n_xo: i love you

a.hotch: i am sorry??

reid.gram: damn the silence is loud

itsjj: reid don't be an instigator..... but do i sense a relationship forming? 👀

d.morgan: nah, i could treat you way better princess

a.hotch: @/d.morgan and @/its.emilyp both of you in my office now

[cara-delaney-author]

One thing that's been gnawing at me about the new Hbomb video and the... everything in it is the realisation how some people are "I always knew XYZ was a plagiarist!"

Okay, that is great. Genuinely, I'm happy that you recognised it early. But that is so, so hard to do nowadays. There's genuinely so much plagiarism out there, and it's incredibly exhausting to try and spot it.

Not just because a lot of plagiarists hide it with a lot of effort. But because there is so much stuff out there, it's impossible to be able to recognise it all. That's what makes it so easy to get away with it for so long - there's a decent chance it just gets lost in the noise, and nobody ever hits both your content and your plagiarised sources close enough together to notice.

How do I know this? Because I used to enjoy two channels run by the same person - one about media (primarily gaming, mostly sci-fi and horror), and the second channel was a "tales" channel, dedicated to recounting true stories, or urban legends. Think the Franklin expedition, the Bloop, or Dyatlov pass.

Well, I say "recounting", but during the video about the Donner Party I realised that I was listening word for word to the Wikipedia article about the incident. I'm not kidding, I pulled up the article and just. Read along. For the entire rest of the video.

Turns out almost all of the videos on that second channel are like this. No, there is never a single source cited (which I didn't realise because I was watching on the PS4 and didn't see the description), and a cursory glance at the comments showed nobody ever mentioning this. I know I only noticed because I'd looked up the Donner Party earlier that week (which is why I was watching the video), and recognised some of the specific phrasing. Until that point, the video had been presented as if the Youtuber was reading from his own notes, sort of like a half-freeform presentation based off of bullet points. Which it very clearly wasn't, now that I went and checked half a dozen of his videos and found the exact same thing happening in every single one. A few minutes of intro written (hopefully) by the Youtuber himself, and then just a reading of the Wikipedia article with no attribution whatsoever.

So now I can't enjoy either channel anymore, because I have to assume the main channel is also 100% just someone else's words read out loud without the original creators' permission. And even if it isn't? The whole thing is soured for me now regardless.

My point is that a lot of systems today are set up to enable this kind of behaviour, from the absolute deluge of "content" to the easy to replicate tricks like flipping footage and applying filters to trick people into not recognising it as stolen. And then the piece moves on too quickly for the average viewer to stop and wonder why something might feel familiar.

Nobody is a bad person for not recognising plagiarism, even if it is incredibly blatant in hindsight. But if you see a video or read a long essay, that makes grand claims and shows you a lot of different things, but never cites any sources... if you have a few minutes, maybe check to make sure you're not consuming something that was wholecloth stolen from more deserving creators.

[paraphwrites]

four days ago i made a post and @listrinha commented "The burry your gays became cancel your gays" and i have SO MANY THOUGHTS that i am making it into a post.

look it's 2024 we know about the 'burry the gays' trope and most of us are over it. we're over the queer characters being reduced to stereotypes and/or getting killed off. and we're over a lack of representation. so, what do streaming services do?

they create beautiful, incredibly well thought out and well made shows with queer characters. and then they cancel it after one season.

if you need to have multiple queer characters in a show, but corporations don't want to make "gay shows", what is the solution? make one season then cancel it off. then you have a whole host of lgbtq+ shows to cite, to say you're not homophobic, but you also don't have to make a bunch of multi seasoned queer shows.

now, i am not saying @netflix is homophobic. i've seen a lot of discourse about that lately and i truly don't think they are. netflix isn't homophobic because netflix is a COMPANY and companies don't have feelings or opinions. companies care about profit and profit alone. and queer shows inherently have a smaller target demographic, ergo a smaller audience, ergo less profit. ergo, it may be the case that making queer shows is less profitable than shows with a mostly straight cast. after all, companies want to appeal to the largest possible audience.

however! however. as i have talked about before, this is still inadvertently homophobic because it treats marginalized groups as equal to majorities. it says, because the majority is better for us, we will not create media for the minorities, and that lack of representation others minorities and it's a whole bloody cycle. basically, netflix isn't homophobic, but they may contribute to homophobia. and there is a distinction.

as times progress, tropes change and shift based on what is and isn't deemed ok by the society. so when we said 'burry the gays' is no longer ok? companies decided to cancel the gays, instead.

i would also like to take a brief aside about at the history of 'bury the gays.' originally, it was a trope that queer authors utilized to include homosexual relations in their media without facing legal or social backlash because "no they were never gay & they are dead!! it's ok!!" and this plays an important role in queer history! i've said it before and i've said it again: a lot of literary devices which we now think of as homophobic originated as a way for queer authors to express themselves in a time when they otherwise could not.

but do you wanna know WHY it's considered homophobic nowadays to use them? because companies who don't care about gay people utilize them as a way to make their piece more palatable despite the fact that, in western society, there is no legal backlash for including queer relationships. ergo, instead of being used by an individual to create a loving work of art, it is being used by a company to get as much profit as possible.

companies do not care about you. they do not care about queer people. they do not care about straight people. they only care for your money. so they will do whatever they can and disregard any and all history until people call them out on it. and then they will pivot. times change. tropes change. companies don't.

[elliespuns]

It’s definitely not a hate comment towards the actresses; it’s just a critique of the makeup staff or whoever’s responsible for that. But what I’m getting at is that both Bella and Isabela look way too young; they could pass for 10-year-old girls, and the worst part is they’re trying to sell us on Isabela carrying a child all empowered and Bella taking care of the baby like Dina’s partner??? Bella will end up looking like JJ’s slightly older sister. And can you believe both women, barely 5’1, are going to be taking down every guy in their path??? Good Lord, I’m so frustrated.

And I’m sure as hell we’ll just settle for whatever they give us and eventually accept it, but it’s not what we deserve as fans.

I agree with everything you say. Not here to dis either. I loved season 1 even though there were so many things that made me roll my eyes or mad for actually not happening at all (like all those Ellie and Joel moments they screw us over with by not delivering them and making their bond less impacful). But this is too much. I get it. They can't make the actresses meet the original Ellie's height, but with what the make-up artists can do nowadays, I was at least expecting Bella to age for the show. 

We can't have two (19 and 20) year old girls slaying everyone throughout their way of Seattle if they look like 12 year olds. Not to mention one of them is supposed to be pregnant; how's that going to look? Also, the cast for Jesse? Young Mazino definitely looks like Jesse's real age, so we're now having Dina, who is 12, date Jesse, who's over 20?

I love this duo for how capable they both are as a team. I don't mind that they won't look exactly the same, but the age, chemistry, and dynamics should fit. If I'm not getting this, I don't want anything else. 

I am not the one to point out flaws, and I usually look for the better parts in everything because I can appreciate effort, but I feel no effort really has been put into anything I've seen leaked. It feels like everyone's just pissed that Pedro won't be there on set to light up everyone's day, so they just kind of gave up on trying, or idk. It's just sad.

I can't even start thinking about certain scenes because they get even more hilarious when I imagine them based on what I've seen so far. Can you imagine the weed den scene? I don't want to watch two 12 year olds make out. Or the shamblers encounters? (if there will be any). Not even talking about the farm era, where Ellie and Dina live as a couple with a kid. If they don't make the girls age, nobody will take the whole show seriously. There are already so many people disliking S01 (most of them are game fans), and the creators just keep adding to the pile of dislikes. People are gonna be so angry and upset. 

Look, these are just leaked photos, I get it. Maybe the girls were just testing/practicing. Who knows. Maybe they'll even surprise us. But until then, I know I won't be expecting much because I'd rather expect the worst than expect a lot and then get a slap in the face.

[natti-ice]

Would You Have Me?- Sirius Black.

Pairing: Sirius Black x fem!reader

Summary: Y/N is the only person in Sirius’ life he truly cares about, he wouldn’t mind if it was only them

Warnings: modern high school au!, written in third person (she/her pronouns) (1.6k words)

Author's note: this is a reupload, I wrote this a while ago!

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated<3

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The final bell rang, it was Friday hundreds of students poured out of the school doors ready for the weekend. Y/N was among the swarm of kids, headed toward her bus. Thankful it was the weekend, this week had been a lot on her. Off in the distance, she could hear her name over the loud voices. Looking around shielding her eyes from the sun, she could see a tall boy headed her way. 

It was Sirius

"There you are," he said when he reached her, throwing his arm around her shoulder "Where are you off to?" he asked

"My bus" she pointed to the big yellow vehicle

"C'mon, I'll take you home" he offered

"Really?" she asked

"Yeah, you can tell me all about your day"

They walked to the student parking lot, Sirius drove a black '89 Dodge charger. It was a little squeaky, but he loves that car. 

He opens the passenger door for Y/N, closing it once she was in. Sirius Drove the long way to her house so they could talk longer.

"How was your day, dear?" he asks pulling out of the campus

"It was fine, I'm glad the week is over. Everything has been a lot lately" 

It was their junior year, everyone is starting to worry about their futures. Their career, college, exams, everything stressful. 

"I know what you mean, it feels like we have to know everything about the future before it happens" he replies

They continue their conversation all the way to Y/N's house. They've always been able to tell each other everything without feeling judged. Nowadays, it feels like you have to make sure everything is perfect because the whole world is watching, waiting for you to fall.

He was her safe place, and she was his. 

Sirius pulls up in front of her house, parking the car.

"Thanks for the ride, Sirius" she says opening the car door

"Of course, love. Hey, do you wanna hang out tomorrow?" he asks

"Yeah, sure I'll ask my parents. I'll text you" she answers

"Great, I'll see you soon then" He smiles

"Bye" she says closing the door.

He waits for her to go inside before driving off like he does every time. He sees her almost every day, but he still gets excited when they hang out. It's like a new experience every time, even when they've done it one hundred times before.

-

When he got home, he waited anxiously for her text. Her parents have never said no before, but it still made him a little nervous. He's made sure over the years that her parents liked him, he didn't want them to think he was just some guy who was only hanging out with their daughter to get in her pants.

He started his homework that probably won't get finished till Monday morning, checking his phone every few minutes.

Finally, after what felt like an hour, she texted him

parents said it's cool What did you have in mind?

 Movie? Wonka is still showing. Stay at my place after?

Timothee Chalamet? HELL YEAH! Definitely down for a sleepover

 Great! I'll pick u up at 4

See you then! <3

He was happy that she could come, he liked being able to get out of the house and escape with her. Everyone has family issues, his family was distant from each other. It was almost like they were roommates, not a family. His parents didn't care if he was gone or if he had someone over.

His brother stayed in his room most of the day when he got home from school. Their bond was limited to short interactions in the dining room on special occasions.

Y/N was his real family, she was always there for him whenever he needed her. At school, many people claimed to be his friend, they'd say hey in the hallway or talk about some game that happened the night before. None of them would actually have a real meaningful conversation with him.

He didn't get why he was so popular, he was sociable and easy on the eyes sure, but nobody knew the real him. It seemed like they had all made a false version of him in their heads. A mysterious ladies' man who could have anyone he wanted.

That wasn't true at all, he wasn't a mystery at all. He was very open once you got to know him, only Y/N had ever made the effort to do so. The whole 'ladies' man' thing was really funny to him. He'd never had a serious girlfriend, a few dates here and there but nothing real.

Many of those girls thought that him and Y/N had a thing going on so they would stop talking to him completely. At first he didn't know why they would think that, he thought their friendship seemed very platonic. Then he realized some of the things they would do seemed a little too friendly.

That didn't stop him. If he was honest, he didn't care about those girls at school. If there was only one girl in the world and he had to pick her. It would be Y/N. Always Y/N.

-

Saturday came around, Sirius waited all day for 4 o'clock. He didn't like to be late, he pulled up in front of her house a few minutes early so he could greet her parents.

Turning off his car, walking up to the front door. He rings the doorbell that has a little camera on it. A few seconds later, her mother opens the door

"Sirius, how are you, dear?" she asks bringing him in for a hug

'I'm great, Mrs. L/N. How's everything?"

"Everything's fine, Y/N should be ready by now." she told the boy "Y/N, Sirius is here!" she yelled up the stairs

She came down the stairs, a small bag in her hand. 

"Sorry, had to make sure I had everything, are you ready?" she asks Sirius

"Yeah, I'll see you later, Mrs. L/N" 

He and Y/N get in his car, driving to the local movie theater. 

That movie was almost 3 hours long, but that's okay. They didn't mind sitting in a dark room together in silence. It was much later, the sun was starting to set when they headed towards Sirius' house.

His parent's car wasn't in the driveway thankfully, awkward hellos are never fun. They realize they're starving and order take out.

Once it finally arrives, he takes her up to his room. Passing by Regulus' room, she could hear gunfire from some video game.

"Don't mind him, it's like he's married to the game. Hardly comes out the room" Sirius explains opening his bedroom door.

It was relatively clean, only because he knew she was coming over. His walls were lined with movie posters from the 80s and now, some of his favorite vinyls, and photo booth pictures of him and Y/N from various locations.

He made sure his space represented him. The real him. 

They spend the next couple of hours eating and watching random videos on youtube until they got bored of it. Putting on Evermore on as background music as they talked.

Both of them are sitting on the floor, Sirius leaning against the wall, Y/N against his bed

They jumped from topic to topic as the night progressed, getting into the more personal topics. A few weeks ago, Y/N started talking to a boy named Kevin. She seemed to have liked him until she stopped talking about him.

Sirius had been curious about that for a while, he thought it was a good time to ask

"Whatever happened to that Kevin guy? I thought you two were getting serious" he asks

"Oh him? That's long gone" she shrugged, "He said he just didn't feel anything for me" she explained, she didn't show it but she was a little hurt by the boy's words.

"Oh my god, he sucks. Anyone would be more than lucky to have you" He was mad that anyone would treat her like this. "Fuck that guy"

"It's alright, I didn't need him in my life" she wanted to get the topic off her "What about you? Anyone new in your life?"

"Nah" he smiles "I don't want anyone new, honestly"

"What do you mean?" she asks

"I'm happy just having you in my life, sometimes I wish it could always just be you and me" he says in a low voice

"That would be great, honestly. Just us against the world" she agrees

"Y/N?" his voice barely above a whisper, fidgeting with a ring on his hand

"Yeah?" 

He swallowed before replying, "I think I'm in love with you"

"What?" she laughed nervously, he got up and sat next to her

"When I think of my future, having a family and owning a house, you're there right next to me. I've tried to convince myself that it's only because there isn't anyone else in my life" He pauses searching her face for any sort of bad emotion "I know now, it's because I don't want anyone else in my life but you"

Y/N's brain was all over the place, trying to figure out what to say. Sirius has been her rock for so long, she had a small crush on him. She didn't think he would ever reciprocate it

"I don't know what to say" she admits

"That's alright, you don't have to say anything. If you're willing, maybe we could see if this goes anywhere?" 

She reaches down grabbing his hand, lacing her fingers with his. "I think we can make it work" she smiles "After all, we're still getting married at 30 right?" she laughed

"Right Right. A pact is a pact, dear" he smiles

She gives him a small kiss on the cheek, slowly pulling away. Their faces were dangerously close together, warm breath fanning against their skin. Y/N closes the distance. Their lips perfectly fitting each other, just like they were made for each other.

Sirius pulled away, not wanting things to get carried away. Y/N rest her head on his shoulder

"So, what color should our invitations be?"

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Tag list:

@thebiggestnaturaldisaster @madwcman @de-duchess @timbradfordisbae @mommymilkerfanclub @oatmilkriver @hisparentsgallerryy

join a tag list!

[alevicke]

Killers x GN!Reader with acne & low self esteem

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Reader has acne problems despite being an adult. Has some self esteem issues due to this. But your fave couldn't even care. What they love you for goes beyond that

Anna (The Huntress), Adiris (The Plague), Susie (The Legion) Pyramid Head (The executioner)

-----

TW: Obviously acne mention, depression. Please understand this is pretty self indulgent. I know what it is to go through this, it hurts but you aren't alone

Also, I have no beta reader nor anything, sorry if it’s not good!

-----

ANNA (THE HUNTRESS)

She is genuinely confused by your worries.

She actually doesn't really understand what's acne. In fact, she doesn't even believe it's something bad.

I mean, she faced puberty which is when she had more acne but... She wasn't around other humans or people to point it out or make her feel embarrassed of that. She was more concerned about hunting and surviving in the forest

Thing is... She actually has a lot of acne nowadays. She doesn't take care of her skin at all, only of wounds, and doesn't clean her face unless you really tell her to do it and... All that dust and dirt in her skin makes her have some acne issues

It's not like she really cares, she even has scars because she scratches them

She doesn't know she supposes to let them be

And, you know what? SCARS ARE COOL

In her eyes, she believes those are cool and are similar to freckles

To her eyes, you're the most beautiful person she has ever met. She loves every single thing of you, every single part and every single inch

Then, why would she dislike something you and she have in common?

You could try to explain it to her but... It just doesn't click on her. It's natural, it's human, it's lovable

She loves you the way you are

Still, her way of showing you love is basically keeping you in her arms for as long as possible. You know she’s clingy

She will kiss you the whole time, even more than normally. Expect to have slight bruises in your face from how many times she presses her face against yours (joking)

Oh, and she will huge you like a teddy bear. You’ll basically be carried like like a baby 24/7 until you smile and trust her words

She loves you <3

ADIRIS (THE PLAGUE)

Well, sadly, when it comes to insecurities, Adiris can be the queen

She 100% understands you and will be by your side. She's the sweetest person in the world when it come to these topics

She's soft with every single word. Gentle. She doesn't want to say anything that could upset you

But she wants you to know that she's there for you and she loves you

She understand your securities though

And you know she does

It doesn't matter how many times you tell her you love her. It doesn't matter how many times you tell how much you find her beautiful. And it doesn't matter how many times you kiss her

She's still scared

But bit by bit, she's learning and realizing that it's true and you see more than her scars, than her sickness and her wounds. You see more than her weaknesses. You see past what everyone finds disgusting

You see a soul, a loving woman who cherishes you with her whole heart and it aches her to see you suffer and struggle

But she's there for every second you feel insecure. And for every mean comment you say she will kiss you two times to prove you wrong

There is nothing you can say that can change her mind

But, truth being said, sometimes, you just want to let your feelings out... And for those times, she's there as well

English is not her native language but she's been in the realm for long enough for both of you to understand and communicate and when you need to talk, you know she's there

You can let every insecurity you have out and she's going to be there for you

She will stay quiet and hug you for all you want and reassure you that she's there for you

SUSIE (THE LEGION)

Although she had her skin issues when she was adolescent, she has perfect skin now

Well, one or two pimples when her period comes because hormones are a bitch and she hates it

But not because of the acne, it's just that she gets annoyed by all the blood she didn't ask for and dealing with it

Other than that she's always pretty happy around

That's until you decide to talk to her and tell her your insecurities...

Much like Adiris, it pains her to see you struggling for your self esteem and your appearance and wants to cheer you up by being by your side

She loves you the way you are and she hates you cannot see what she sees. She really wishes she could make you see through her eyes the beauty she sees in you

She's extremely worried especially when you talk about using a mask

At first, she thought it would be cute both of you use masks and didn't think too much into it

Until she realized that your reason behind it was to cover your face due to how embarrassed you felt

She could feel her heart break into pieces discovering that and she didn't want you to use a mask. Fck being tweenies with masks, she wants to see your beautiful face

(Although she hates seeing your face when you're suffering in trials when you both have to fight. Stupid Entity)

She won’t stop you if you really really want to use a mask, but she will strongly discourage it and would like you to take it off as soon as you both are together

After all, she wants to be able to caress your cheek without any problem, to kiss you and smush her face against you without anything interrupting or getting in the middle

She’s not really good when it comes to conversations so she’s most likely going to try to cheer you up with different things when you are feeling bad

Videogames, snacks, snuggling, even annoying Frank and pranking him if that could make you smile

You have been with Susie for long enough to be accepted into Legion so… Yeah, Julie and Joey are most likely going to help you

After everything, all she cares about is making you happy and smile

PYRAMID HEAD (THE EXECUTIONER)

Pyramid Head already has problems understanding human feelings and issues. He cannot even talk and communicate properly which has been a problem in your relationship several times. But you both can work it out

When you’re feeling sad, he doesn’t really understand what’s going on at first

He goes through all points that make sense in his mind first

Did someone hurt you? A bad trial? Did Danny bother you again taking photos without your permission? Did another survivor use you as a sandbag or tea bagged you while hooked?

Whatever it was, he was ready to get his hands dirty (and full of blood)

What he didn’t expect was to hear you say you felt bad about your appearance, about yourself

What do you even mean? He likes you the way you are. How come you don’t see it as well? He didn’t fall in love with others, he isn’t attracted to others, he’s surprised he cannot see your beauty as he does

And just for a few red marks and little wounds? He gets HUGE scars and wounds in trials. And he never thought they could be bothering besides the danger aspect which doesn’t really matter under Entity’s protection

But in all honesty, if it’s something that’s bothering you or making you feel bad, he is worried and wants to help you

He still doesn’t know and needs some guidance about how to help you though

He’ll try his own way of cheering you up. Most of them can include a bit of brutality though, like; Beating up whatever killer even dares to touch you in any trial, making a survivor chug their flashlight if they even dare to abandon you and similar stuff

He will also bring more gifts. Not the best, like dead flowers, but come on, he’s trying to cheer you up. And in his realm there aren’t many good things to pick from. Unless you want a broken student’s chair

He’ll make sure to pick you up and hug you way more often and while he cannot kiss you he’ll be gently cupping your cheek and softly caressing your lips with his thumb, as a sign that if he could he would really love to kiss you

[prodbymaui]

Phantom Limb (Equidistant)

did we come close to having it all?

PAIRING: jeong jaehyun x you

GENRE: slice of life; the hows of us

TEASER WC: 848 words

SYNOPSIS: Between the distance of sorrys and goodbyes, where does 'us' lies?

RELEASE DATE: October 30, 2023

TAGLIST: open !! (you can send an ask or comment your usn)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: if you have questions, you can send an ask. and NO, I didn't re-write the whole movie and replaced Jaehyun's name. the teaser is just a teaser and the actual fic will have a lot more which will be different from the movie.

YOU WERE YOUNG.

''Hmm this is how it feels when you've finally bought something with your own money, huh, Jo?''

''Jo? Is that the name of your ex or side chick?''

''What.. No.'' Jaehyun chuckles. ''Jo in scottish means darling, sweetheart–.. beloved.''

''Pfft, fine. I like that. Jo..''

YOU DREAMED TOGETHER.

''When we're both finally stable and successful in life, wouldn't you be arrogant?''

''Arrogant? Why would I be?''

''Because your boyfriend is the world's most famous singer.''

His imaginations emit a hearty scoff from you. ''Then you're arrogant by then as well.''

''Uh-huh, and why is that?''

''Because your girlfriend, the president of your fansclub, is the doctor who found cures to cancers and rare diseases.''

''And I would be so proud of you when that happens.''

''Someday, love.''

''Someday, Jo.''

THERE WERE UPS.

''Happy birthday, the love of my life!''

''Thank you so much, baby! You didn't have to!''

''Uh-uh, I have to and I want to. You've been juggling studying and working at the same time and I know it has been hard. A great woman like my love only deserves the best of the bests.''

''You're such a sap. I love you, Jeong.''

''I love you, Jo. So much that it hurts.''

THERE WERE DOWNS.

''Jaehyun? Could you maybe wash the dishes before you go? I'm just really short of time.''

''I'm sorry, Jo, but I need to go. All the guys are there and you know how they go when practicing by themselves.''

''Oh.. I'll do the dishes. You take care, hmm?''

''Dude, are you tone-deaf? You're literally fucking out of tune.''

''What do you mean, bro? I think it sounds fine.''

''No, no, you're not fucking hitting the right note. You know what? Get out.''

''Jaehyun–''

''Get the fuck out of my house. What the fuck is happening to musicians nowadays? If they're not taking it seriously, they're fucking tone-deaf.''

''Love, maybe you should rest first.. ?''

YET YOUR LOVE WAS STRONGER.

''Girl, be honest with me. Are you still studying? Your life before used to be all about studying, studying, studying, and a sprinkle of Jaehyun. But now it's all Jaehyun, Jaehyun, Jaehyun.''

''Rosé, come on. You know we're still waiting for Jaehyun's biggest break. After that, I can focus back on studying.''

''And if that break doesn't happen?''

''Don't be so negative!''

STORMS AFTER STORMS.

''Hello? Do you know anyone named Jeong Jaehyun?''

''Hi, yes. That's my boyfriend. May I ask why you're calling from his phone?''

''You might wanna pick him up, he's dead drunk, been here since last night and won't leave. I'll just text the address from his number, I guess.''

''A-alright, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience–''

''Oh, and you might want to bring extra cash with you. His 7k bill is not yet paid, not even a penny.''

''Rosé–''

''Where the fuck are you? You can't miss this exam!''

''I-I'm coming, I just.. Jaehyun– fuck, he's–''

''Fuck him! Just leave him alone! A few minutes left and we're gonna start. This is a bar exam, get that shit inside your head! Get your ass here if you don't want all your efforts to go to waste.''

''Rosé..''

''Please, you don't deserve this. Think about all those nights you stayed up to study. I'm sure Jaehyun will understand..''

''I.. Okay– okay, I'm coming.''

''I love you, best friend. Jaehyun will understand, okay?''

You cradle Jaehyun's face in your hands, brushing his hair out of his face as if your own isn't a mess along with the tears running. Jaehyun looks through the hazy film of his eyes, he sobs with you.

''I'm sorry, love. I'm so so sorry– God– I'm sorry. Just this one time, please? Just this once, I need to take this exam. I'll call Eunwoo to pick you up.''

Giving one last kiss on your lover's forehead, you quickly catch a taxi and close the door on Jaehyun's face. You bury your face in your hands as you stifle your sobs. Maybe you can stop worrying. Eunwoo will pick him up, he's Jaehyun's best friend.

AND YOU WONDER..

But as you turn your head, Jaehyun with his clothes wrinkled lays on the cold ground, in his own pool of vomit. As he meets your eyes, he starts reaching out to you. For you.

You're just a lover. One that has so much love for Jeong Jaehyun.

The tires screech as you plead stop to the taxi driver, giving him the last of your money before running towards your boyfriend who's grunting and murmuring.

Your heart hurts at the worst state you've ever seen Jaehyun. The ache only gets unbearable as you take him in your arms and carry all his weight. Your heart.. it's as if being squeezed a thousand times, getting pricked with thorns.  

''Just leave him alone!'' Rosé's voice rings in your head.

''I'm sorry.. I can't.'' You whisper an apology. Not to anyone, no.

Because as you fix Jaehyun, clean Jaehyun, tuck him in bed– no one deserves an apology from you more than yourself.

IS IT ALL WORTH IT?

[ryuichirou]

I apologize if it is too personal but how do you deal with "antishipper" and the way they make callout posts and harassment campaigns against you ? It’s legitimately so scary and it makes me hesitant of posting my own art

Anon! I am very sorry you are going through this horrible feeling of hesitation and anxiety; knowing that people get targeted like that could not only stop you from posting, but stop you from creating altogether, and this is the worst part about this whole thing.

It’s not too personal, and I don’t mind talking about it at all. I’ve talked about our position and our relationship with fandom policing a bunch of times already, so I’m sorry if I’m repeating myself.

I used to be worried about posting certain stuff too. Well, when I was a teen/in my early 20s I wasn’t worried about anything: we had so much juicy stuff posted here lol But then the nsfw ban happened, and the social climate of this app and internet in general started shifting, the first stories about people driven to end their lives because of the hate they received started to come out, and we stopped posting completely. It wasn’t a huge loss to us back then, and this situation wasn’t the only reason why we stopped, but still, it clearly became much more difficult to just appear out of nowhere, throw problematic stuff in your blog and run away again.

I vividly remember us wanting to post my Shingeki no Kyojin drawings and comics based on our AUs and stuff, but not knowing what to do with Ereri – there was no way for us to be “unproblematic” (which was never a concern to us, we just didn’t want to get tons of hate lol) and still post Eren with a man twice his age. So we started posting them without a tag, starting with a drawing that wasn’t too shippy, and then miraculously the world didn’t end. That made us bolder, and we started to post them openly, and posted them for almost two years pretty regularly, alongside some of our other problematic ships + problematic themes. Of course we did get hate, we got a lot of hate while we were posting SnK stuff from all kinds of people, but what we also got a lot of people who found our content refreshing and interesting, even if it was weird and uncomfortable at times.

We weren’t the only people who shipped Ereri (let’s ignore my petty thoughts about the difference between Ereri and Rivaere for now), and we weren’t the only people in Twst fandom who liked Shroudcest, which is another ship that we were super hesitant about posting or even mentioning at first. But with all the hate around I was so certain the world was going to end the moment we post them, and that didn’t happen. The end of the world never happens, but what does happen is that people either get introduced to a fun new dynamic and get invested, or get happy that someone finally posts for the ship they were too afraid to post for. Somehow, when you see some other person being ballsy, you don’t feel as scared anymore – it happened to us with other people’s posts too. Yes, I still say this even though it spawns a bunch of callout posts and harassment, as it did with us. Were we cancelled? Yeah, somewhat. There’s so much you can say about an acc that states “problematic stuff, 18+”, right? I was super relieved and happy, actually, that a lot of people left/blocked us just because they’re the people I’d never want to interact with my art.

I’ve been yapping for a long time already lol so I’ll give you some pieces of advice instead… These are things that legitimately help us.

Surround yourself with people who support you – if not you personally, then at least your ideas (i.e. other proshippers). Luckily, nowadays it’s easier to find them… But also, having a friend who you can vent about these things to helps a lot! It’s cheesy but it’s a fact: when you’re not alone, it’s not as scary.

Always ignore comments/asks from antis and block them on sight, block anonymous asks too. Even if you really want to sass them, it’s much more effective to ignore them: when you give them attention, it invites more engagement from them.

Block people you get bad vibes from. Block those who like or comment bad takes or support harassment of others, block all of their alt accounts. It’s tedious and takes time, but it really helps to keep you hidden from them, at least to some degree. I look up Shroudcest sometimes just to block new people. They try to make fun of me for that, but who cares if it works? You can’t block everyone, but these people usually flock together and it’s usually just a bunch of friends, so taking several posts on these topics from people from the fandom and blocking everyone involved will obliterate the majority of harassers.

In terms of your safety, having multiple accounts in case you main one gets mass-reported helps + I would advice to keep irl stuff away from your fandom stuff just in case.

This is going to sound stupid, but please keep in mind that this isn’t about you. These people are very miserable and not very smart. Even if they try to paint you like a bad person, they don’t know anything about you, so don’t let their judgment affect how you feel about yourself. This is exactly what they want – to have power over you.

Stay strong and take care of yourself, i.e. lock your acc and/or take a break if you feel overwhelmed. Don’t worry, it will pass: it’s very rare for these clowns to keep focus on one person for a long period of time; they have like 5 different dramas per day. There are some absolutely batshit crazy rapid assholes who won’t leave an artist alone for years, but those are super rare and special cases altogether, I don’t think you need to be worried about those.

Keep in mind which fandom you want to do this with, btw. It’s usually okay for the most part, but if the fandom is just a bunch of kids, it’s more likely not worth it or deserves an empty account, at least. Twst is surprisingly good despite anything it might look like! Thanks to Yana being a shotacon and a creator of Kuroshitsuji, I guess. There are many great and supportive people in the twst fandom, it’s been a pleasure to be here, even though, once again, it’s the first fandom where I got a bunch of callout posts and nasty stuff in my ask (SnK fandom usually harassed me for other things).

TL;DR: it is scary, and you could easily get callout posts about yourself, but guess what, you also get to be yourself. Because realistically, callout posts can’t stop you from creating art. They want you to believe that they have power over you, but this isn’t true. Your life online won’t end after some random callout post – mine didn’t. They also don’t understand that each consequent callout post affects the person being called out even less. We do have a minor panic attack for the first hour or so, and it does involve more extra blocking, but mostly it just sours our mood for the day and drops our morale. I still draw, though, out of spite a little lol Oh, and do try to report these types of posts if you get them, there’s nothing wrong with that.

People had been persecuted for their art and ideas for centuries, so what happens now is really nothing new. Without diving into specifics, there are way worse things they could do than writing callouts, but they aren’t super likely to do those. Luckily.

Take care of yourself, but also please don’t doubt yourself; when it comes to your art being way too fun for lovers of censorship to handle, you’re in a very good company. I’m referring to all the artist and writers of this world btw and not just me and Katsu lol but us as well!

[satans-my-spirit-animal]

They get into a fist fight

Heartslabyul edition

I did these head cannons for fun so don't take them too seriously

Warning: sexual harassment and bullying mentioned(not by the main characters)

Riddle

So this already kinda happened in game but let's say this was a separate incident. Someone dared insult you in his presence and he wasn't gonna let that fly.

"You will apologize immediately or I will have to collar you!"

"You only collar people because you can't throw a punch." - Savanaclaw student

Riddle gets red in the face and nails him square in the jaw. Surprise works in his favor since he wasn't expecting it, causing him to stagger back a few steps.

However after that, let's be honest homeboy is getting roughed up. He has zero street skills.

Ace, Deuce and Trey come to help him and they ask why he didn't just collar the guy

Riddle gets embarrassed as Trey tends to his wounds (top tier mom friend) and says that he wanted to defend your honor without resorting to magic

Trey

So it'd take A LOT for Trey to get physical with someone. He is very even tempered and is the one to usually settle disagreements within the dorm. But he does have a breaking point and that point is reached when he notices another student constantly harassing you. The student makes lewd comments and even tries to touch you. Trey sees red and storms over.

Trey grabs the student roughly. "They said they're not interested. Leave. Now."

The other student shakes him off. "How about you mind your own business?!" And a fight ensues.

Trey actually kicks the guys ass, no magic needed. The other student is left to slink away in defeat.

Trey apologizes profusely and makes sure you're ok. "I'm sorry you had to see that y/n."

Cater

Like Trey, it would take a lot for Cater to get in a fight. He's a lover not a fighter and prefers to charm his way out situations. However he notices that a group of guys are bullying you and even smash your phone.

"Hey WTF is your problem?!" Cater runs to your defense and gets between you and the bullies. He uses his doubles to even the numbers.

The bullies aren't fazed by his doubles and continue their assault.

Cater and his doubles manage to fight them off, but just barely. However in the fight you do wack one of the bullies over the head with a large stick and are very proud of this. Teamwork makes the dream work. Cater looks a little rough at the end of it.

"you ok hon? Things got a little hairy there... We'll go get you a new phone tomorrow."

Ace

This situation literally happens in game so cannon that Ace will throw hands for you. Anyway let's not pretend like Ace doesn't get into some sort of fight at least once a week because he makes smart ass comments. But this time he overhears some other Heartslabyul students talking about you behind your back.

He immediately confronts them and tells them that they're wrong and that they should shut the hell up.

"who even invited you into this conversation? " And a straight up brawl breaks out in the Heartslabyul lounge.

Ace is a pretty good fighter and gets several good punches in before Riddle shows up and collars everyone.

When Ace tells him what started the fight Riddle lets him off lightly while the other students get slammed with triple chores.

Deuce

Like Ace it's pretty cannon that Deuce will fight for you. He is experienced in street fights and though he tries to avoid violence nowadays he still will jump into action if needed. Like when he sees a Savanaclaw student push you out of the lunch line.

He demands they apologize at once but when they refuse he flies off the handle and punches them in the mouth.

This starts a whole lunch room brawl which of course draws over Riddle.

Deuce actually holds his ground by himself pretty well due to past experience but he does feel slightly guilty that he didn't handle the situation better. Still the Savanaclaw student 100% deserved it.

After hearing the cause of the fight and seeing that Deuce is remorseful, Riddle lets him off lightly. Extra flamingo duty.

"I'm sorry I just can't stand to see you treated like that." Deuce says to you afterward

[thelastofhyde]

ii. the revving of engines.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller’s not made it this far in the age of the apocalypse just to die at the hands of some adrenaline-crazed, no-brain-having fool who barely knows where to place her hands on the steering wheel. hind-sight fully intact and ever-so eye opening, he should have said no before frank could even finish his question: can you teach the girl to drive? read part one, the likeability paradox, here !!

warnings. no use of y/n ( joel’s nickname for the reader is sol ), panic attacks, perv!joel, slightly dark!joel, soft!joel ( for like a second ), a smidge of fluff, gun violence, murder, smut ( unprotected piv sex- don’t be silly, wrap that willy-, public sex, car sex but also not, exhibitionism, possessiveness, murder kink [ kinda but not really, joel just gets... more enthusiatic at the thought of protecting the reader], mentions/implications of panty stealing, male masturbation, sex as a form of payment, glory-holes, dubcon. joel has a massive c*ck because i said so <3 )

word count. 16.7k ( my dumbass really thought this would be shorter than part one- )

hyde’s input. this took criminally too long to write but i did warn you that i’m a slow writer, so hopefully this makes up for the wait. think i may be a little in over my head with this one because, woof, there’s a lot going on. i’m still trying to wrap my head around how many people enjoyed the first part, i’m speechless. thank you for every like, comment, reblog, ask that has given me the motivation to not just write a second part but to turn this into a whole series. i’m really looking forward to sharing joel and his sol’s story, and i hope i’ll be able to write it in a way that not only conveys the love i have for these two idiots in love but will also make you guys fall in love and root for them too. more to come of these two soon ( soon = whenever hyde feels like it ) &lt;3

taglist. @kayleezra , @newavenger , @luthienaliceisilra​ , @str84pedro , @baebee35 , @aheartgonewild ( if you’re crossed out, i couldn’t tag you for whatever reason ) + add yourself to the taglist here !​

read on ao3. (capitalisation available )

the journey has been one of silence.

it all begins three days prior to arriving at their destination, with a dishevelled joel startling awake. sitting himself upright, a string of grunts and groans flow from him as several new pains in his back make themselves known, one for each year he’s lived. sleeping on the couch is no place for a man of his age, but it has become his abode more frequently as of late whilst tess has let herself get acquainted with the likes of a recently widowed woman.

why on earth the two women seem to insist on occupying his and tess’ shared mattress for their sweat-provoking and sheet-tangling endeavours when the widow’s own bed now harbours one less occupant, joel is none the wiser.

“you sly fox!” it occurs at an hour much too early for tess’ level of excitement, a spark of something in her voice he’s not quite heard in nearly a decade now, back when she’d let it slip that she’d made contact with someone over the radio. “keeping this all to yourself!”

blinking out the sleep-induced blur in his vision, his hands rub over them in a further effort to clear his sight. the couch squeaks beneath the weight of him as he leans forward, elbows coming to rest on his pointed knees. confusion leaves him in a questioning grunt.

“c’mon, joel, the jig is up!” she’s insisting on maintaining her enthusiasm, and the man has to wonder just how good her night must have been for her to be so chipper come barely an hour past sunrise. “so, who is she?”

with only the sparing of a clueless, sleep-filled glance, joel’s risen to his feet and shouldered past his companion. headed straight for the minuscule kitchen, where once he would have boiled a kettle and prepped himself a mug of instant coffee, nowadays he’s lucky to find enough water to fill a single unwashed cup. he does just that, watching the water fill only a third of the plastic before downing it in one gulp.

tess is hot on his heels, following him through their cramped living space. he sighs, resigning himself to the reality he’s faced with: this is not a conversation she will let him walk away from. be whatever it may be, the woman is hunting for some answers. “what’re ya talkin’ about? ain’t keepin’ shit from you.”

he’s reminded, much to his own dismay, of a time she’d accused him of cutting deals on the side without her, back when her distrust and his aloofness had kept their newfound partnership on edge.

“oh, really?” her voice never loses that sense of excitement, and he’s beginning to wonder whether he should be grateful or resentful of this. the smile on her lips spreads wider over her face. “then explain these, casanova.”

there, dangling over her extended pointer finger, lays a blur of lace.

it is a dainty little thing, a blush of some pastel colour that’s oh so feminine it makes his toes curl at the thought. a tangle of fabrics so delicate he fears they’d fall apart with just a taste of his calloused touch.

it is delicate, it is soft, it is dirty.

and it is yours.

was yours, till he’d ripped it down your legs and stuffed the fabric into the back of his jeans. it was a mindless action, at the time, and one he’d forgotten about, tucked away in the unmarked box in his mind where he’d learned to place most things involving you. sleep-filled eyes, and wine-stained lips, and serenity-inducing laughter, and heavenly-soiled lace. forgotten about, until he’d been stripping himself off at the end of the night and the garment stumbled to the floor at his feet, calling for him like tess’ lover cried her name in pleas of more.

he’d tasted the softness of lace that night, first on his lips and then around his cock, tangled in the unforgiving grip of his frantic hands.

the fabric had not been forgotten since, always within reach of the man. where some kept trinkets of silvers and golds as their symbols of luck, he kept your lace, tucked safely in the back left pocket of his jeans, awaiting his nervous fiddling in times when stress ran high and only the softness of the fabric would pull him back down to earth

“they ain’t mine.” still, he snatches them out of her grasp.

back left pocket, tucked back into safety.

“never said they were,” she has a point, but it only serves to frustrate him. because of course she wasn’t implying they were his to wear- never in a month of sundays would the likes of joel miller fit himself into such well-kept lace-, but she sure as hell believes they are his. “thought i’d be nice for once and clean some of your clothes, since you seem to have forgotten how to. they fell out your pocket while i was busy folding some trousers.”

convenient.

that’s what it is, considering that in their who-knows-how-many years of partnership, the woman has not taken the time to tend to his washing. he’d asked her, once, body recovering from a near-fatal stab he’d taken to the abdomen. she had not said no to his request. or, rather, she had not simply used the word no. ask me again and i’ll finish what those raider’s started.

every surface of the room captures his attention, from the ripped wallpaper to the tattered remains of what once were curtains, anything other than tess, who hovers at his shoulder like a fly to shit.

he needs something to do, to distract.

thinking of the days ahead, he begins a list of things they’ll need- gauze, food rations, water, more gauze. joel has still yet to sharpen their knives, displeased with them since the moment he’d noticed tess’ struggling to cut through a cable wire. did they have enough ammo? maybe he’d need to grovel for some more off of bill-

“who’ve you been fucking, sunshine?”

frozen where he stands. mind in disarray, heart pounding a thousand miles an hour, blood somehow both everywhere and nowhere in his body at once. all he can think is that tess knows. sunshine. she knows, she knows, she knows.

she knows and she’s going to tell frank, who’ll tell bill, who’ll place a target on joel’s head and hit bullseye the moment he so much as tries to step anywhere near you, and then where will joel be? back to facing only the dull grey skies and locking himself away in bone-chilling solitude.

clarity befalls him.

she’s teasing. sunshine. it’s not an answer to her question, it’s a name meant to mock him. tess has no clue, not a single incline to guess what events had transpired in the stillness of the night the last time she’d dragged them out to bill and frank’s. she doesn’t know.

“if you don’t want to tell me,” the words leave her in a sing-song tone, and for a moment he needs to remind himself this is a woman his own age, not a teenager. it would be easy to confuse the two. “i’ll just have to figure it out myself!”

he won’t be the one to tell.

“laura silver.” it’s the first name that comes to mind, and the image it paints in his head brings forth a repulsion unlike no other. he’d rather lick shit off a stick than subject himself to her company willingly. by the twisted-up look on tess’ face, she seems to agree.

“really? isn’t she a bit... chatty for you? and, like, way too happy?”

she has no idea.

the questioning glances only amplify once the two set off, each stop they make along the way- to eat, to sleep, to rest their deteriorating joints- punctuated with that feeling in the air that joel dislikes so much. the unsaid, the unfinished, the more. it makes his stomach lurch with anxious thoughts and his heartbeat cease under the stress they bring.

birds tweeting, wind howling, leaves rustling becomes the soundtrack to their travels, guiding them onwards with encouraging notes and filling the empty pockets of silence that sit between the four, five, six steps he walks ahead of her, fingers curled around a weapon and eyes trained on anything that moves the wrong way. the guts and gore of clickers stabbed and bloaters beaten wet their clothes in the early hours, yet they dry come noon, coating their every inch in a sickening syrup.

“you both got another thing coming if you think he’s gonna let you through the door like that.” joel had not experienced anything like it since the ages where he’d arrive home hours past his curfew, knees scrapped on gravel and clothes stained in mud, stood beneath the dimming porch light as his mother washed him.

only, it is bill who holds the hose instead of the woman who’d raised him.

freshly hosed down, a trail of dripped water marks the space he crosses through the house out into the backyard, losing tess along the way as she calls dibs on showering first- as if joel wouldn’t immediately put himself last in any scenario that involves her.

what he finds is a garden in gloom, infant rosebuds so young and new to life they’ve yet to lose that tinge of green that separates them from the rest of the bush they inhabit. it is the image of winter, casting its blue hue on everything it touches, from the leafless trees to the wolf-eyed dog, who’s tail begins a slow wag from its place upon the floor before the mutt’s jumping up all four paws and bounding its way over to him.

the german shepherd crashes into him like a wave, nearly sending him stumbling backwards. it’s grown in the past weeks, he realises, large paws a little more suited to the length of its stretched back. he fights a fearsome battle to contain the man within him who longs to clap his hands down on the dog’s fur, with an inhale of breath he hopes will drag down the words of praise and greeting aimed towards the pointy-eared creature, joel manages to dismiss the animal with a shrug.

it follows him, even so, as he takes another step out into the yard.

frank’s familiar figure sits within a chair. he’s calm, staring out at his decayed world as though he’s merely waiting for the passing of time to bring back the colourfulness his flowerbeds once possessed. his hair sits the same, his clothes look the same and, yet, something is off. joel can’t quite put his finger on it, all he knows is that this man is half the man he’d bid goodbye to weeks ago.

“sorry for dragging you guys out here again so soon,” his words are gentle, like always, yet his voice is ragged. joel wonders if he too had caught that damn cold. maybe him and tess brought it into the house, leaving behind a tally of germs for the three occupants of the home to choke on. maybe you’d caught it too. maybe you were in need of someone to make you soup and fret over the temperature your body keeps. maybe he should have returned sooner. “but i’m sure bill’s already filled you in.”

bill has done no such thing.

joel shakes his head. frank’s never one to push him to talk, accustomed to the likes of a man who’s short on words and spreads any dose of warmth his soul may posses sparingly. it’s a trait he appreciates, the patience to never expect more. frank talks, joel listens, both of them agree on this dynamic.

“we’ve got nothing for you this time, i’m afraid," joel swallows a snarky then what d’ya call us out for. he’s not subtle enough to go unnoticed by the man who’s known him too long, who chooses to combat the raising of his hackles and the frowning of his brow with calmly spoken words. “but we’ll owe you one. a favour, i mean.”

that recaptures his attention. his shoulders lower in tow with his hostility and the dog nuzzles its muzzle into his hand, forcing him to uncurl his fist. “what’s the catch?” he asks because he knows frank, and he knows that frank knows him, that frank chooses his words wisely when they’re alone. he wouldn’t be beating around the bush, keeping his words vague and his tone secretive, if it weren’t for the fact that joel, likely, will not enjoy partaking in whatever favour they’re about to ask of him.

“we’ve got a truck, in the garage,” he shares, like this is news to joel, like he’d never seen the vehicle in question. “and it’s been a while since it’s had a run-around, breaks are probably squeaky as sin, and-”

“get to the point.”

frank smiles, less uneasy as joel’s usual candor nature gets in the way of his brooding image, interrupting his silent streak with a rushed out jumble of words the man’s sure would sound harsher were they directed at anyone other than the friendly-eyed artist. “can you teach the girl to drive?”

joel’s ability is not being questioned, in truth, but rather his willingness.

the request is sensical, understandable for a girl your age- whatever that may be- to have no experience behind the wheel. the damned mushrooms had likely already taken hold of the world by the time you’d reached the legal driving age.

it is not a difficult task either, he supposes, with no need for every intricate little road rule to be passed down. so long as you can learn to spin the wheel, shift the gears and control the pedals, you’d be good to go.

agreeing to it would also, in theory, be agreeing to the prospective scenario where joel miller finds himself trapped inside the small, four-wheeled confines of a moving vehicle with someone who grinds his gears and haunts his thoughts. there’s so much room to suffer in the solitude of your presence, so much potential to think up what-ifs and if-onlys in his head as you stare back at him, eyes beaming rays of pure-heartedness. i don’t like you, joel. it’ll echo in the distance between you.

“bill can’t do it?” his question is met with a grimace, and he wonders if the man had already attempted. perhaps you are beyond teaching in his eyes and so they’ve settled for calling in joel to deal with your unsalvageable driving skills. perhaps they know you already dislike the man and figured there’d be no harm in giving you more reason to, when he loses his patience and scrutinises your driving skills.

“she won’t let him,” joel’s head snaps up from the floor, eyes shifting from the mutt enjoying the carding of his fingers over its head back to frank. the greys in the man’s hair seem to have multiplied, the wrinkles on his face a little deeper. joel’s struck, his stomach twisting up, with the reality of noticing his friend is growing old. “said she’d sooner trust a clicker behind the wheel than bill. she asked us to call you guys.”

you called.

you wanted him here.

you guys. sure, it may be the collective of both him and tess. but he’s still a part of that equation, meaning you’d willingly brought him close, beckoned his return to the heaven he’d left you in.

one shower later and he’s wadding his way out back, into the garage. hair still a mess of towel-dried curls, clothes fresh and a little unfitting- he’d stolen them from frank, after overhearing the man inform tess he’d taken the liberty of burning their blood soaked clothing.

he’d agreed to the deal, much to frank’s delight and his own shame, mind too enraptured by the prospect of solitude with you to judge the situation at hand clearly.

the door creaks, a beg for oil, and announces joel’s arrival far sooner than he would have preferred, stumbling upon the scene of you. more specifically, the back of you, doubled over. everything from the waist up digging through the backseats of the vehicle, seemingly searching for something, while everything downwards sits on full display for his starved eyes to feast upon. boot covered feet, the hem of the most nonsensical skirt resting upon bare calves, the curvature of thighs beneath silk, the stretch of tightened fabric against your ass.

joel thinks himself a strong man, but he is weakened by the sight.

you startle at his entrance, rushing to straighten yourself so quickly your head smacks against the top of the car’s door frame. a hiss and a pressing of a hand to your head is not enough to comfort the witness of your harm, crossing those three steps forward needed to grip your jumper-covered shoulders and spin you to face him, eyes immediate with their scanning of your features, frantic to confirm you’re not teary-eyed, nor pouty-lipped, nor in the beginnings of a concussion.

“i never heard-" you pause whatever you wish to say when one of his hands covers your own, cradling the back of your head. he’s well-aware this is too close, too unlike him, too noteworthy. but he can not seem to care enough to welcomed back the distance that so often sits between you. “oh, it’s you.”

“sorry to disappoint ya.”

he surely is.

disappointed, confused, conflicted. here you stand, no runny nose, no bloodshot eyes, no scratch in your voice, no need to be cared for. it’s a selfish thing, to feel his heart lurch at the fact you’re in full-health, no pesky cough in sight, but his distaste towards the feeling only makes it double in size.

“no! sorry, i just,” you’re the first to inch back, head tilting to meet his stare with your own. he follows suit, taking your unvocalised desires and stepping away from you, hands back by his own side and vowing to keep themselves there. “i thought it would be tess teaching me.”

so maybe you’d never called for him.

he’s just the tag-along, the con to tess’ pro, the consequence to tess’ presence. you view him like the sun views the moon: a small, dim, lifeless rock that sits in wait every waking day, orbiting around tess’ planet.

it is not news, yet it stings like it. a fresh wound added onto the litter of marks that ache his soul. the pain leaves him in the only way he knows how anymore; a face devoid of emotion.

“not,” you’re uneasy. thrown-off. squitterish. hands tuck up into the sleeves of your sweater and eyes glass over with worry. the possibility that he scares you both lights his soul on fire and sends it to drown in a lake made of his sorrows. “that there’s anything wrong with you! i just... figured you’d have better stuff to do.”

he doesn’t.

“yeah, well, i ain’t doin’ it for free,” his proverbial foot shoots into his mouth, slamming shut whatever small window of opportunity he’d stumbled upon to say the kind thing, to do nice by you for once. i don’t like you, joel. but he could change that, if he just changed his attitude. and his nature. and his sense of being. so, just about everything about himself. it would not be much for the promise of a piece of his sol. it’s  much too late for that now and, so, he commits to the role life’s already chosen for him to play, the heartless bastard. “let’s get this over with.”

“jesus christ, sol, didn’t your daddy ever put ya behind the wheel?”

joel’s anger is unjustified.

he’s aware of this, in the back of his mind, yet any rational voices burn into silence at the heat of his ire. only twenty, or thirty, or forty minutes since you’ve hit the open road, since he’d buckled himself into the idea of being alone with you, and the car feels like it’s closing in on itself. every inhale a struggle for oxygen, every exhale a subdued desire.

perfectly manicured nails grip the steering wheel.

counting trees had worked, if only for a while, to keep his focus off everything occupying the driver’s side. the novelty wore off as you passed the thirty seventh in a row, where joel’s eyes finally drifted off from the view ahead to the one on his left.

a pair of lips sit parted in concentration.

he’d needed a new distraction, one he found as he popped open the glove compartment and found a man of his taste’s holy grail. well, at least the holy grail that was found in materials rather than between the thighs of- cds! rock, country, punk. the 70s, the 80s, the 90s. fleetwood mac, the rolling stones, johnny cash. that’s what he’d found, a collection bill must keep to hold an emblem of what the world once was: loud, rhythmic, lively. now static, quiet, lonely. not even a full verse into ring of fire and you’d switched the volume off. “i can’t concentrate with that crap playing.”

half a thigh, exposed by the slit up a skirt.

now he has nowhere to turn, to let himself run off to in thoughts that promise the sweet salvation of distraction. facing forward is not an option, the empty road ahead holding no ounce of his attention. focusing on the right as the world passes by outside the window holds no merit, and no amount of trinkets nor garbage that litter the nooks and crannies of the car helps. his eyes always find their way back to you.

breathtaking in the most painful way, you sit unaware of the effect you have on him. as you shift from third to fourth gear, as your thigh tenses to press down harder on the gas pedal, as nimble fingers unnecessarily practice using the indicators. you don’t see how his frown deepens and he scorns you with his stare.

“he was a bit busy making a name for himself,” you utter a reply minutes too late, when he’s already convinced himself you hadn’t heard him.

your focus is strict, eyes glued on the road as if you’re afraid an obstacle- be it something infected, or something animal, or something malevolent- will come your way. and all the while, joel’s sat in shock, pure fucking eye-widening shock, as the words you utter slowly seep into his brain. minute as it may be, it’s the first detail, the first piece of history you’ve offered of yourself. an absent father, the words cause a dull ache in the left side of his chest. 

god, he’s being too quiet, he needs to ask more while you’re willing to answer.

you switch to fifth gear with a delay that would have cost you points back in the days of capitalistic civilisations. the gear-box makes an ugly noise of which the engine follows up with a growl of its own. 

panicked, your hand shoots straight back to the gear-shift, curling around it so tight the white bones beneath your knuckles threaten to rip through your skin and put themselves on display. the car slows with the release of your foot off the pedal and he presumes you mean to lower the gears too- perhaps, you’ve thought it best to maintain the safety net provided in the third gear- but you must not be thinking straight, must lack proper motor-control over your body, as your hand pushes down on the stick and, slam!

the car comes to a complete stop.

the sharp pain that cuts up his neck as whiplash takes over, the weight of his upper-half flying forward and stopped only by the seatbelt that crosses over him, it becomes near non-existent as a strangled cry and a whimper of pain comes from the driver’s seat.

a scrambling of hands, a forceful push onto the pedal, a handful of panicked breaths and fearful mutterings of something involving bill and kill and will. none of it helps in the face of your problem. you’re stubborn, however, trying once more to push the stick forward, and getting nowhere. joel tells himself to remain delicate in his touch and composed in his heart as his hand clamps down on top yours, curling his longer digits around the gear-stick and giving it a tug upwards, effortless in his attempt to shift the car out of reverse and back into the first gear.

your eyes meet his. watery, and big, and full of fear.

“musician?” conversation, that will distract you in your moments of panic. he’ll talk you through the fierce currents of racing heartbeats and sweaty palms, till your waters are calm as can be.

the hand that still sits atop your own gives a soft squeeze.

“deep breath, sol,” he leads by example, filling his lungs with a sharp, deep inhale through his nose. you follow, nodding as if you’re in a trance yet you mimic him nonetheless. deep inhale, through the nose, inflate your chest. “atta girl. you’re fine. car’s fine. ya just stalled it, s’all. happens all the time.”

he’s hopeful to be helpful, but then the first tear wins the war over your composure, slipping down your cheek as you shakily exhale. another few- four, he thinks, but can not say for sure- follow suit, staining ugly cristaline rivers down the globes of your cheeks. another inhale from joel, another exhale from you. you breathe in tandem, as if relying on the other to remember such a human act is necessary for survival.

it’s purely instinctual, something as uncontrollable and unpracticed as the beating of his heart or the blinking of his eyes, the way his free hand captures ahold of your cheek. the rough pad of his thumb swipes over the bottom of your eye, so close that he feels the tickle of your lower lashes, collecting whatever tears threaten to fall next.

let them stain his skin instead of yours.

“ya dad,” maybe you need clarification, something to stall the rapidly speeding thoughts that race through your mind. “was he a musician?”

at first, silence. more deep breathing, less shaky exhales. your tears still wet his thumb but they no longer seem to be spilling down your cheek, collecting on your lashes like the dust on a shelf. he thinks of wiping the tears off the untouched side of your face, mostly to settle whatever part of him feels shaken at your distress, yet, as he slowly raises the hand that sits atop yours on the gear-stick, you halt him. fingers tangle messily with his own and squeeze so hard he feels the pressure deep in his bones, threatening to snap like twigs.

and, then, you shake you head.

no.

nonverbal, yet entirely understood by him.

your dad was not a singer. you hear him as much as you feel him. you’re slowly returning. to the car, and to a rational state of mind, and to him. a few moments pass, slipping between you with as much ease as his thumb stroking over your wrist, pushing down just that little bit till he feels the fading thrump-thrumps of a panicked heart. he speaks once you’re ready, once the slow rise and fall of your chest lulls his own self into a state of calm. “gonna need ya to turn the keys in the ignition, think ya can do that?”

you do as he says, inadvertently placing your trust in him and his words, and turn the key. when the car shudders yet fails to come alive, your head snaps right back to him, eyes a pleading mess for answers, guidance, help.

it does wonders to his ego, to that caveman mentality that sadly resides in some corner of his mind. needed, useful, protective. things he doesn’t get to feel with tess, doesn’t need to feel with tess. she takes care of herself, and him, and never asks for a damn thing in return. but you need him, need his calming words and his knowledge of vehicles.

for once, he’s a necessity instead of a casualty in your life.

“foot on the clutch, sol,” his pointed words hold no mockery, becoming a metaphorical rubber-dingy that he tosses your way, one more thing to pull you into the safety of a calm shore.

this time, the engine roars back to life.

you’re elated, a smile splitting up your cheeks even as you let the car crawl to a start, wheels turning slowly as you give the gas a light tap. he sees the way your shoulders sag, like a ten-ton weight has just been stripped off them. 

“told ya, s’just a stall,” it’s the nicest i told you so he can offer, especially as the lingering of that nasty feeling still creeps over your actions, subduing you in a way he doesn’t quite enjoy. you should not be meek, nor placid, nor doubtful yet that is all he sees as he watches you hesitantly drive the car into second gear. “used to happen t’me all the time. at the worst times, too. like... intersections and shit. can’t count the times i got flipped off by some truck driver.”

you giggle. quiet, girlish, subtle. joel almost mistakes it for a tickle in your throat, a discomfort you catch yourself coughing over. but, no. your shoulders dance, your lips tilt up, rapid little breaths sneak out your nose. it doesn’t even matter that it’s at his expense, the fact he’s the one to rouse such a delicate reaction despite his rough voice, and rough words and, well, rough everything, it’s enough to settle his soul with a deep contempt.

you continue slowly, not daring to test the power of the car. he says nothing, not a word about the waste of bill’s fuel nor the painfully boring pace at which the world flies by outside the window. you’ll speed up, he knows it, once you get your momentarily lost confidence back. talking seems to be your first approach to easing the tension in your stiff arms. “actor.”

he hums in question, quirking a brow despite your gaze being fixated on nothing but what sits ahead.

“he was an actor. a wannabe actor,” you’re soft spoken, trying your best to keep that shake in your voice under control. “my dad. so... you almost had it right.”

“anything i might know him from?” he tries, and fails, to match the lightness of your voice, his own far too gruff, and dark, and jagged to replicate the smooth edges of your own. 

“not unless you had a thing for cheesy teenage romcoms.”

the words seem to take control of him, forcing their way out before he can so much as recognise their existence. “i didn’t but my dau-” if you notice the way he halts himself, you say nothing.

“wanna know the most ironic thing?” he senses no real humour behind the few chuckles you let out, eyes lost ahead. joel wonders if you’re truly seeing the road, or merely looking at it, letting the world blur as your focus sits elsewhere. you await no response before continuing. “the only role he could never master was the present father.”

a father placing his dreams over his child, the idea is one he can’t quite wrap his head around.

joel had had big dreams, once. dreams that involved world tours, and golden records, and screaming fans. those dreams were shoved aside, not even a whisper to be heard in his mind, the moment he held his bundle of joy for the first time. screaming her little lungs off, tiny body covered in fluids he could never name, eyes staring wide back at him as she took in the image of her father for the first time. she became his new dream, his only dream. to hold, protect and love.

just like the stage, he eventually lost that dream too.

“i’m sorry,” he breathes the words out, quiet beneath the hum of the engine.

“why?” you’re not harsh with your delivery. in fact, you even glance momentarily in his direction and shoot him one of those smiles, the ones that steal the spotlight away from everything else and render him frozen beneath it’s shine. nonetheless, joel fears he’s done it once more, offended you without even trying. “it’s not your job to apologise for someone else’s mistake, joel.”

the silence which settles between you once more feels less like the awful quiet of drowning beneath crashing waves and more akin to the static of an untuned radio, with its antenna out of place and detecting no signals. it’s calming to sit like that with you and somewhere between the hum of the engine and the world passing by outside the windows, joel’s mind wanders off into dangerous territories.

territories where he thinks of this exact setting, you driving and him sitting in the passengers side fighting off the sudden languid feeling that grips his soul, only in his imagination it’s later, deep into the night. you’re not alone on the road, a collection of cars passing by and driving ahead, and the smell of cheap beer fills the car. snoring from the backseats, a sleepy girl finally given into the call of sleep after a long day. the image of his hand reaching over the console to find yours, matching silver bands clinking together as he lets himself entwine his fingers with yours.

he jolts up straight, head no longer resting on the window and eyes blinking away whatever make-believe daydream he’d inflicted upon himself, when a sound of anguish comes from your seat.

selfishly indulging in his silly fantasies, joel’d failed to notice your silence was not the same as his. while he bathed in warmth, you quivered in coldness. your nails now threaten to leave marks on the steering wheel, your lips point downwards in a frown, your thigh shakes nervously with each measly push of fuel you give the car.

it’s cruel of him to keep you driving in this state.

“there’s a gas station a few miles from ‘ere,” his words are punctuated by a defeated sigh, already beating himself up mentally for not noticing soon enough the state you’ve been sat in. “pull into it.”

if joel had a nickel for every time he’s seen you in this position, he’d have two nickels.

your chest heaving with every breath, your back pressed to his front, your closed legs stood between his own. flashbacks to the kitchen, all you’re missing is a knife in your hand and a counter-top for him to box you in against.

he’d believe the idea of popping the car’s hood and teaching you a little about the interior of a vehicle was a good one, a smart one, a chance to gain some knowledge that may prove itself useful. the plan was to show you where things sat- the engine, the dip-stick for the oil, the battery- and hope the momentary distraction would be enough to unravel your nerves, leaving you primed and prepped to drive you both back to the home joel would never share with you.

as marvellously innocent and simple as his plan was, he’d failed to take into account one important detail: you’re your own person, capable of things he’d never think to predict. so, when you’d stepped out the now parked truck a few minutes after him, sweater left behind and nothing but some flimsy, practically see-through white tank top, he’d just about felt all the blood drain from his face- and head straight to his crotch- while his eyes done little to hide the glaringly obvious staring at your breasts they indulged in, the blush of colour from pebbled nipples beneath the fabric enough to have him salivating at the thought of putting his mouth on them. “i’m not staining my favourite sweater with oil”, that had been your excuse for torturing him so cruelly.

he’s no better than the old perverts who used to drool over a woman jogging down the street.

“ok, so, this,” you shuffle forwards, feet crunching down on some crumbling gravel below. before joel can let relief flood over his senses at having just that slightest bit of distance between you both, you bend at the hip and lean across the vehicle, hands grabbing at a familiar yellow stick. “is the dip-stick?”

hearing your voice but rendered incapable of listening, he’s frozen. the fingers at his side ball into fists as that familiar beast seduces itself over his senses, flashing images in his mind of all the places he’s yet to place his hands. your neck, your waist, your thighs, the wanton desire to map out your every trace and burn it into his memory is endless, all-consuming.

your voice calls out his name.

he hums, you repeat your question, to which he huffs out an agreement, tongue too heavy to form words.

“then this,” you stretch further, fingertips reaching for the top right corner. not quite reaching your desired object, you shuffle two steps back and send him into turmoil as your ass presses tightly into his crotch. like a wounded animal, he sucks air in through his teeth and clamps his hands down on your hips. initially he means to move you but, inevitably, he holds you against him. “must be the battery.”

the jeans he wears seem to have grown a little tighter. uncomfortably so. still, he can’t bring himself to care, nor to readjust them, grip only clamping itself down tighter on you at the sheer threat of removing them.

he’d thought back to that night, more times that he cares to admit to himself. at first, it was a means to an end, a memory of lustful images to drive him towards some quick pleasure and relieve the pressure of stress off his shoulders, giving him the chance to actually get some sleep. your taste on his tongue, your hands in his hair, the weight of your body keening back into him. he felt it for days. weeks, even, ghosts that haunted his skin.

then came the guilt, seeping in like rain through the crack in tess’ and his ceiling.

he had no right to touching you the way he had. here you are, a glimmer of light that brings warmth into the coldest of place, while there he is, a thunderstorm of emotions all wrapped up in the darkness of rain clouds, threatening to stain and dampen everything he puts his care into. his daughter, dead. his brother, gone. and, hell, even tess has nearly slipped through his weak hold countless times. so, how dare he subject you to the danger of his caress, mark you with the touch of death his heart seems to bring?

hours of tossing and turning, unwrapping himself from tess’ arms as he’d crawl out of bed in the middle of the night to go wear his footprints into the floorboards of their living room, pacing back and forth as withered hands ran through greying hair, searching for some solution to this... this swelling in his heart, ache in his bones, longing in his loins at the memory of you.

bill had asked him once, years ago, what his greatest weakness was. he’d been wise enough to gruff out a harsh nothin’.

his answer has changed, since then.

you reach into the darkness of his spiralling mind and drag him back with three words. “texas, you good?”

he doesn’t quite give you an answer. not a vocal one, at least, settling for giving each of your hips a squeeze when words fail him. he’s gazing in admiration and wonder, eyes trailing themselves over the way you’re struggling to stretch further, the tips of your fingers fighting to reach the object you’d been trying to identify. one moment, you’re huffing over the fight to touch the car’s battery, and the next, you’re sending two tidal waves down joel’s spine: panic and arousal.

maybe, you don’t mean to do it. it could be purely accidental, an action you don’t even take a second to consider after years of living solely in the presence of two men who bare no interest in bending you over any surface. but, you do it.

you whine.

it’s born from pain, your entire frame shooting upright while clutching your hand close to your chest. joel knows that alone should be enough to vanish any explicit thoughts from his mind. the hunger only grows though, his insides twisting up at the notion of you being hurt, needing comfort. a kiss to a bleeding wound, he’d deliver it no questions asked.

his hands are still around your waist. your bodies are still pressed together. he feels every shaky inhale, every heaved exhale. it’s a struggle to pry your injured hand away from the safety of your chest, pulling backwards till your elbow juts outwards and your open palm sits level with his mouth.

it’s your pointer finger, a dark, angry looking mark running halfway down your fingerprints.

“‘s the matter with ya,” worry has always been something joel expresses loudly. raised voices, frantic movements, heavy steps. his brother had called him out on it, the morning after his parental care led to a heated argument and the slamming of doors, from both the pre-teen and the adult in the miller household. it’s a flaw that’s only worsened, with time and circumstance, and it keeps him from saying what he really means. are you okay? “you some kind of idiot or somethin’?” i can’t stand to see you hurt.

“i didn’t think-”

“clearly fuckin’ not!” be more careful. “touchin’ the damn battery like the car ain’t just been stopped!” please.

he’s better with actions, gentle in the physical even as he berates you verbally. he pulls in air through his nostrils before blowing it out through his puckered lips, directly onto the mild burn imprinting itself on your delicate skin. you hiss as his cooling breath makes initial contact and your hand jerks back, fighting to stray away from him. joel fixes his grip, making sure you don’t get too far before he blows a second breath.

“i’m fine,” you’re an awful liar, the grimace on your lips doing nothing to reassure him. at least you’re smart enough to not waste any more energy on fighting against him, slumping forward to rest your hand on the truck’s open hood. “didn’t even hurt that much. i just wasn’t expecting it to be hot.”

with no acknowledgement thrown your way, he huffs out another couple of breaths, mind already running off in thoughts of what comes next. a superficial burn, it should heal in a matter of days. if you’re lucky, the injured skin will merely peal away to reveal a fresh layer. if you’re unlucky, a blister will swell in it’s place.

joel only aims to ensure your luck.

bowing his head and leaning down, he captures your finger between his lips. your breaths catches in your throat as this new angle, new proximity to your face allows his eyes to take in the way your own seem to roll back, lips parted with something unsaid. he drags the tip of his tongue over your wound, which pulses and burns hot beneath his muscle. his tongue flicks back over only for him to lick at the burn once more, this time with a flattened tongue, smothering it in his saliva.

the suckle his lips give is purely selfish.

“that kinda-” a fluttery sort of noise leaves you, a pleasant little thing that seems unable to decide if it wants to be a giggle or a moan. it settles for something in between, unknowingly spurring joel on to suck around your digit again. “it kinda tickles.”

the hand he holds against your hip travels north, halting abruptly as the top of his thumb reaches the swell of your breast. being so affected by a braless chest is something joel thought he’d left behind in teenage-hood. the way his cock twitches in his pants at the knowledge that yours sit bare beneath the thin cotton camisole gives him deja-vu.

in a rushed- and entirely unthought over decision- joel switches the direction of his trail of fingerprints to move south, slipping down past where cotton sits tucked beneath silk. the skirt is soft and inviting. all his sick mind can do is picture you lain across a bed with silk sheets, your naked curves, and pert nipples, and dribbling cunt a whole different kind of soft and inviting.

skin meets skin when he arrives at the top of the skirt’s slit. he wastes no time, fingers dragging themselves under the material to feel the recently discovered terrain of your full thighs. with supple skin, warm and pliable beneath his hold, he indulges himself in letting his grip dig in and squeeze the meaty flesh.

all the while, his tongue licks over your burn.

“otis does that too,” you’re struggling to keep your grip on the car, a delightful realisation for joel. you’d played the innocent for far too long last time, hardly exposing your desires till push came to shove and your knife went clattering out your hand. now you force yourself deeper into his touch, your finger applying pressure to his tongue as it pushes down on the muscle and tickles his tastebuds with the bite of your painted nail. the quiet voice of his subconscious wants you to push deeper, till your digit hits the back of his throat, his eyes sting with tears and he’s gagging around you. “tries to lick wounds better-”

the sight of you shutting up, lips parted in some unheard noise as his hand cups the entirety of your clothed pussy, sends a wave of heat to joel’s already burning loins.

the furnace of your two intertwined bodies shields you both to the slowly dropping temperatures, with no time to spare and no care to give to the grey skies that roll in while he rolls your concealed clit beneath two fingers, pinching once or twice, possibly thrice, in hopes of pushing his emotional aches onto you physically.

fighting against the tight squeeze of your underwear’s band around his wrist, two fingers, a pointer and a middle, smooth their way past your pubic bone, over your aching mound and dip down to swipe over your slit. a soaked mess, a warm and sticky coating, welcomes them as joel strokes the outer surface of your cunt in a lax manner, taking his time to admire how soft your lips feel, how warm your skin burns, how hard your entrance throbs, all the while he’s coating your cunt it’s own liquid pleasure. his mouth drops your hand, the grip his own has on it tightening once more. though, this time, it’s not from the need to keep you in place but from a primal, possessive desire that seduces his rationality. “quit comparin’ me to your fuckin’ dog.”

the hand down your pants has a mind of its own, trading the teasing strokes up the length of your seam for the tight squeeze of your walls around his fingers as they penetrate you- two at the same time, no consideration for the discomfort the sudden sting of breaching your entrance brings.

you seem to like the pain, enough to let go of the vehicle and melt back into joel. your head meets his shoulder as your eyes roll back and your mouth falls slack, legs writhing to fight for more friction. he remains frozen, face a stoic slab void of expression if not for the crease in his brow where his eyebrows have furrowed. the fingers in your cunt curl, slightly, testing your patience with the way they press into the spongy tissue.

“joe- ah...” you fail to say his name, your two lips barely getting the chance to touch as he curls his finger a second time. this time harder, with more certainty in the way he’s touching you. “move, please.”

your lips, parted in gasps and cries that threaten to cut his fun short with the way they likely have his cock staining his briefs in precum, become public enemy number one as he decides they need to be shut, silenced, occupied so that he can hold off blowing his load again before he’s even had the chance to feel you clench around his cock.

with your finger still drenched in his spit, a fat bead of it dripping down the back of your hand, he shoves it into your own mouth, disgustingly intrigued with the way you welcome it so eagerly and drink down the taste of his saliva.

now you’re silenced, joel gives an experimental thrust of his hand, dragging both his fingers out till only the tips tease at your entrance before slamming them back in. the moan you let out is muffled, a sound that titillates him yet no longer threatens his sanity. you find another way to ruin him, however, body jolting and ass rolling back into his form when he starts to set a steady pace to leisurely fuck his fingers into your cunt.

“tried to be fuckin’ good. kept my hands to myself, didn’t- fuck!” he must reach something inside of you, knuckles deep and slick spilling down his hand, that has you mewling, eyes no longer shut as you crane your neck to stare up at him and your hips roll backwards, momentarily smothering his clothed cock between the swell of your silk covered cheeks. “didn’t bring up anythin’ ‘bout the last time i saw ya. but you just ‘ad to go and ruin it now, didn’t ya?”

“leasehmm,” you hum the incoherent babble around your own finger and joel can’t stop himself from forcing it further into your mouth, laser stare sharp enough to burn holes into your throat as he watches you gag.

“c’mon, you can do it,” you’ve got him trapped between your legs, both your thighs and the walls of your cunt clenching his hand in a vice grip as he continues his ministrations, satiating the taste for warm flesh he’s been craving since he slammed the door to the kitchen and tried to fool himself into thinking he could simply make his way back to tess in her drunken state, crash down to sleep on the couch and wake up the next day as if everything that had transpired in the moonlight was just another one of his perverted fantasies. awakening with the taste of you still on his tongue threw all hope out the window. “use your words, pretty girl.”

with an awkward bend, the pad of his thumb brushes over your neglected clit in a gentle circling motion, coaxing you further and further to that ledge of ecstasy he aims to throw you off, plunge you into the heavens of a blinding orgasm. crooking his fingers and grinding his cock into the base of your spine become practiced movements, a kind of push and pull dance his body plays with yours, guiding you both to the beats of your erratic hearts.

“mmmoel,” bless you, really, for trying so hard to speak while chocking on yourself, yet making no attempt to shove his hand away. your well-mannered nature has never made him so hard- and, trust that it has done so plenty of times- as you melt yourself into a writhing mess in his arms, blown out pupils and spit dribbling out the corner of your mouth all the while you do as he bids. “mmhop.”

“‘s the matter, sweet girl? hmm?” you’re close, he knows it. feels it, when your free hand shoots down to grip his wrist through the soft skirt, nails biting flesh even through the layer of silk. he half wonders if this is it, this is where you’re going to rip him off you and slap him in the face with the harsh truth: you’re too good to be touched by the likes of him. only, you simply clutch onto him and let him continue to play you like he’d once played a guitar, fingers plucking at the right strings and pressing on the right cords to make you sing a melody so sweet even the angels themselves would cry at its sound. “cat got your tongue? feels good, i know. ‘s okay, you can let go f’me, not gonna hold it against ya. just gonna hold ya through it, yeah? keep ya real safe in my arms while this pretty little pussy of yours takes what she needs, m’kay?”

the longer you take to tell him to stop, the more debauched the images of you in his mind become. once wishes of butterfly kisses and sweet surrenders beneath his naked embrace, now desires to have you on your knees crying, begging, praying for him to smother you with his sins.

with another thrust, he fucks a third finger into your cunt, stretching you even wider and trying his damn best to ignore the fact you’re still so tight despite the thickness of his fingers. that’ll only lead to his thoughts derailing to how much tighter you’d feel clamped around the girth of his cock.

he’d been modest, back in his younger years, shrugging off the cries of past lovers regarding his well endowed state as nothing more than flirtatious fiction, the kind of thing women would tell their man to make him feel special. only a few years ago he’d started to second guess his assumptions as he began to chase his highs with faceless bodies and all kinds of holes- mouth, cunt and ass.

most of the time his concubines get no chance to truly see his cock, too busy having their face shoved down into gravel, or into some brick wall in a sketchy alleyway, or, simply, the darkness that consumed the walls of the cubicle which kept them from seeing just who exactly they were fucking would also take away their chance to know what they were getting themselves into, what was about to get in to them.

their first reactions always seem to be a crying sort of sound, a sick pleasure washing over him and having his balls tightening. then comes the complaining of too much, too fast, too good, their bodies at odds with themselves and unable to decide if being impaled by him is their worst nightmare or their sweetest dream.

before they can ever decide, he’s ripping away from them and fucking himself to completion with his own hand. a mumbled thanks and- if it was one of those kind of deals- a drop of a med kit or some food rations to their feet, joel would be tucked back into his worn jeans and out of their sight before they’re able to catch their breaths and realise he’d left them there, stretched open and fucked out with no orgasm to show for it.

with you, he’d be different though.

there’s no need for his own pleasure if it came down to choosing between it and your own. the sheer thought of nuzzling his mouth between your thighs and lapping at every inch of your pussy, till his muscle aches and his jaw locks, is enough to have him on the precipice of cumming untouched. so, to think of a scenario where he slips his cock inside your velvet walls and doesn’t leave you a spasming mess after several earth shattering orgasms, over and over till a ring of your mixed juices decorates the base of him and you’ve milked him dry, that feels impossible.

“wait, joel, ah! please, please,” your head thrashes to the side, ripping away from your burned finger. you’re trembling, feet pushing up onto their tippy-toes as he fucks higher and higher into you. the hand around your wrists finds a new home curled around your jaw and his thumb begins it’s torturous circling of your clit once more, pushing and guiding and bullying your aching cunt towards an orgasm that’s sure to leave you breathless and- “stop!”

this time, it’s joel who’s recoiling his scorned hands.

pants fill the air, a desperate fight for oxygen as you stand before him, legs shaky and perked nipples chafing against the see-through fabric of your camisole. thunder cracks above, a deep and trembling noises that joel can’t help but feel fits the ambience, turmoil in both the sky and his heart.

he knows its for the best, to have you put your foot down and put an end to this ridiculous pursuit of lust joel’s imposing on you. not only have you made it clear you do not like him, but you’re younger, full of life, heart too mellow for a soul as dark as his. still, disappointment floods his bones.

both hands back at his side, he clenches them. wrong move, only serving to remind him one of his hands is smothered in your wetness, a schlick squelch bouncing up to his eardrums. you’ve turned to look at him, at some point. he notices the slight swell of your lips and the blown-out pupils, try though he might to ignore it.

staring right at him, you seem to be almost waiting on a reaction.

“‘s gettin’ dark, should prolly think of headin’ back,” joel won’t give you the satisfaction of hearing him beg, not when he knows it’ll get him nowhere. the hood, that’s what he should be focusing on. he shoots a hand up and slams the hood shut, fighting the urge to let his stare linger on the stain his pleasure soaked fingers leave behind on the blue painted metal. “bill and frank’ll be wonder-”

you call his name.

he can’t look at you, fingers fidgeting with some scab on his hand.

you try again. louder.

a sigh of resignation. he turns to face you, leaning back against the truck. the quirk of his brow enough to encourage you to get on with it, say what you need to say. paint him in shame, call him some names and then let you both be on your way.

you seem to take it as an invitation to approach. one step, then two more when he fails to back away. with a final step, you’re stood right before him, forcing yourself between the space of his parted legs. he’s never had you this close before, at least not with you facing him, and it’s almost too much. the familiar anxious pit in his loins creeps back, leaving him all too aware of the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins.

you smell... christmassy. burnt wood, dusted cinnamon, mulled wine. warm.

he can’t remember the last time he even thought of christmas.

he jolts at the feeling of your hands on his thighs, the coldness of them burning through the rough material of his pants. he’s not sure when it happened but he somehow finds himself sitting on the truck’s hood, hands splayed out on either side of him and knees bent over the edge as he parts way for you between them.

your hands smooth up the muscles of his thighs, up and down in repeated motions. soothing, calming. his heart beats a little slower with each movement.

only to jackhammer against his ribcage as your touch begins to move higher.

“i didn’t mean stop as in, stop touching me,” you breathe out the words like they’re the most delicate of secrets, only for his ears and your own to know. fingers threading through belt loops. a pull or two. he’s vaguely aware of the sound of metal clinking as you release him from the strain of it’s buckle, and the biting sound of teeth unzipping. “just... just wanna see you... feel you this time, when i... if that’s okay with you.”

he’s nodding his head before you can even finish your words, nearly crumbling as your fingers brush against his bulge. “‘smore than fine by me. shit, that’s... yeah.”

a pathetic man, that’s what he’s become, a meek shadow to the man who moments ago had you on the precipice of cumming around his fingers while you babbled incoherently. you seem to have turned the tide, whether you’re aware of it or not, hand sinking beneath the withered band of his boxers.

you don’t give him the relief he wants- needs- instantly. instead, you tease, fingertips dancing down the underside of his shaft and following the trail of a vein he doubts you’re even aware of. sliding back up to his tip, you revel in the weakness he displays as you brush over heightened nerves, sensitive to your touch and stained in earlier excitement.

“you’re warm,” is not exactly what he’d expected you to say, if he’s honest. that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it, mind firing into overdrive as you fully wrap yourself around his cock. ignoring the chafing, you work your hand over him, grow familiar with the length of him, tip to base. “big.”

with your free hand, you do your best to peel back the layers of fabric till nothing stands in your path of gazing at his cock, heavy in your palm and red at the tip.

“yeah? ‘s bigger than you’re used to, ain’t it?” joel coos, you nod, tongue darting out to wet your lips as your eyes meet his. wide, glossy, intrigued, a mirror of the scared look you’ve worn when you’d stalled the car.

joel groans at the memory, the way he’d taken care of you, coaxed you back to a rational state of mind.

he wants more of that, more chances to protect you.

even if it’s against your own mind.

“‘s okay, sol, you’ll learn to take it,” you keen at his words, sinking closer to him, shoes scratching on the gravel beneath you. you squeeze your hand around him and he chokes on an inhale. “gonna teach ya to take it like a champ.”

he reaches behind him, tugging the gun out the back of his trousers. he was stupid to place it there in the first place, a rushed action he’d made when stepping out the vehicle. he hadn’t wanted you to see the weapon, to be reminded that the world outside bill and frank- the world joel resides in- is not safe, not from infected and certainly not from people.

before he can put it to rest on the hood, you snatch it out his hand.

you’re inspecting it like it’s the first you’ve ever seen, yet the way you perfectly wrap your hand around it and point past his shoulders tells him otherwise. there’s familiarity in your stance, like you’d once lived under rules where bill didn’t prohibit you from touching a firearm. it has him wondering, longing to know who you were before. where you’d come from, how you’d met the two men you share a roof with.

you play with the safety, snapping his attention right back to the present.

the sight of the gun in your hand fills him dread. and misery. and a sense of nausea. you’re far from weak, no matter how much he’d like you to be, but there’s just something fundamentally wrong with the image of you holding such a destructive weapon.

you should be holding otis’ lead. or a canvas depicting frank’s recent masterpiece. or the end of some wine bottle bill’s struggling to open.

or joel’s hand.

instead of speaking his mind, he pries it from you with a huff- from both of you- and lays it to rest somewhere towards his right, out of sight and out of mind. “‘s not some toy for a girl like you to be messin’ about with.”

“neither are you,” you make a point to rack your pretty nails over the untamed curls of his pubic hair, the occasional flash of silver a reminder of his aging state. you don’t seem to notice, or care, too busy bringing the attention back to his leaking tip.

a sound adjacent to a growl escapes him, feral and domineering. shame exists within him, for a moment, witnessing himself be at such a loss of control. when his hands find purchase on your waist, the feeling dissipates and what takes it’s place is pure adulterated need, throbbing in his very core.

he tugs you forward, closer, catching the way you’re struggling to reach him, hand gripping his thigh for support.

“y’gonna hurry on up ‘ere,” impatience punctuates the soul, driving him off the cliff of sanity and plunging head first into the rocky territories below. “or d’ya need me to do all the work? lay ya down, nice and pretty on the hood so i can fuck you?”

you deny his offer with actions, clambering your way into his lap, legs splayed out either side of his thighs. the skirt bunches awkwardly between you both and steals his view as you rest down against his stiffness and smother it in the warmth of your clothed cunt.

there’s dampness on your panties, teasing him as you give an experimental roll along his cock, holding it tight between both your bodies.

“shit, joel,” a hiss through your clenched teeth and your face twisting up in something- pain? arousal? both? he can’t quite pinpoint it. your hips roll again, this time reaching higher, teasing him with a visual of what’s to come. “feel so thick, don’t know how i’m gonna-”

“didn’t i already tell ya-” he grabs at your skirt, irritation clear in the way he rips it up the length of your legs, exposing your skin inch by inch. “you’re gonna learn to take it?”

your hand dives under the fabric before his can, fingers curling around his cock once again and giving him a salacious stroke, taking your time gliding over the smooth skin and sensitive head. “mhmm. you gonna teach me?”

he nods, affirmative.

the next few minutes are nothing but messy grinding. like a pair of hormone-crazed teens, you explore the joys of rubbing up on each other. two pieces of wet wood searching for that spark in between. you make the most effort, working the muscles in your thighs to slide up the length of him and to grind back down, the wet patch in your panties growing with each stroke. joel sits back, allows himself the rare luxury of being taking care of. the last time he had a pretty girl in his lap, she had solace in her eyes and a couple twenties stuffed down her sparkly bra.

“what d’ya bring me ‘ere for,” he’d berated his younger brother after, his anger seemingly coming across as unserious to a giggling tommy, “was fuckin’ depressin’. kept lookin’ at those girls and thinkin’ bout if their poor dads knew what they were up to.”

he can’t help but wonder if bill and frank know what you’re up to.

“hey, hey, wait,” the words tumble out of him erratically as he catches up to your actions, the hand around his cock suddenly holding it still as you raise your hips. his hands pull and grab at the fabric of your skirt, a frustrated grunt slipping out of him as he hoists it up past your waist. this time, you’re covered by a shade of baby blue cotton instead of lace, less sultry yet far more appealing in his eyes. comfortable, that’s what they look like, the kind of pair he’d find you wearing stood in a kitchen in the early hours of the morning, one of his wrinkled old t-shirts the only thing keeping your frame concealed. joel’d always had a good imagination, and it serves him well, decorating his mind with several images of a domestic bliss he’d never get to share with you. “lemme see.”

you’re a smart girl, it’s one of your best qualities, and so you need no further instructions to understand what joel’s asking for.

he watches like a hawk as your fingers tug your panties to one side, a pretty window of slick covered skin that has him involuntarily jutting his hips up off the truck, his head slipping up your seam and pressing into your clit, an action that sparks the reaction of your own hips grinding down. you recover quick, hand back on the task of gripping his base and holding him, while your over reaches back to grip his knee, giving you a grip to steady yourself on as you straighten your thighs.

“this what you want,” your voice calls through the lustful haze in his mind as he takes in the sight of you sinking down onto him, the head of his cock fitting snuggly between your velvet walls. it’s almost enough to make him cum on sight. “to watch? me sitting on your dick?”

joel wonders if you’re trying to shame his desires. ultimately, he’s too lost in the way you cling around him to really care. if anything, he almost wants you to be disgusted by him, making the act of devouring your pleasure that much more sinful.

hands grip at your hips, with moon-shape indents forming around where his nails dig into your flesh. patience is a virtue he scarcely possess but he forces it on himself, fighting back the need to slam you right down on him and carve a home out for his hot cum inside your empty womb. he can’t allow himself the fast-paced indulgence he’s used to, not when he sees the deep breaths you need to take or the pained wrinkle in your brow with each inch you sink deeper and deeper down on him with.

he let’s you take your time, eyes starring with a crazed expression at the point your bodies meet. once he’s fully nestled inside the warmth of your cunt, your forehead rests against his own and he’s forced to look into your eyes and once again notice the way your pupils sit dilated in lust.

it’s a sight he’d like to get used to.

“kinda regretting this,” dread plummets through his heart and a ball forms in his throat. your walls hold him in a vice grip that seems to contradict your statement, until you clarify. “thinking i could take it like this. i’ve never, you know, in this position before-”

“you’re doin’ great,” joel’s own voice sounds pained, straining beneath the buzzing energy that’s begging him to relinquish control to his lust. it would be so easy, effortless even, to grip your hips and fuck you down onto him like you’re nothing if not a hole to get himself off in. unfortunately, his heart stands in the way. “shit, fuckin’ better than great.”

neither of you keep time of how long you sit like that, pelvis to pelvis, his cock buried into the hilt and a puddle of your wetness collecting along his pubic bone, the bristle hairs providing a rough friction for your clit.

eventually, initiative is taken, and you work up the nerve to roll your hips.

the view he’d been enjoying is stolen as your skirt slips back down to pool around you both, his hands too occupied gripping at your waist as your own find home on his sturdy shoulders.

another roll of of your body, slow and steady, lighting every nerve in his cock on fire with the sweet burn of your cunt fighting to keep him inside, refusing to let him slip too far out before you’re filling yourself back up again. your lips fall open in a pathetic moan, the sweet smell of your breath hitting his nostrils as you sit forehead to forehead.

and joel wonders if there’ll ever be a part of you he’s not enamoured by.

your confidence grows as you begin to set a pace, bouncing yourself up and down in his lap as joel grips here, there and everywhere on your body. a pinch to your hardened nipples, a trace of your hidden thighs, a cradling of your face. there’s not an inch of you he wants to neglect, staining his fingerprints all over you with every frantic touch.

this is nothing like the back-alley exchanges of body heat he’s grown accustomed to, this is nothing rushed and everything felt. it’s a carnal hunger for the feel of flesh and the taste of sweat. it’s feral, and lustful, and downright intoxicating. it’s the need to get his fill of you over, and over, and over again, till the fountain of your velvet warmth overflows with his seed and has nowhere else to run but down the length of your full thighs and dripping onto his emptied balls below.

“joel, please,” he decides he likes you much better like this, your whole body gripping itself around him-arms, legs, soaked cunt- in search of a sweet salvation only he can bring as your usual bright smile and quick tongue become reduced to nothing but whimpered breaths and desperate prayers. “i’m- god, i can’t-”

your thighs tremble as he tightens his hold, keeping you steady when the exhaustion of exhilarating yourself on top of him begins to take a hold of you. the need to take over becomes primal, blunt nails tearing into the meat of your thighs and bouncing you down on him with an effortless look he hopes will fool you out of noticing he’s seconds away from blowing his load prematurely, mind and body too close to the edge of nirvana from simply having the weight of you on him.

he just needs to get you there first.

“hate this fucking skirt,” the grumble was meant to be a thought he keeps to himself, but the giggle it rouses out of you makes it worth the slip-up, your own hands delivering the mercy of helping him drag the length of it farther up, marking a clear path for his own to sneak under and find your pulsing clit. “don’t wear it again.”

a few tight circles with just the right amount of pressure has you melting deeper into him, your arms curling around him as your head lays itself to rest upon his shoulder. your every breath delivers a brush of heat against his already burning skin and he wishes there were no plaid shirts nor camisoles resting between your heartbeats. 

“but it’s so,” he must have struck gold, found some hidden gem in the combination of the pressure of his fingers on your clit and the rhythm at which he’s fucking you down onto his cock, for you clamp down on him so tightly he worries you may cut off his circulation. “soft and, oh, yes! and it- it fits me so perfectly-”

“not sure if you’re talkin’ bout your skirt or your pussy,” he grunts out, a teasing smirk on his mouth that dies the instance his lips press to your neck, nose chasing the scent of your lingering shampoo.

“you’re so-” he’s so, what? you don’t get to finish, hand fisting into his hair and moans falling from your lips like autumn leaves. 

“tsk, look at ya,” he certainly is, and loving every inch of you he sees, hips rolling down with the guidance of his hands, head tucked safely away from the world in the crook of his neck, hands gripping any part of him they seem to reach. if art is subjective, then you’re the damned mona lisa, the starry night, the birth of venus. “can’t even fuckin’ speak properly, mouth’s good for nothin’ when you’re full of cock.”

you nod into him, hips moving faster, nails digging deeper, moans getting louder. he’s got you so close, a few more thrusts till he’s sure to have you flying off the handles and cumming around him.

you whine his name.

he meets the roll of your hips with the raising of his own.

a pull of hair, a bite of skin, and then you’re-

“oh shit, ain’t this a pretty sight.”

joel’s blood runs cold.

you’re frozen against him.

just past your shoulder, directly in joel’s eye-line, by the gas station’s entry stands a man. he’s younger than joel, maybe even younger than you. his clothes are stained in all sorts- sweat, dried blood, mud- and are tattered, as if he’s been wearing the same thing everyday. the strap of a backpack sits over one shoulder and he seems to be carrying no weapons but the hunting knife in his belt.

the intruder- if he can even be called that out in the openness of the world- takes a couple steps closer but they’re not full of confidence. if anything, his frame seems just as shaken as you both, fingers fidgeting with the adjustable cord of the bag’s strap.

“please, don’t stop on my account,” he seems to be trying to play it cool, but fails to let out the light-hearted chuckle he intends to, a noise more similar to a choke taking its place. “heck, give me a little performance even”

joel’s not sure what’s gotten into him- if it’s the fact he’d been moments away from making you cum, or the dropping temperatures that have you sinking deeper into his warm body, or the sheer desire to possess you so intimately under someone else’s knowledge- but he finds himself rutting up into you again.

you don’t join in, limbs still locked in shocked, yet a moan is breathed into his neck.

“shit, man,” the stranger sounds amazed, as if not even he thought joel would gift him such a sight. his hands find something new to fidget with, struggling to undo the buckle of his tattered leather belt. “pull up her skirt, lemme see how she’s taking you.”

he obliges and bunches the fabric up in his hands, exposing the sight that lays beneath. it’s not the explicit sight the man must be hoping for, the snug fit of his cock inside your cunt mostly concealed by your pushed-aside panties.

unable to stop himself, joel wonders if this man would prefer you in something more scandalous than the blue cotton that he so deeply adores.

“sorry- fuck! just, it’s just been a while,” the buckle comes undone at last, a button and a zipper follow. one hand dips beneath the waist band of the man’s boxers. “swear i’m not trynna be a creep, or nuffin’. can you... could you squeeze her ass? wanna see how much of a hand full she is.”

this time around, you let out a sound that’s less pleasant to joel’s ears, a far cry from pleasured as he so greedily cups a handful of your ass. the realisation that, though your body may contradict you with the canting of your hips into his or the continued arousal you drip between your pelvises, you’re not enjoying this, hits him like a truck.

you’re not moaning in pleasure, you’re whimpering in fear. you’re not shaking because you’re cold, you’re shaking because you’re scared. this man is scaring you.

joel is letting him scare you.

“swear i’ll just- a few minutes and i’ll be out your hair, ok?” the man’s fumbling, bag dropping off his shoulder down onto the floor as he works over his cock. joel wonders if it’s uncomfortable, stroking himself without the help of spit to ease the slide, and scoots his hand over to his right, fingers slipping over the hood in search. “just really need this, man, you’ve no idea how it gets out here on your own-”

nothing usually crosses joel’s mind when he pulls a trigger.

becoming numb to it, blanking one’s mind, treating it as normal. it’s the only way to come out the other side of it without it weighing on your conscious. it was built over time, the first few months a struggle to even touch a gun after what happened on outbreak day. shooting humans had always been the easy part, reminding himself there’s an evil in them he doesn’t need to meet to know it exists. the infected, he’d struggled, compassion sinking deep into the pit of his stomach as he’d glance at their once-alive eyes, now nothing but a breeding ground for some mushroom.

the shot rings out, moments after the bullet hits its target and, this time, you cross his mind.

defenceless, shaking, clinging onto him. it’s shameful to admit that it turns him on, has his balls throbbing with unloaded cum, to protect you. to play the role of saviour, supporter, guardian to the fearful girl in his lap.

he doesn’t even care enough to spare the dead man a look, eyes back on you.

you’re already staring right back at him, shock written all over your face. “you... you killed him.”

“he was holdin’ a gun, sol,” he’s not sure if it makes you feel any better. you do, however, seem to shuffle closer to him, chest to chest as you take in what he’s telling you. “was gonna fire a few rounds into me and then where would that leave ya, huh? free for the taken.”

thunder roars above your heads.

your brows furrow, conflictive expressions taking over you while you assess what’s just happened. he tries not to think too much about the fact his cock is still very much nestled inside your soaked pussy, throbbing with the impending release life keeps stealing away from you both.

“you killed him.” you repeat, more sure in your words this time.

“i did.”

lightning lights up the darkening sky.

“i should be scared of you.”

“you should.”

one last rumble from the storm clouds.

“but i’m not.”

the heavens above seem to open as cold, thick drops of water fall from the sky, quickly soaking everything they meet. the gravel, his shirt, your hair. the rain seems to have no boundaries, slipping between you both and filling the little gaps it manages to find.

neither of you move from where you’re seated, letting the cold overtake your bodies. you both use it as an excuse to move closer, arms tangling around one another as you stare each other down with judgement, assessing what either will do next.

you call the shots, experimentally rolling your hips, testing the waters to see where he’s at.

joel meets you just where you want him to, touches more frantic than before and far more sloppy, neither of you conscious of the goosebumps that line your skins as you indulge in one another’s bodies, fucking beneath the pouring rain like some silly scene out of a romance film.

“i was protectin’ you,” he breathes onto your neck, mouthing at your flesh and enjoying the thudding of your pulse beneath his tongue. “keepin’ you safe, sol. ‘s what i do, what i’ll always do.”

it’s unclear if the words are meant to assure you or himself.

it doesn’t take long till you’re both back at the edge of glorious relief, the unmet orgasms from earlier rearing their heads all at once and flooding over both of you. one of his hands snakes it’s way under your skirt to rub at your clit, while one of your own threads itself in his hair and tugs sharply, till he feels a sting in his scalp.

what a sight it is to behold as you cum, eyes rolled back, lips parted in a mute scream, soaked hair sticking to your forehead and every other place it touches. joel wants to see you through to the very end, hold you while you shake and break completely on his cock, but the warmth that creeps up his loins takes that priviledge away.

only as the first spurt of thick cum shoots out of him does joel manage to rip you off him, jostling you further up his lap and providing him with the friction of your ass cheeks to sooth over his spasming member as he paints your lower back and inner skirt in his pleasure.

he watches you falling apart in the heat of your orgasm and his bones ache a little less, his soul feels a little lighter, his heart seems to beat a little better.

joel never manages to put his thoughts into words quite properly.

“you’re not,” he breaths out, shaky. you’re still rutting against his limp cock, soaking him with your slick and whimpering into his shoulder as his head bumps against your aching clit, the come down from your orgasm hitting you harder than his. he’s vaguely aware of how tightly he’s gripping you, arms holding you flush, anchoring you down against him as the rain continues to pour. “you’re not real.”

you’re mumbling something but it falls on deaf ears as joel fails to reel his thoughts in, eyes skittish as they jump from watching water crash against the windows of the deserted gas station to the limp body of the stranger, cock still in his hand and a bullet straight through his forehead, a sick red washing away along the gravel.

“...here. i’m real, joel,” a kiss pressed to his forehead. you’re gentle with him, whispering into his good ear and he wonders if you know he can hear you better on this side, he’d never mentioned it. a hand coaxes his own off your waist and guides it upwards, pressing against the left side of your chest. rapid thumps. you mimic the movement, hand pressing against his own heart as you rest your forehead against his. “i’m here. we’re both here.”

joel drives back.

there’s no prior discussion where you agree on this. he simply cleans you both up- to the best of his abilities-, sits you down in the passengers seat and walks his way round to the driver’s side. it’s silent, and this time it’s the uncomfortable kind. the kind that wrestles with his mind and puts discomfort in his heart. there’s something unspoken between you both and he does not know how to begin to talk about it, not without the risk of messing it all up.

you don’t protest this time around when he turns on one of bill’s old cd’s, and, so, billy joel sings you all the way home.

at some point, he convinces himself you’ve fallen prey to sleep, eyes closed and head slumped to the side, searching for the safety of something to rest itself on. slowing to a stop, he takes his time undoing your seatbelt and maneuvering your lax limbs till your head meets his shoulder. the drive onwards is slower, more careful as he drives over any bump in the road and each turning he takes less sharp.

“i owe you a thank you,” you eventually mumble, weight still leaning against him and eyes very much shut.

he nods, though you do not see it. “okay.”

it’s all he can think to say, unsure what a girl like you could ever thank him for. all he’s done since the moment he met you is dampen your shine and stain your kindness with rough hands and a rougher heart.

“for, you know, not telling tess,” your response brings more questions than answers. not telling tess what? “i just... she’d hate me, if she knew, and she’s some of the only family i have left. i couldn’t stand to lose her over a few... mistaken moments between us.”

joel wonders if he’s part of this short list of family you have.

he doubts it.

“don’t see why she’d care,” he’s choosing to ignore that word, mistaken, yet it’s not enough to stop his fingers from twisting tighter around the wheel, tension in his wounded heart.

“of course you wouldn’t,” you wrestle down a yawn and nestle your head deeper into the crook of his neck, body hunched in a position he can’t imagine to be too comfortable. he keeps this thought to himself, decidedly enjoying this false image of tender touch. you ground him, weight down on his paper-thin mind-state like a rock that promises to keep all his pages in place. “you’re careless.”

there you go again, displaying such casual cruelty.

you’re careless.

how twisted life is to give him everything he’s worked so hard to be- a man feared, untested, unmessed with- only for his every want become his waking nightmare as it sits on your own lips.

i don’t like you, joel.

“‘s that why ya don’t like me?” he can’t help himself, even if he wanted to.

“i don’t like you because you-” a pull of breath. an opening of eyes. a raise of a head. you don’t make it far before he’s raising a hand off the wheel to encourage you back down to rest upon him, half-worrying he’ll be strown apart by the next gust of wind should he lose the weight of your head on his shoulder. “i can’t tell you.”

“why not?”

“you never brought me that dress.”

there’s no answer he can give that won’t incriminate him and steer you on the clear path to see just how caring a man like him can be. every fabric he’s seen the wrong colour, the wrong length, the wrong style for you. the closest he’d gotten to finding a dress worthy enough of slipping down your skin was stripped from the corpse of a woman joel’d been tasked with disposing of. in a moment of weakness, he’d nearly taken it, till his skin began to crawl with the implications of gifting you a dead woman’s dress, the last piece of clothing she’d worn while her blood was still warm and her lungs filled with air.

you fall asleep, for real this time, not even stirring as he maneuvers himself out of his jacket and drapes it over your damp figure, body sinking deeper into his own- as deep as the console between you allows.

night has taken hold of the sky by the time he pulls into the fenced community, headlights lighting up the path back into the garage. pulling the car to a stop, joel eases your weight off him and steps out the car, mindful of how he closes the door over. he makes his way around to the passenger side and pries the door open to find you still sleeping, peaceful as can be, the dull army green of his jacket contrasting the pastel shade of your skirt.

he takes a moment, sinking to his knees, and let’s himself indulge in the image of you like this a little longer, before the watchful eyes of bill or the curious glances of tess stand between the ways joel longs to look at you. softness greets his thumb as it brushes over your cheek. you seek out his warmth, chasing it even as he moves downwards to swipe at the dribble of spit threatening to spill out your slacked lips.

if he were a better liar, perhaps he’d claim this was his way of attempting to wake you up.

“what happened?” frank is the first to greet him, eyes blown a little wider than usual as he takes in the sight of you curled against joel, one arm round your back and another under your knees keeping the weight of you off the ground. “is she okay?”

“nothin’s happened,” the man’s reactions to joel’s return to the house has brought on more pairs of eyes, tess and bill flooding out the kitchen to catch a glimpse of him in the hallway. “she’s just tired. ‘s been a long day and-”

“your clothes are wet.” bill’s eyes are glaring, tearing apart every detail they can pick up: the gentle grip he holds you with, your sweater thrown over his shoulder, the peaceful manner in which your sleeping form sinks into his warmth, the jacket that’s slowly slipping down your form to reveal bare shoulders and soaked cotton.

his tongue feels heavy, his mouth turning to sandpaper as the anxious feeling of being watched dries up his senses. hardly aware of it, he’s straightening his spine and puffing his chest, staring the older man down before flickering over to where tess stands, face much kinder looking as she watches you sleep. “you just gonna stand there, or are ya gonna show me her room ‘fore my back gives out?”

that seems to get the ball rolling, all questioning and staring left behind as frank guides him three doors down and slips the door open, stepping aside to let joel in. he doesn’t bother hitting the light, a part of him not wanting to pick up any details to linger on around your room, using what little light the moon provides to find his way over to the bed. frank’s gaze is burning a hole in joel’s back even as he drops you down onto the mattress, and it’s almost like he can hear the buzz of energy radiating from everything the man wants to ask him.

it’s not till the four of them sit the dining table and joel’s shovelling a fork-load of food into his mouth that the next question comes.

“why was her sweater dry?” it’s tess who asks, punctuating it with an obnoxious sip from her glass.

all eyes are on Joel, a spotlight she’d shun directly on him and leaving him on display. bill, in particular, seems to be clinging to his every movement, anticipating his answer with the clenching of fingers around the steak knife in his hand.

“what?” it’s all he can manage without the fear of saying too much.

“your clothes were all wet. but her sweater, on your shoulder, it was dry.”

how had tess even noticed that?

“she took it off,” it takes a couple minutes to answer, a pause he tries to play off as simply his need to chew on the food he shovels into his mouth at last. it feels heavy, slipping down his throat, like he can already anticipate it’s return to the surface alongside his bile. “said somethin’ bout not wantin’ to get oil on it when i told her i was gonna show her the different parts of the engine.”

silence.

eyes shooting back and forth.

tess looks at frank.

frank looks at bill.

bill loathes at joel.

and then, “oh.”

tess says it like it’s the start of a sentence, an audible ellipses that she’s refusing to elaborate on.

“oh.” joel parrots, hoping they’ll drop the topic and allow him to go back to the raging waters thrashing around in his thoughts.

luck is not on his side.

“that makes sense,” the woman continues, attempting to cut the tension with an airy chuckle and a shrugging of her shoulders, as if doing so will shake the tension out of everyone else’s. “was worried that poor girl was running around with her tits out in front of the likes of you.”

bill grips tighter around his cutlery, knuckles white under the dining room light.

straightening up, a momentary lapse of judgement and a foolish flash of red hot possession shoots over him, embarking him on the road to saying perhaps the dumbest thing he’s ever said.

“would that be so bad?”

a hand smacks down on the table. a chair scrapes, another following right after.

“bill,” frank’s tone is nothing if not a warning, hand on the man’s forearm as he soothes his thumb over his skin.

“it’s late,” it comes after a deep breath, the kind a shrink would teach you to use in times of stress, or fear, or anger. bill isn’t even acknowledging tess, fully focused on joel. “you should get going.”

plates half full, bellies half empty, the four of them step away from the table. tess slips on a jacket, one she’d not had prior to arriving, and passes joel a loaded bag. he figures she must have had her pick around the old clothes shop, loitering whatever was left that could either fit them or keep them warm through the remainder of the cold months.

he throws it over his shoulder without question.

the air has shifted, a tense feeling floating around the atmosphere that exists between him and bill. tess and frank are seemingly unaware of it, laughing and talking amongst themselves as the group makes their way to the front door.

joel is the last to step out and, in doing so, he pauses, glancing backwards into the open doorway. 

he calls out to tess, all three heads turn.

“need a piss.”

“take your time,” it’s the friendlier of the two men who responds, threading his arm around bill’s and dragging him along with him. it reminds him of why he likes frank more. “we’ll walk tess to the gate.”

he watches the three figures fade away into the dark of the street, carefully stepping back into the house once he feels the safety of distance. he tries to keep his footsteps light, suddenly aware of how quiet the place feels without the panting of a dog or the rustling of someone in the kitchen. he counts the doors as he goes- one, two, three- and turns the handle of the third.

the room is still dark, but that’s okay. he’s used to darkness. his eyes carefully scan the floor with each step he takes closer to the bed, watching out for any discarded dog toy or worn clothing splayed across it. at some point, his steps meet carpet instead of cold floor. he’d not noticed it earlier, but then his sense had been rather focused on the precious cargo he carried.

he finds you where he left you, hair a mess upon your pillow and chest rising steadily in the breaths of deep sleep. only, you’ve gained a companion, the unmistakeable beady-eyed stare of the german shepherd meeting joel’s in the dark. the dog makes a noise, half whimper half whine, and the tip of its bushy tail begins to beat against the mattress, matching the rhythm of joel’s heart.

like before, he lets his hand brush your cheek. instead of wiping saliva, he brushes a few stray hairs away from your peaceful face. you shift and he panics, fearful you’ve awakened, only to relax as you sink deeper into the pillow.

his hand lingers longer than necessary.

another whine from the mutt gives him the will to at last pull away from you, trading your soft cheek for the smooth fur along the dog’s head. his fingers card through it, nails digging a little to scratch at otis’ scalp.

“you take care of her,” for me. “alright bud?”

he must be losing his mind, for he swears he feels the dog nod.

the steps he takes on his way out are less careful, though he’s slowed by the amount of times he seems to insist on turning back to glance at the bed. maybe it’s for comfort, the peace of mind of knowing he’d brought you back safe and sound.

maybe it’s with longing, his aching joints begging for him to crawl his way in beside you, cocooning you between himself and the ball of fluff behind you.

shaking his head, an array of self-aimed insults plough through his mind, joel curls his hand around the wooden frame of the door, steadying himself to glance back one last time.

“joel...” he freezes, caught in place. how long have you been awake? how do you know it’s him? how are you so softly spoken when your voice is hoarse?  “turn the lamp on,” a yawn. he hears rustling and imagines you readjusting yourself into whichever position brings you most comfort. the thought of if it ever gets lonely, sleeping with no one to hold, crosses his mind. he refuses to let it linger. “don’t wanna wake up to the dark.”

he shuffles over to where he sees the outline of a lamp, fingers sliding around in the dark till they hit a switch and a lovely orange hue overtakes the room, bringing it to life. little trinkets, scattered papers, a couple pictures in frames line the desk in front of him. he’s seen too much for comfort, avoiding looking at anything else in your space till he finds you, curled up in the bed too big for one, otis’ head resting on your hip.

you still have his jacket over you, ignoring the warm comforter you lay upon.

he thinks he musters up a smile. if he does, you’re returning it, eyes sleepy and lips lazy in their movement. it’s a peaceful moment, the kind joel doesn’t get many- if any- of these days. he won’t waste it by speaking what’s on his mind. your eyes slowly drop once more, surrendering to exhaustion.

the bedroom door creaks behind him on the way out.