#black writing matters

[taohs]

(some) Balalaika moments that lives in my head rent free

[superbat-lmao]

In college, Harvey and Harley would poke fun at being Bruce’s first friends. He’d been so closed off with all those rich kids that it took him until college to really find his people.

But that’s not entirely true.

Bruce would say he had a lot of friends actually, just that none of them stuck around for very long. Meeting each of them was completely accidental. And strange. It has taken him a while to figure out what was happening, but once he got one of them to admit to it, the rest caved pretty quick.

You see, Bruce’s friends were time travelers.

They had crazy suits, some skin tight, others padded like a SWAT team, and all of them made of stuff Bruce had never seen before. They could also do insane tricks they were willing to teach Bruce, like backflips and knife throwing when he was old enough. They promised to teach him more each time they came back through time.

They wouldn’t give him their names, but they all had nicknames for each other and that worked well enough. Didn’t want to blow up the time-space continuum.

He met “Wing” first. He’d felt moronic calling someone that looked like an adult something that wasn’t a real name, but by the time Jay, Red, and Robin turned up, he caught on to the bird theme. The girls didn’t stick with the bird thing and neither did Tom, although the knew that was a fake name, especially because Robin would often try and call him Thomas, so he assumed it was close.

So yes actually, Bruce had friends before he met Harley and Harvey. He was just waiting for the day he would meet them in his time.

[mousefists]

hello! i made an infographic on my method of making quick and sturdy protest banners.

feel free to share with your communities. if you post to other platforms please include my alt text.

[oh-phoenixx]

"Stay" - Jegulus microfic @into-the-jeggyverse - 1392 words

-

James wanted to like Regulus. Really, he did. But overcoming that want was his love for Sirius, and his fear of his best friend getting hurt. This had happened before. Regulus had shown up on their doorstep all bruised and bloody and Sirius had welcomed him in so eagerly, just wanting to keep his brother safe. But the moment that Walburga had come looking for him, apologising to Regulus and begging him to come home, Regulus had given in. It had torn Sirius apart, and James would not let it happen again.

“You’ll really stay this time?” James asked, eyeing Regulus suspiciously. Nothing had happened to provoke Regulus’s running away, he was not adorned with any new cuts and had no story of his parents’ violence to tell. He had simply run away because he wanted to, because it was what Sirius wanted and because he knew his parents were not good people. James wanted to know where it had all come from.

“I’m going to stay,” Regulus swore stiffly. 

“You can’t just show up here and leave the second Mummy comes knocking,” James gritted out, surprising even himself with his cruelty. He tried not to show how guilty he felt. “You left Sirius and it really fucking hurt him.”

“He left me first,” Regulus spat, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. “I’m…I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I won’t let her control me anymore.”

James just nodded, still looking him up and down, as if waiting for something to pop out and ruin everything.

-

The first few weeks were hard. Despite his initial hesitation to accept Regulus into their lives, James did everything he could to make sure Regulus knew he was safe with them. He remembered how Sirius was, when he first moved in with James and his parents, and he knew what had worked for him, what had made him feel more comfortable. 

Regulus had nightmares often, and James would find him sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the wall. When this had happened with Sirius, James or Euphemia would make him tea. So, without thinking, really, James did this. He brought through a cup of tea and handed it to Regulus, who jumped when he finally noticed James.

“Bad dream?” James asked knowingly. Regulus looked him over cautiously before nodding. “Tea always helps Sirius sleep. Thought it was a safe bet.”

James learned quickly that Regulus did not speak at night. He wasn’t sure if it was the dreams or night time in general, but he didn’t question it. James also learned that Regulus was a very good listener. At first, he had started talking for the sake of not sitting in silence, not really about anything specific. Then, he shared opinions, on whatever he could think of. Movies or brands of tea or music or how that woman in the shop was rude earlier. There was a kind of domesticity to it, this end-of-the-day ritual. James got it all off his chest and went to sleep feeling a little lighter. He hoped Regulus did, too.

Progress was slow, but it was progress nonetheless. Regulus sitting a little closer each night did not go unnoticed by James. One night, Regulus had rested his head on James’s arm, and neither mentioned it, and it didn’t happen again, and James was so, so happy. With how guarded Regulus was, James had been sure that he would have hated him forever because of how cruel what James had said was. But each night, James brought him tea, and each night, Regulus accepted it and did not say a word. It was strange, really. Before Regulus had come to stay with Sirius and James, James had always seen him as this somewhat rude enigma, Sirius’s mean little brother, just like his parents. But at night, as they spoke—or, more accurately, as James spoke—, Regulus seemed so vulnerable; all tired hums and sleepy giggles one moment, and trembling hands and shaky breaths the next. 

After a particularly long day, James fell asleep earlier than usual. Work had been hard, and he had stayed up late the night before talking to Regulus. Really, his exhaustion had dragged on for weeks now, as he was always awake in case Regulus needed him.

When his alarm went off at six, as it did every morning, James sat up, rubbing his eyes and noticing the presence of the younger boy in his bed, who groaned at being woken so early in the morning. When he noticed James staring, Regulus’s eyes widened and he shot up.

“Um, sorry, I…You weren’t there last night,” Regulus explained, getting out of bed and already heading for the door. “I came in to find you and I fell asleep. Sorry. I- Sorry.”

And before James could respond or tell him that really, he didn’t mind, Regulus was out of the door, leaving James confused and a little sad, for some reason. Only after Regulus left did he notice the two mugs, one empty and one filled with now-cold tea.

That night, James did not fall asleep. He brought in the two cups of tea, and sat beside Regulus, who seemed calmer each night they were together.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Regulus whispered. James was sure it was the first time he had ever spoken to him at night. “My tea never tastes as good as yours.”

James hoped that was not the only reason Regulus was happy to have him there, but did not push it.

-

When James got home from work, all he wanted was to sit with Sirius and Regulus and watch a movie. So, the sight that he got instead was not a welcome one.

“Regulus, this is foolish,” Walburga said, looking around the flat with disgust. “You will come back. Your father and I need you.”

There was this subtle hint of desperation in her voice that James knew was intentional. Regulus swallowed hard and looked between Sirius and their mother, as if trying to decide which life to live, which of the two people he loved to appease. Then, his eyes met James’s. James tried to speak, but nothing came out. He mouthed ‘stay’.

“I’m not coming, Mother,” Regulus said, voice unsteady but determined.

She wouldn’t leave immediately, but once James and Sirius had both stepped between her and Regulus, she seemed to decide it wasn’t worth it. 

That night, Regulus walked into James’s room. He stood in the doorway, seeming unsure of himself. James gestured for him to come in, and he finally moved towards the bed, sitting awkwardly on the edge.

“Thank you,” James started. “For staying.”

“I did it for Sirius,” Regulus replied, looking away.

It stung a little, but James nodded. “I know.”

“I…I did it for you, too, though,” Regulus added, quieter.

James beamed at him, reaching a hand out and placing it on Regulus’s. He didn’t really think about it until Regulus’s eyes met his own, and he was overcome with this indescribable urge to do something. He wasn’t sure what. Or maybe he was, and he was scared. But James didn’t get scared, not of a thing like this. He leaned in, just a little, just enough to gauge Regulus’s reaction. His breath hitched and he pulled his hand out of James’s. Oh. James moved back.

“Wait, no, I’m sorry, I-” Regulus cut himself off and sighed. James tilted his head to try to catch Regulus’s eyes.

“Regulus?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Oh. That’s…nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

James laughed, though he wasn’t sure why. What Regulus had said wasn’t funny, really, but still, he laughed, and Regulus’s cheeks turned this pink colour that James could revel in for the rest of his life. That urge was suddenly so loud, and James realised that it had been there long before he had noticed it.

“Regulus?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Regulus’s ‘yes’ was just a breath, so quiet that James took a moment to make sure he wasn’t imagining it. Regulus looked at him expectantly, and James nearly lunged forward. It was all want at first, deep and determined. He took a breath and pulled away to collect himself, gentling his hands and kissing Regulus again, softer this time.

When they finally parted, Regulus mumbled, “I love you, too.”

[bebrave-live]

Love the flavor of soulmates that is a main m/f partnership dynamic that's mostly platonic but also romantic but also dysfunctional and yet completely essential - like these characters would not work without each other, but they barely work with each other, and most importantly they know each other carnally better than anyone else, but it's also not about sex at all it's about the partnership and navigating the highs and lows of intimacy and letting someone in, but also maybe they do fuck, but also maybe don't, but also...

[beanghostprincess]

A bit tired of people complaining about Sanji's principle of "not hitting women" being misogynistic when it has been clearly stated multiple times that he does not choose it and it's heavily tied to his trauma and admiration for his dad and respect for women and definitely not from seeing women as somehow weaker than him

[the-music-maniac]

Not that I read mpreg all that often (not really my thing generally speaking) but I came across some "Sanji is pregnant" fics in the sanzo/zosan tag, and not nearly the same amount for Zoro. It got me thinking about the trope. I think the lack of Zoro fics here is a tragic oversight. I think we as a fandom are absolutely and tragically ignoring the potential comedy gold of Zoro being the one to be pregnant instead.

Because when people write Sanji, the general trend I'm seeing (upon scanning through some of the fics quickly) is that he's cautious about it. Conscientious, careful to make sure things are okay. Which - arguably I could see, Sanji is probably the more practical of the two (not by a whole lot but still)and he didn't have a good childhood. Sanji being pregnant is usually a fic about his heaps of parental issues, childhood trauma and angst - which is fun to read. It's good. It's amazing, even.

Zoro being pregnant is ONE HUNDRED PERCENT gonna be a COMEDY. We're talking about a man who once tried to fight Kuina holding like 20 bokkens. We're talking about a man who got stuck in wax and thought the reasonable solution was to cut off his legs.

The entire crew spends the next 9 months tearing their hair out, preventing Zoro from doing stupid shit (exhibit A: cutting off his own limbs). They spend the same amount of time trying to stop Luffy from gum-gum-grabbing Zoro and yeeting him anytime he needs to get them out of a sticky situation.

The crew (mostly Sanji) is on 24/7 prevent-zoro-from-drinking-alcohol duty (impossible). Chopper is constantly stressed in the later months cause no one puts it past Zoro to get lost somewhere, give birth out in the woods and come strolling back with a baby tucked under his arm. They have to start hiding Zoro's dumbbells.

Franky and Usopp design and build a nursery and spends the entire time suspiciously teary eyed. Sanji tries to pretend he's unaffected but spends an entire night creating a 9 month meal plan of all the nutrients Zoro and the baby are gonna need. Not even a day later, one of the crew finds him up at 2 am making a mountain of food because Zoro made the mistake of offhandedly mentioning he had particular pregnancy craving within earshot of Sanji. In the end Zoro has to sit on him to stop Sanji from running himself ragged.

Robin keeps spouting morbid childbirth facts and quotes from parental advice books in equal measure. Nami keeps going on shopping sprees for cute baby clothes and adding the cost of them to Zoro's debt. Brook keeps writing lullabies and trying to sing them to Zoro's stomach. Zoro 100% uses his pregnancy belly as an excuse to walk around without a shirt 24/7 without getting nagged.

Somehow word gets out that the famous pirate hunter Zoro is pregnant, and at the next big fight with the Marines, half the soldiers refuse to fight him and instead start telling him to sit down, take it easy, shouting advice at him etc. Etc. Zoro loses his shit a little bit and cuts their boat in half.

Mihawk, upon finding out, tells Zoro in no uncertain terms that that is his grandchild and he's expecting them to visit so he can meet the baby when they're born. Zoro vehemently denies that Mihawk is his father (he is). Zeff upon finding out, is almost as bad as Sanji when it comes to being a mother hen. Perona buys even more baby clothes for the baby. She buys one singular shirt for Zoro as a joke, and it coincidentally happens to be the exact same brand of "mama" crop top he was forced to wear in that one filler episode. Zoro tries to chuck it into the ocean (he fails).

I'm essentially saying it would be absolute chaos, and it would be the funniest thing I've ever read. 9 months of Marimo wrangling. Can you imagine the look on Zoro's face if one of the opponents he was fighting were to tell him that he's "glowing"?

PLEASE, I would actually wheeze myself to death. The best part is you can still have plenty of Sanji angst. He still has parental issues except now they're flavoured with "I'm not ready to be a father" and "I'm terrified I'm gonna become my biological sperm donor" and "please don't die because of childbirth complications, that happened to my mother(sort of, I know she died after but it kinda counts), and I can't handle that happening again to you". Lots of cute/tender moments of Zoro comforting and reassuring Sanji. We can even have Zoro angst. He probably views protecting his crew as the one and only job he's good for (not true but that's probably what he thinks). Not being able to fulfill that is probably not helping his self esteem, and that sense of uselessness warring with his need to protect the baby - but the contradictory thing here is that to protect the baby he HAS to sit back and let other people do that FOR him. That plus all the other restrictions, people treating him differently, but him at the same time refusing to view his own child as a weakness. Imagine the havoc that would wreak. Oh my god.

Y'all don't understand, I don't even read mpreg that often and yet this is literally my ideal fic HAHAAAAA

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Heart of the Matter--Chapter 3: Vivification

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black Female OC x Joe.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

____________________________________________

Joe is tired of cuming into his hand. 

Utterly sick of the feeling of his own palm. But he knows he can’t risk it with Marlowe, can’t cross that boundary even remotely as it currently stands. He hadn’t even had the gall to ask her if she was dating someone, let alone to think to ask if was interested in him. Even if he’s acting like a horny teenager now, Joe’s not one. So he knows when he needs to take things slow. And this thing with Marlowe, is a thing he needs to take slow. Needs to ease his way into that territory. Even if that leaves him most nights to a cold shower and his fist. 

Marlowe and Joe have only managed mostly text conversations. But even with that limited format, Joe can hear her replies in her slightly rough voice now. He waits for those replies now, hungry to hear anything from her. He likes hearing about her day, as simple as it sounds. He really likes Marlowe. But even if Joe is sick of cold showers and rubbing one out damn near nightly to the thought of Marlowe’s shy grin and perfectly pouty lips, he can admit that his text to Paige is phrased so poorly for what it really needs to convey. 

“Thinking with your dick right now is going to get you into trouble,” Joe mutters aloud. His house is quiet, even with the TV on the volume is muted. 

And Joe’s a fucking idiot for texting, I need to see you, to Paige. He knew it was a bad idea the second he tapped onto her thread. Paige is easy, willing. But she’s not the one Joe wants and even if Joe is terrified of fucking it up with Marlowe, that does not mean he should go diving dick first into Paige just because he’s sick of rubbing his aching cock raw his damn self. 

“So fucking stupid,” Joe growls at himself, tapping the corner of his pone to his forehead. 

But Paige’s reply has already been sent--damn near instantly to confirm if he was home or not. Which he is. Joe does want to have the conversion about ending their dynamic in private, to give her and him both privacy for the moment because Joe knows it’s only going to go south. But I need to see you is not the way to convey, I’m about to end this fling. 

The frustrated shout rips over his throat and leaps off his teeth and tongue. He’s already done it though. He’s already probably gotten Paige’s hopes up, has probably already made all the wrong turns and now there’s nothing to do but to face the consequences. 

It makes him a fucking asshole--the biggest kind. But there’s nothing to do now but to face the music. His phone chimes again--off the silent buzzing that it’s usually on. He turns the device too fast and loses his grip on it. The screen lands smack dab onto the bridge of his nose. But Joe’s quick to get the phone back into his hand. 

But it’s only the text from Paige, the one he hasn’t actually opened, only read the preview. On my way, Joey. 

Joe wants Marlowe to text him back. And he’d gotten Paige. 

Marlowe warned him last week that she was already gearing up to leave town again but needed to focus on Korey, her niece, until her parents returned from their mini vacation to celebrate their anniversary. Marlowe was taking over as primary caregiver. Joe wondered where the kid’s father was, or where Marlowe’s sister is. But he hadn’t asked. Something in his gut kept pulling the word back. Joe had drafted a couple texts with the questions. And each time he did, his bones would go a little cold. So he never pressed send. 

Even in the limited replies he’s gotten from Marlowe, when he’d learned that the little girl on her hip was not in fact her kid, there was relief— immediately relaxing him off the edge. The information came a couple days after her birthday, when she expressed her gratitude again to Joe for the dessert and he’d instantly replied that he was more than happy to do it and that he hoped that she’d celebrated the occasion the way she wanted. It took Marlowe a couple days to come back with, Can’t say birthdays are my favorite. But my sweetest (and only) niece handmade me a card, so I’ll be sobbing over this for the next two weeks.

Joe figured that in the interim, her replies might be slow. Though, it’s more like all her replies are a little slow. But they always come. Even if it takes her a couple days to get back, she’d have something, some sort of question or quip to carry on the conversation though, to keep it interesting. Her most recent update, aside from her parent’s safe travel and her gearing up for a flight to Atlanta, had been about longing for a local sunflower festival, not due until October, but she’d been going through photos and videos recently to post and came across the photograph of her and Korey in the fields, surrounded on all sides from last year’s run. A photograph Joe would kill to see. Yet, the photograph taken of Marlowe, resting on a bench with a bouquet of them in hand, had been a welcome addition. 

Joe’s text about hoping Marlowe had a safe flight for her work out in Atlanta—a hair showcase she agreed to do the makeup for a stylist she’d befriended—is the one still unanswered. Joe replied a couple hours after Marlowe told him she was headed to the airport. And instead of waiting to worry about Paige, who’d been on his radar to text, until after he got word from Marlowe, Joe decided to text Paige near immediately in all his infinite fucking cock induced wisdom just after he’d been damn near drooling over the picture of Marlowe with the sunflowers he saved. 

He wants the crush not to crush him. Though he knows he’s too far gone for someone he’s hardly had conversations with, it does feel easy with Marlowe. She makes it easy, thoughtful in her replies. Thorough and considerate when she knows that she might be away from her phone for longer than she usually is. She’s busy in more ways than Joe thinks he could ever truly understand. Yet, right now, it still feels like he matters. That even in the chaos Marlowe’s still carving out time for him.

The knock on the door raises the hair on the back of his neck. Joe turns to the sound and can see in the shadow of Paige. She’s shorter than Marlowe. “Fuck,” Joe mutters to himself. 

But there’s no turning back now. So he stands and crosses the foyer to the door, easing it open slowly. Praying all the while that he can find some way not to be an asshole. But Paige, with all her thin strands, long over her shoulder, and a shimmery professional dye job blonde with a shadowy dark brown root, pushes in through the inches of the opened door and loops her arms around his neck. 

Joe rears back, holds his neck stiff as she stretches up for him. 

The seconds are thick and long. He could give in. Paige is right there. But even the thought makes his chest ache and his stomach queasy. It’s not Marlowe and he can’t do it. So he eases the door close behind Paige and leaves his hands hovering at his sides. “I, uh,” he starts. 

“Oh, uh, your text sounded like this was different.” Paige scrambles away from him. 

“I need to talk to you,” Joe starts, like he should’ve fucking did from the start. 

“Yeah, okay.”

“You thirsty?” Joe offers, leading the charge to his kitchen. Kitchens are a good place to have this conversation, right? Except for the knives. But he’s pretty capable. 

“Uh, is everything okay, Joey? You seemed distant there lately. Distracted, maybe?” The nickname grates at his teeth from her lips. Paige’s voice is too sweet, too thin, and runny in a way that gets under Joe’s fingernails. 

“Just…a lot on my mind lately.” A thin answer, barely holds back the truth as he cracks open his fridge and pulls out the glass bottle of water for Paige. 

It’s all Marlowe on his mind, and some about football given the return nearing. But always Marlowe. Like right now, the ringer is still on Joe’s phone. And though he puts it face down on the counter, he keeps it close to him just in case Marlowe texts back that she’s made it safely. 

“A lot,” Paige repeats back. Her nails are short, painted with a clear base and white tips. Unlike the long rounded tips Marlowe wears. 

“Yeah, I-it’s important,” Joe settles on, tucking himself even further into the corner, up against the dishwasher. 

Paige nods. “Well, I’m all ears.”

He clears his throat, unsure of how to start this. Should he rip the bandage off? Should he ease her down slowly? The thing though is that Joe needs to put it all out on the table. So he starts with clarity. “I know it’s been a few months. And I have to ask just so we can get on the same page. Are you looking for something more? I know when this first started we agreed to keep things casual--”

“Yes, yes, I am,” Paige rushes out. 

Joe wonders if he can bring that guillotine to life. If it would hurt less than the way her face drops. Joe can feel the pinch in his brows, minute as it is, folding the skin of his forehead. Paige started around the corner of the kitchen island but has stopped and Joe knows it’s because of his face, his reaction. The way he’s folded his arms over his chest, eased back just a fraction even more into the corner. 

“Oh, wait, I thought—,” 

“We agreed on casual. That hasn’t changed for me, but I had a feeling it changed for you. And I just wanted confirmation.”

“Then what the fuck was your text, Joe? I need to see you, that’s what you said.” Paige’s voice raises, doesn’t hit the ceilings but it’s high and hurt. 

“Admittedly I wasn’t thinking with the right head when drafting that text.”

“You don’t fucking say so, Joe. Eight months. Eight fucking months with you and what? You’re going to throw it away.”

There--that’s what it is. The thing that’s been crawling under Joe’s skin, that’s been whispering at the base of brain but he couldn’t get his fucking finger on it. “We were never together, Paige.”

The words seemingly sting, cut because Paige takes a step back. “So it really was just sex. And what? Now you want to be a saint or something? It can still just be sex, Joey.”

“No, Paige. It was never just sex for you, was it?” Her chin wobbles and she can’t met his gaze. The answer lies silently between them.  “You can admit that here. To me now. I want the truth. But I can’t continue to see you knowing you want that level of commitment. I don’t want that level of commitment with you.” 

Joe won’t pull the it’s not you it’s me line. Because it’s both of them. It’s Joe wanting Marlowe and it’s Paige being desperate for him. And that’s messy, messier than it needs to be for anyone involved if Joe’s attempts to keep the facade up with Paige. 

“So that’s it?” Paige questions. “Just like that.”

“I don’t want to keep seeing you like that, no.”

“Like that?”

Joe tilts his head, unsure of where Paige is going, but clearly she sees something, hears it because she stares at him, eyes darting over his face down to his phone and then back to his face again. 

“Who else did you meet? Who is it?” Paige whispers. Like if she gives it too much volume it’ll shatter her chest. 

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Because he won’t. Joe won’t give her the satisfaction or the ammunition. If Paiged obsessed over Joe this much, he hates to think what she could do if she learned about Marlowe. 

“Spare me the good guy act,” Paige spits. “I deserve the truth. Who the fuck is it?”

“I’m not answering that.” He can see the swirling, the hurt and the anger brimming in the shaking of her hands. 

“Fucking asshole. I gave you everything! Everything you wanted. A fuck? I did that. A shoulder to cry on? I had that to give.”

Paige and Joe don’t talk--that’s why it worked. They could, at least in theory, get what they wanted without commitment. That’s what it was supposed to be, but clearly not to Paige. It had always been more for Paige. Probably from the inception. Maybe she hoped that Joe would eventually come around. 

“I didn’t ask for anything more than sex,” Joe returns. Even if Paige interpreted his actions that way, even if she hoped, Joe hadn’t done or said anything more than sex. That part is he sure of. At least, he thinks so.

“But letting me spend all the nights over here, that meant nothing? The way we’d wake up sometimes cuddling? The texts, the calls about how good I looked, how you couldn’t wait to see me again, that’s all what? Just you asking for sex?”

“I wanted to treat you like a human being. I did treat you like a human being. Was that wrong of me?” Joe implores, ears still waiting for the chime of his phone. Brows still knitting in the middle of his face at Paige’s indignation. “It’d be 1,2 am by the time we’d finish. So yeah, I’d offer to let you spend the night so you could get home safely the next morning. Yeah I text you about the night before or that I did want to see you again. What would you have preferred? That I treat you like a machine? Kick you out at 2 am? Text you, ‘Hey, I need my dick sucked. When are you free?’ Is that what I should’ve been doing? I’ve never asked you about anything more.”

“You’d ask me about my day!” Paige defends. 

“I was being polite.” It’s small talk. The kind of stuff people do all the time. And even if it kills Joe just a little to do it, he knows how to play the game. He wants to cringe at the realization, wants to say he’s leagues better. But, maybe, in the entire process Joe knew better than he suspected. That he knew better than he’d let himself settle in with. He was, in ways, trying to appease Paige just enough to keep her strung along.

“Fuck you, Joe. Fuck you and the high horse you think you’re on!”

It’s all Paige says before she turns. Her steps are stomps. They echo throughout the first floor, just like the slamming of his front door. The few decor pieces rattle, tapping against the walls at the force. He waits, though. Joe listens to see if the shattering of glass will come next. The seconds fall slowly. He follows the time with the thumping of his heart. Perhaps Joe was playing them both--stringing both him and Paige along on a ride that should’ve ended weeks if not months ago. 

His phone chimes.

Joe hurries to pick it up from the counter. Please let it be Marlowe, he chants to himself, please. 

He sighs at the sight of Marlowe’s name on his phone. Arrived with all limbs intact. We shall see if I leave here with all my digits and my wrist in working order though. Received the final run down the faces I’m working on tomorrow evening and it is a marathon. The text is paired with a string of crying emojis, the pale yellow face on screen a mixture of the tears and exhaustion. 

Lucky for you, I have wrist rehab exercises that I can pass along. 

Please do, if you still have them. I have a wrist brace but sometimes it’s not always enough if I’m working on a large volume of people. 

Of course. Let me find some videos and I’ll send them over to you. 

After Joe sends the last video, he creeps back to the front of the house. The little rack he installed next to the door for keys is a little crooked. But thankfully not much looks out of place or broken. The glass panes are all intact, which is a relief. His phone chimes again from inside his short pocket. 

You’re a lifesaver, Joe! 

Joe knows he’s not a saint. He couldn’t ever really be one either. But god, for Marlowe, he wants to be. 

__________________

Airports simultaneously bore and terrify Joe most of the time.

They’re monotonous, crowded, and tense on good days--a battle of dodging the rolling wheels, skirting around backpacks and duffle bags, listening for delays and cancellations. There’s an endless waiting at airports, the drag of carrying his bags on his shoulder. There’s an exhaustion from how late or how early it is that makes time feel unreal, moving at a snail’s pace inside and yet outside it’s moving all too fast. The seats on the plane and in the gates are uncomfortable to sit in for too long. They’re good for people watching, but an agony for a man like Joe who’s used to going, and going, and going. Throw in the obvious second glances, the photos he gets stopped and for Joe airports can feel a little bit like a rated PG-13 nightmare--boring but still jumpscare inducing at the right times. 

Yet, Joe’s not bored or terrified. The mid morning arrival coupled with a shockingly long TSA Precheck line should’ve grated at Joe’s patience, should’ve made his eye twitch because the one time he doesn’t boot for more lavish and private travel accommodations and he’s getting the shittiest luck. But, on this particular trip, with his suitcase at his heels, Joe’s more than happy to wait, to have to watch the line in front of him move inch by measly inch. Because just on the other side, just beyond the black ropes, is his gate. And just beyond his gate is the airplane and just beyond the airplane is her. 

The likelihood that he and Marlowe could get together while they were both in California looks rather iffy. She’s out there for her own work. He has his own work to attend to out on the west coast. At the very least though, they’ll be back in the same time zone. There’s hope simmering under his skin that Joe is desperate to keep in check. Her promise still echoes in his ears, “Yeah, if schedules align, I’d like to catch up in person.”

Joe plans to use California to his advantage. Though Marlowe seemingly only had a few days between her return from Atlanta before leaving for California, they’d managed a quick call. Her in the midst of laundry and sitting with Korey while Korey colored and Joe in the midsts of, well, not much. His weekend was pretty wide open. He’d been preparing for his own travel, but still had a few more days than Marlowe before he started the mad dash of packing, triple checking his flight information and travel accommodations. He was still in the bit of the zen before travel. And their conversation lasted a little over an hour. He asked her how the hair show went, she asked him about what he had planned in California. That simple question opened up the door even wider for Joe. 

And Marlowe agreed, “Yeah, if schedules align, I’d like to catch up in person.”

He could and would use California to his advantage. If the universe allows. God, does Joe hope the universe allows. The three days Joe lingered in Ohio after Marlowe left for California were filled with ache. She was three hours behind him and at every shake of his phone, Joe prayed it was Marlowe, hoped it was her sending even the simplest Hope you have a good day text. He wanted to know about her day, wanted to see how it was going, wanted to know that he floated on the edges of her days and awareness like she did for him. Joe will take anything at this point. 

At his gate, hat pulled down to cover his eyes, Joe watches the ticking minutes--knows Marlowe is probably still asleep while he’s contemplating how much caffeine he can safely consume, with the smell of it wafting from the nearby coffee shop storefront. He’d managed to make a cup before leaving the house, but it doesn’t feel like it’s kicked in. Even though Joe’s buzzing, he’s still under sleep’s spell. 

Joe stares down at the last few text threads--Marlowe’s is at the top. Just under it was the family group chat. Third and forth were the individual threads with Ja’Marr and Tee. And under that sits Paige. His last text-- I’m sorry again for how I handled ending things and things in general between us. I understand I didn’t handle it perfectly and I apologize for hurting you.-- it sits in green even though all the ones previous are in blue. Joe’s not sure Paige will ever forgive him. Yet, there’s still a sting knowing that even if he was attempting to take accountability it seemed to be falling flat. 

Joe had done the right thing and ended it, even if it was imperfect. Even if part of him does wish he’d handled it better, it was done. Joe swipes on the thread and selects to delete the entirety of it. It’s done, dead, like he said. There’s no use in dwelling on a past that wouldn’t serve him in his future. 

The muffled voice ever heads calls for his flight and his boarding group. Joe finds Marlowe’s text thread. Her hearted reaction to Joe’s text about promising he was hitting the bed early before his flight being the last notification he has. Save a little sunshine for me, Joe fires off—hitting send without so much of a second thought before shuffling to slipping his carry on onto his shoulder. 

The blossoming California morning sun is bright when Joe lands. When he finally peels himself out of the airport and into the sun, it warms his skin. His phone shakes—which feels like all it’s been doing since Joe landed, forgoing in flight WiFi and nestling in for a rather laborious task of using inflight entertainment from First Class. It’s not a habit Joe does often, but with the flight he wanted to catch just a couple extra hours of sleep given timezone hop and didn’t want the shaking of his phone to disturb him. Suspended up thousands of miles in the air should come with just a little bit of peace, if anyone asked Joe—space to be disconnected even if just for a few messily hours. Amongst the littered notifications is one, about an hour ago, from Marlowe.

How does that song go again? I got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine. Attached to the text message is a video. With his Bose earbuds nestled into his ear still, Joe taps on the gray play icon. The wind whips through as the camera focuses in the open pocket of a dark golden yellow skirt or maybe it’s a dress; Joe can’t tell. He just knows it’s Marlowe’s wrist, her fingers--nails painted a soft pale blue this time--reflecting back into the camera with the gold rings and bracelets. Just faintly in the background, he catches her voice, a soft hum to the melody she texted. Then her giggle cuts close to the microphone now, “Does this count, Joe? You caught me unprepared. Hope you had a safe flight.” 

It definitely counts, Joe replies. 

It sure as hell counts if just the sound of her recorded voice saying his name makes his heart race like this. Joe plays the video again, glancing every so often to the top bar, to see if he’s got another alert about the car on its way to pick him up. Joe holds his breath when Marlowe’s giggle echoes again. Does this count, Joe? 

Joe drags the bar backwards. Does this count, Joe?

Does this count, Joe? Like it would ever really be a question. Like his name could ever sound better in his entire life either. Like Joe really shouldn’t be contemplating when Marlowe got her nails done to change up the color, and he shouldn’t find himself liking both colors against her dark skin equally. But he thinks the red might edge out the soft blue just a hair. And he wonders how Marlowe picks those colors, if she rotates based on seasons, and if somehow Joe could get the glory of choosing a color, a style of nail that could turn his skin red if she pressed hard enough. 

Like he’s a horny fucking teenager. Get it together, Joe reprimands himself. Yet, the giant smile on his face remains even as the car eases to a stop in front of him. 

It’s not until evening, deep after dinner for Joe, that his phone shakes. How well do you do with slashers?

Joe spies Marlowe’s name as the sender. His body is tired, eyes already blinking with exhaustion from the time zone change--his body keeps telling him it’s 11, but the clocks only reflect back a measly 8PM. But where exhaustion had set up camp, it disappears as the words burn back into Joe’s retinas. He sits up in bed, the pillows against his back expanding with the release of his weight. This could not be what he thought it was--no way, no fucking way. He’d considered reaching out to make solid plans with Marlowe while he ate dinner, but it’d seemed way too soon. He’d just gotten into town and she’d been, from what Joe could tell, pulling some long days. 

I can protect you, if that’s what you’re asking. Not an actual answer, but casual enough. Yeah, casual enough--or at least that’s what Joe tells himself. 

Funny, she quips back. The addition of the eye roll emoji makes her sarcasm clear. But, there’s a rooftop cinema in town. They’re playing Scream tomorrow night. We could catch up. Get dinner first and then head over to watch? 

With a flurry, Joe heads over to his email. He remembers the wrap time being in the evening, but not excessively late. With a double, and then triple check as another text from Marlowe comes in, Joe swears his chest might combust. Marlowe was asking him. And it’s not a date--Joe would never allow himself an ounce of delusion to call it that. But it still makes him giddy. She was initiating. 

Movie’s at 10:45, so dinner at 8?

Though it would hurt just a little, Joe thinks he could sacrifice the extra hours of sleep just for her. Sounds good to me. 

Shoot me an address to pick you up at. And it shouldn’t make him blush, dear God, it shouldn’t. Yet it does. As Joe sends the address of the house rental he’s in, he can feel the burn creeping up on his chest and cheeks. 

It’s decidedly not a date, neither one of them had called it that. It wouldn’t be a date either. Yet, after Joe’s showered, towel still tied around his waist he finds himself hating everything he’d packed for his trip. He’d planned for casual ventures out, the shooting days, days where he’d venture through the city with no real agenda but time to kill. Joe had even considered how he’d make it work clothing wise should the opportunity to meet up with Marlowe arise and now that it’s here, he hates every single piece of clothing he’s packed. 

His phone chimes from the nightstand and Joe turns from the closet to look at the device. Should take me about half an hour to get to you. Leaving from here in 10. Forty minutes. Joe has forty minutes to make something happen and this will not be a last quarter grinder, that’s for sure. 

Marlowe’s punctual--the kind of punctual that feels too punctual to be happenstance. But at 7:45 PM on the dot, the agreed upon time she’d get him to make their dinner just a few minutes from his room, there’s a knock on the front door. Joe pauses his pacing, glances down to his phone and notes just how on the dot she is. But there’s no going back now. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Joe double checks he has everything to get back inside the house. He double checks his bag for his wallet, phone, mints, and hand lotion, before he slips the sunglasses on top of his head. All items accounted for, Joe then cracks open the door. 

There Marlowe stands, a shy smile pulling at her lips. The jersey is big on her, the opening of the arms, triple the size they need to be for her. The 56 in white across her chest, her father’s number. Joe would know it blind damn near. And now, looking at how she’s dressed in the jersey and jeans, Joe’s glad he went for an elevated but still casual look in his black wash jeans and black sweatshirt sweater hybrid. He’d nearly worn a boxy casual button down but decided--at the least minute--to swap. 

“Hi, Joe.”

God, his name has never sounded better. “Hey, Marlowe.”

“You ready? Or do you need a minute?”

Joe could take as many minutes, as many seconds as he could be given, but he’s really not sure he’d be ready for the eagle eyed glance. Even if it is soft, even if she is smiling, hands shoved into her back pockets, Marlowe’s look feels all knowing, all seeing. Like she could see into the marrow of his bones if she looked long enough.

“Yeah,” Joe nods. “I’m ready.”

“Cool.” She hazards a step down and Joe flicks off the lights before ensuring that as the door closes, it locks. 

Marlowe’s agile down the steps, Dominic blasted across her back in white against the navy blue jersey. The headlights on the SUV blink as they approach. “I didn’t take you as someone to drive in LA. Traffic is horrendous,” Joe quips. 

“I like driving.” A simple return--easy, a factoid. One that Joe saves away, files it for all the things he’s learning about Marlowe. Things like, how Marlowe goes nowhere without jewelry--even in the baggier fitting jeans and her father’s jersey, her wrist and fingers are still dripping with bands and rings. Like the fact that she likes driving. Like the fact that her lips roll together into a flat line that make her nostrils flare when she’s embarrassed and though the blush isn’t evident against her skin, the face she makes says it all. 

“It’s cute,” Joe starts as she pulls away from the curb. “That you wear your dad’s jersey.”

“I like to keep a little piece of home with me, wherever I go. That and so they can identify my body. Dual purposes.”

Joe chokes on his inhale, a bit thrown off by the dark humor pouring from her lips. Not how he had her pegged, but he doesn’t hate it. Marlowe snorts, “Sorry. It’s a little dark up there.” She taps the side of her head, right at her temple to emphasize her point. Her collection of bracelets jangle at the action. 

“Preparedness is a useful trait. So, I can’t say I’m mad at it.”

The lights of the road make the one hand she has on the steering wheel—high at the top as Marlowe reclines back in her seat—dance. the bracelets and gems blink with every passing row of lights. The cabin of the car falls almost silent. The soft echo of the radio keeps them company.

“How’d the first day go for you?” Her question nearly gets lost in the echoing of the singing--an R&B station by the sounds of it. Songs that Joe can’t place immediately, but likes how they sound. This just feels right, feels like the music that Marlowe would listen to; music that just makes sense for her.  

“Pretty good. It’s, uh, hard to have a bad day when people are just sort of filming you doing stuff you’d normally do.”

“That’s good to hear. You sounded a little nervous, maybe? About coming out to LA.”

It’s not that Joe gets nervous about coming to California. It’s what California means for him--how much he is famous. Fame feels fleeting in Ohio. It’s tangible in all the ways Joe can’t go about his normal life, but California means he’s confronted full force with it. It’s how for a couple weeks in his life he’s more aware of every head that turns his way more so than he usually is. Not helped by his own habit of people watching, of scanning the crowd. Joe’s not nervous about the state or the city, he’s just trying to find the right way to breathe in his life, how much of an inhale he should take and how much of an exhale he needs. 

“It’s still all new to me. Trying to get comfortable.”

“What’s still new to you?”

Joe exhales, staring back out the front windshield. The city lights are dazzling, bright neon that are just starting to reflect off the asphalt in the setting sun. The horizon’s growing dark around them, sunset hitting about twenty minutes before Marlowe arrived. Marlowe wouldn’t think it’s silly. Or maybe she would, maybe she’d hear Joe’s reply and tell him to grow up, relax. It’s not that Joe doesn’t want to tell her, it’s that he’s not sure how to say, how to convey that sometimes when he wakes up, on bad days in particular, he wishes at times that the random order of the universe had chosen someone else. 

“Fame. I’m just a kid from Ohio, you know. I dreamed big but at times, it feels like I dreamed too big.”

“You’re where you’re supposed to be. If not, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” Joe agrees. It’s what he tells himself when it feels too big, too heavy to carry. There’s some kid looking at him, who sees that he did it and believes they can do it. But sometimes Joe’s not strong all the time. “Sometimes, though, I do miss just being anonymous.” Sometimes Joe has to put it down; he can’t carry it all the time.  

“I understand that. I don’t think humans were built for fame, like mentally we’re not built for it as a species. I think it’s easy to forget just how fragile humanity is. The glitz and the glamour are alluring.”

“Sounds like you like fame?” 

“Fame only likes the parts of me I give it.”

Joe turns back to her. Marlowe’s pushed forward just a hair in the driver seat as she peers for the right turn she’s signaling for. When she looks back in Joe’s direction, her gaze briefly sweeps over his face and there’s an eerie seriousness to her words that reflects back in the down pull of her pouty lips--glossy and bright even in the blooming dark. 

“So who has all of you?” The question feels too heavy the second it’s done leaping from his lips. But even with her gaze not directly on him, Joe can’t help it. There’s an earnesty, something magnetic about her face that makes Joe want to ask, that compels him with little regard for any consequences. It’s her, it’s Marlowe that makes Joe just want more. Intoxicated isn’t even a strong enough word for it. It’s compulsory. Like there’s no way for him to pull out of her orbit. A gravitational pull he’s too weak to resist. 

“Alive or dead?”

Joe thinks back to the video--the one that started and almost ended his late night spiral--her grandmother who cackled with her, asked to be beat for the gods. Joe recalls the never seen Malia--his suspicion about being too close to the bear rises again. Would this make Marlowe run? Yet now, face to face, Joe can’t stop himself. He can’t fight against it. Like an infant who’s not yet learned that dancing next to the fire could get him burned. 

“Both,” he answers, breathless like he is after a gruesome run of suicides. 

“Family. Both alive and dead.”

Family. Such a final word, a damn near ear ringing answer as realization dawns over Joe. The question burns at Joe’s tongue, even as Marlowe pulls into the parking space, even as they’re seated. Joe shouldn’t, even as he’s studying the menu in front of him, he can’t shake Marlowe’s answer. 

I hope she and Malia get to catch up in heaven. I want in on the gossip, girls, when we’re reunited again.

“Is Malia your sister?” He almost thinks maybe ‘was’ is the better tense, but can’t bring himself to use it. Wouldn’t reduce her family to a past tense, when Joe knows that death wouldn’t end the bond for him or his brothers. 

Marlowe exhales long and hard, menu dropping to the table at the action. “How’d you find out about her?”

Joe ducks his head. That’s one way to put his foot in his mouth. Her discomfort is clear in his words, shaky as she asks the question. All his chances are probably ruined so he looks back up to at last face his sure destruction head on. When he takes her in again, Joe sees Marlowe staring him down, a tight gaze, lips pursed together. “I watched a couple of your videos on Instagram. You mentioned her in the post about your grandmother. I’m sorry though, about your loss, and for making you uncomfortable. You just-when you answered that family had all of you alive and dead, I was curious. You talk about Korey all the time.”

“Malia’s my sister,” Marlowe answers, seemingly able to unthaw just a little at the mention of her niece. But it’s all she says. All she gives Joe. She’s looking in Joe’s direction, but not seemingly at him anymore. The tight and stinging gaze now lost and unfocused. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. How is Korey?” Divert, divert, divert. That’s what Joe needs to do. 

But even though he’s desperate to change the subject, Marlowe seems less interested in that. Her gaze still not quite seeing Joe, still far away. “And Malia’s dead now. Like my grandmother.”

The confirmation Joe didn’t need to get this way. The thing he’d suspected. The very thing that got him into this mess. “We don’t have to talk about them.” He offers it softly, a way for her to change the subject entirely if she wants too. 

Marlowe blinks, eyes moving up just a little and when his chest feels tight again, Joe knows she’s seeing him again. “It’s hard to talk about them.”

“No worries; I get that.” Joe stretches, reaching across the table--half of him hesitating as the tips of his fingers brush over hers, a touch so light that Joe’s not sure it was real. Until she curls fingers up and around his briefly, and his whole right arm feels like it’s been shocked, a shot of warmth crawling up his nerves and tendons. 

Then Marlowe releases his fingers, just as fast as she embraces them. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. It’s my fault. You can bring them up next time, whenever you’re ready.”

“You-you asked about Korey, right?”

Joe nods, but doesn’t pull his hand back, not until she starts to retreat. “Yeah,” Joe answers, voice still soft as he can tell Marlowe’s coming back to the surroundings. “I did.”

“Her birthday is next week,” Marlowe laughs just a little, like remembering something that Joe can’t see. But her twinkle is back, the light on her face shining again. “I can’t believe she’s going to be three. The irony is that I’m surrounded by fire signs.”

“Three? Before you know it, she’ll be running off to college.”

“Don’t say that, Joe. Oh.” Marlowe falls back into her seat, a hand pressed to her chest. “I can’t. No, I can’t. She’s gotta stay little forever, my little stinkabutt. It was just yesterday I was taking the night shift with Dad to help get Korey to sleep through the night.”

Joe tries not to picture Trey with a tiny baby on his hip, or posed half asleep with baby Korey nestled into his arms. But Joe fails, and finds himself engrossed in how tightly knit the family sounds. “Was Korey a terror to get sleep trained?”

“Worse than me, according to Dad. But we all banded together to do what we could. You know? You do just about damn near any and everything for family. Or--at least the way we grew up.”

“I respect that. Family is important. So what is Korey into? Third birthday is pretty big news.”

“Bluey. So much Bluey. Gracie’s Corner. And sunflowers.”

Sunflowers are an interesting addition, the kind of thing that kids could love, but only if taught, only if they’ve seen someone they love liking them. “Did she pick up sunflowers from anyone in particular?”

Marlowe raises the menu. Her chin disappears, then her lips. Her nose slips behind the red leather covered menu. But her eyes are bright and the skin around them crinkles, giving away the smile tucked away. She shakes her head. “What would give you that idea?”

Joe can’t help his laughter, the sound bubbling from his chest. He shakes his head. “No, nothing would ever give me that idea.”

Besides the fact that Joe thinks Marlowe was built to love sunflowers and maybe, he’d even go so far as to say sunflowers were built for Marlowe. A bright and tall presence, once seen cannot be unseen. He is glad, now, that their drinks are ordered and the conversation around them is lighter to see Marlowe laugh. He can’t imagine how it must feel to lose people so close to him. Can’t begin to fathom how Marlowe’s getting through each day when it feels like everything that’s ever mattered is gone. 

But Joe notices, as they continue to talk, that Marlowe in the videos is vibrant and loud and Marlowe in person is much softer spoken. Still magnetic, just a tad shier than she appears in her videos. Fame only likes the parts of me I give it. The bubbly, upbeat parts. The parts of her that she lets fame get, and the rest is striped back, or maybe left bare. But even if she’s quieter than he’d originally guessed, she’s no less witty, effortlessly funny. 

Their plates are slow to be consumed--a conversation so easy to settle into now Joe can almost forget his earlier blunder. He’s sure he’ll always remember distant and foggy look in her eyes when talking about her sister and grandmother. 

“If you say Star Wars, I’m going to leave,” Marlowe warns after asking about his favorite movies as a kid. They still have an hour before the movie starts and as the conversation meanders, the intrigue about more personal details crept up higher and higher. 

“What’s wrong with Star Wars?” The offense is thick, but Joe can only laugh at the exasperation painting Marlowe’s face. 

“My father, that’s what’s wrong with Star Wars. That man has a marathon of it every fucking year. Right around fall, he plays the entire series, in order of film release and in chronological order. Jabba the Hutt terrified me as a kid. Scared Korey too, unlike her mom. I can’t handle Star Wars anymore.”

Joe knows that his childhood bedroom still holds a few posters up on the wall for the franchise. And he shouldn’t, Joe absolutely shouldn’t file away that information for the next time he does get to speak with Trey to bring up the franchise. Joe hisses, “So, you’ve got this whole thing, right? Because I won’t stand for Star Wars slander.”

“Actually, I think you should pay, to cover emotional damages,” Marlowe mutters. 

“Emotional damages, you say? You’re the one hating.” 

“An insignificant detail,” Marlowe huffs, grinning as she speaks. 

“Insignificant?” Joe replies with faux indignation. “You certainly know how to kick a man when he’s down. What about you? What were you watching?”

“You don’t look down to me.”

Joe couldn’t be down, not with Marlowe around. “I’m pretty tough. But seriously, what about you?”

“The Little Rascals. Before I fell in love with horror. We’ll see how tough you really are later tonight.”

She offers it so easily, like she’s not even trying and when the server comes back around and Marlowe asks for the check, Joe’s still sitting with his mouth gaping--a hole for a bird to nest in. But he’s so shocked by her. Enamored like seeing a constellation in the sky. “Horror?” Joe parrots back, like somehow he still can’t believe the answer. 

“Horror,” another singular word response. Like there’s nothing else to explain. Maybe there isn’t. But Joe wants more, wants to find out what drew her into the genre. What is it about horror that she likes so much? But she beats him to the punch, “So what is it about Star Wars that you like?”

The server returns with the check and Marlowe smiles up with a soft thank you before she’s reaching into her pocket. Joe’s stretching before he realizes, fingers just caching the lips of the black folder but Marlowe’s shockingly quick to pull it just out of his grasp. “What do you think you’re doing?” she laughs. 

“Paying?”

“No, I suggested dinner and the movie, so I’m paying. For everything. Keep those fingers off your wallet. Anything you want, I’ll get it tonight.”

It’s right there, dancing on his lips to question how much she means that, if anything really means anything. But Joe refrains, more taken aback by Marlowe’s assuredness. As if she would never dare make Joe pay for a thing when it was her idea to come out, though it’d been Joe’s desperation when he suggested getting together for an evening. 

“Now, Star Wars, talk to me about it,” Marlowe urges.

Joe doesn’t miss the way she slips her card inside and holds the check to her stomach, ensuring Joe won’t reach for it. But he might. Joe thinks he would fight for it more if this were a date. And maybe not even then. Maybe he’s hoping to just touch her again, feel the radiating warmth one more time. 

“Well, I guess, it made me feel like I could be the hero too. That and space is pretty neat too.”

Marlowe’s lips peel back into a grin, some of the gloss has worn off thanks to eating, but her lips still look soft and so plump. And Joe shouldn’t be doing this. He lifts his gaze back to her eyes as she speaks. “So, you like space.”

Joe nods. “It’s pretty cool, I think. Unlike boats.”

“I like the stars,” Marlowe offers in return. “Boats are okay for short periods of time.”

And Joe’s done for, he is utterly done for. Enough so that when the check is collected, he can’t help but blush at Marlowe’s pause to make sure there’s nothing else he wanted off the menu first. “No, I’m good,” he whispers, voice softly reaching through the chatter of the restaurant.

“Good.” She hands the check over and the one word melts Joe’s innards. There’s so much earnesty in the answer, like Marlowe wouldn’t want anything less. It makes him wonder what would happen if he did want something else, what she’d do if he wasn’t satisfied. 

Joe fills the small gap with a soft question, “What was it about The Little Rascals? I can’t say I’ve seen it myself though.”

“It was silly, charming, and romantic in the way best suited for kids. And it made me fall in love with pickles.”

“Pickles?” Joe questions, his sip of water interrupted by his laughter. “What do pickles have to do with a movie?”

“Watch it. Then you’ll see.” Not quite a command, and not a demand. A quiet offering. Like the film will speak for itself and she need not interject over it. 

“I’ll keep you updated.” He wants it to sound promising but not desperate. Though he’s already mentally mapping which streaming platform to try first tomorrow after his shoots. 

“Just make sure it’s the film.”

“I will. But we have like forty minutes until the movie now, and I hate being late.”

Marlowe only smiles, but nods. The server returns with the receipt and her card and she’s swift to add the tip and sign all the receipts. “Let’s not keep you waiting any longer.”

It’s more intimate than Joe accounted for, or assumed a rooftop movie could be. But the heater is clicked on with just a few twists, the singular blanket is handed over by the employee who leads them to their seat. There’s rows and scattered bodies of other singular seaters. But Joe stands in front of the singular lounge chair built to fit two people and two people only with limited space between them. “There were limited tickets,” Marlowe explains. 

They are a little early to the movie. Plenty of others could be on their way or could’ve had a last minute change of plans. So who’s to say what was left when she grabbed the tickets. And who’s to say that maybe Marlowe’s not trying to keep fate, but she looks at him a tad apologetic. So Joe takes it as the truth. 

The thing is that Joe’s not opposed to the intimate setting. In fact, the longer they stand next to each other, the more Joe is sure it’s not the fire heating his skin anymore. But he is still trying to find the lines, isn’t sure what this means to Marlowe or what she wants it to mean and he doesn’t want to send the wrong signals. Doesn’t want to go too hard on showing his interest in her if it’s not what she wants and doesn’t want to seem too aloof if she is interested. 

Admittedly, Joe could probably just ask. It was the easiest thing to do. But this is just catching up. That’s what Marlowe called it after weeks of texting, a couple of phone calls. They were catching up but catching up didn’t come with a manual, so Joe’s left here, watching as Marlowe slips into one corner of the chair. She peels back a corner of the blanket, still fluffing at her side of it. 

“Or are you too scared?”

It’s a challenge, playful, but still a challenge. Joe’s never going to back down from one. So he’s mindful, slipping the pouch to the front of his chest so he can recline fully back into the seat and takes the offered up end of the blanket and settles it across his lap, though the night’s not that chilly to really need it. 

“So you and horror?” Joe questions, unsure of where to put his arms. They’re not squished in the seat, but there’s inches, and probably not even enough to be considered inches anymore, between them. Marlowe eases into the corner of her section and Joe feels stiff as if he makes one wrong move the whole evening will fall apart a second time. 

“Yeah, me and horror.”

“What about it? Do you like being scared?”

“Relax, Joe. I don’t bite.”

Joe watches the shy tuft of laughter escape her, as it shakes her shoulders. The tease bashes at his teeth, Would you if I asked? He’s not going to fuck this up. Joe’s not going to cross that line. He swallows it back down, and instead comes back with, “That sounds like the very thing someone who does bite would say to create a false sense of security. You took me out to see a horror film. I have to remain vigilant.” 

“I like horror because I feel like if I pay close enough attention the thing meant to scare you is evident all along.” 

“So you don’t like being scared,” he tuts. More information to log away.

“Being scared means I haven’t paid close enough attention.” 

The words are heavy though. Joe watches as she picks at the corner of the blanket, her nails a soft click, click, click, as they meet with her worried fretting. Joe’s not sure if Marlowe is older or younger than Malia. But he can already see behind her eyes, the way she probably wishes she’d seen more before her sister’s death. A responsibility she’s not supposed to be carrying. Death comes for them all and when it wants someone, it will take. 

Marlowe would ever be a singular force strong enough to stop it. But clearly, as she sits here, she still wishes she could. That she berates herself for not being able to do such an asinine thing like influence the universe. Without hesitation, Joe reaches for her hand, the one picking and covers it with his. His thumb stroking over the joint of her thumb. The last click is soft.  

“You’re sharp though. A deadly eye,” Joe encourages softly. 

“Thanks.” 

The night hardly stands a chance against the soft yellow of the projector, the roaring fires that echo around them. As the film starts, Joe starts to pull his hand back, his chest radiating the warmth of her skin. But Marlowe flips her hand, making them palm to palm. Her fingers cup the space between his thumb and forefinger in a light hold. Grounding but light. 

“In case you get scared,” she whispers, leaning in just a hair to Joe so he can hear it.  And Joe is scared. But not about the film. He’s scared she’s going to feel the erratic thundering of his heart just in his palm. He’s terrified just how quickly Marlowe’s able to disarm him. Everything he’d normally do, all the rules he had—abstaining from touches like this in public, abstaining from the public in general unless it’s to build his brand—don’t matter in the presence of Marlowe.

[hoodlander]

You know what gets me sometimes?

That Black Noir was the only one who truly loved Homelander.

For all that he was. The good, the bad, the ugly; Noir knew it all.

And he loved him. Just as he was. Unconditionally.

[valentinevandal]

My journal entries as a black nonbinary person currently living in the U.S. 01/20/2025 - 01/25/2025

Please excuse my rough handwriting and spelling mistakes, but I think it’s important to keep a written record of one’s own story while living through a rampant corruption of government. My utmost love and support goes out to my community, my fellow queer/trans folks, my fellow people of color. They will try to censor us, sweep us under the rug, deny our very existence and our right to share our truths. Things are gonna be hard, but we will find a way. If you’re reading this, remember that I love you ❤️✊🏾🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍🌈

-Valentine Vandal

[elumish]

When people talk about fandom and fanfiction, I will sometimes see people saying, almost in the same breath, that fanfiction is important and should be preserved as/because it is queer art and that the lack of or negative female/disabled/Black/etc. representation doesn't matter because it's just people's taste or reflective of broader society.

This isn't in any way to disagree with the first point, but to say that, if representation matters, it matters for all and not just for (white bi/gay male) queerness, and prioritizing the queerness of fandom as the one true important aspect of it while dismissing the importance of all other forms of representation because you personally are less invested in reading them is just logically inconsistent and kind of hypocritical.

Start figuring out how to celebrate female art in fandom, and disabled art in fandom, and Black art in fandom, and parts of fandom that have nothing to do with queerness. You (and fandom) will only benefit from it.

[laughtalelogs]

Cuddles with Sanji

Sanji reminded you of the a summer breeze. Gentle touches that were as soft as wind sent a shiver down your spine for a fleeting second, but were quickly subverted by the warm front of his embrace. You felt a pepper of rain, as tears fall from the crystal blue skies, their clouds parting to exalt you. You felt the ground beneath you. The security you felt was overwhelming and his gravity pulled you impossibly closer, the heat between you addicting.

Your heart ached and your own tears threatened to spill. Your fingers dug deep into the flesh of his arms where he cradled you. Your chest tightened as a selfish thought pushed its way to the front of your mind. You wished to dig your heels into the earth, anything to be closer to him. A shower of praise fell on your forehead as you raised your head up to the heavens, his voice parting the clouds of your mind.

“You are beautiful, my love, I am eternally indebted to you,” the sun coos, its rays casting a warmth on your face that creeped up from your neck and prickled your ears. You didn’t dare look up, scared to be blinded by his brilliance. You pressed your lips into his neck, feeling his heart beat frantically underneath his pale skin.

“..I love you Sanji,” is all you can conjure, your gratitude too great to put into words. You let yourself sink further into the heat of his body. How could you ask for more, when he gave you the world?

first time as an adult trying to write fanfiction. I think I might continue?? I have a lot of free time rn and a couple ideas for more sanji stuff and zoro stuff too! pls stay tuned and if u have anyone else you’d like to see lmk! :)

[mothmanavenue]

can i confess something else that will absolutely get me stoned in the town square since im dropping my unpopular opinions. I don’t like altean broadsword Lance. i already disliked red paladin Lance. the broadsword was like rubbing salt in the wound. why couldn’t he have his own niche. why was his character development just making him keith. i understand that it was like “he accepts that he doesn’t have to be a leader and excels as a co-leader and you can find happiness that way yada yada yada”. but you could’ve done that without making him keith. also now give him something unique, cool, that falls in line with his sniper bit. i’m not saying just give him another gun, im saying give him something quiet and lethal. like a garotte. yeah i want garotte lance.

i yap a lot more in my notes by the way if you were interested in other unpopular opinions. don’t send me hate messages or comments i won’t read it and will block viciously i also will not be debating this this is my hill to die on <3

[slutisnotabadword]

TWILIGHT: NEW MOON

✨the bedroom scene ✨

[pwh3]

Crossroads.

[starchaserwrites]

@jegulus-microfic / night / word count: 864

The strap of his now not-so-favourite bag insists on slipping off his shoulder, the sketchbook he carries under the same arm with which he's holding his umbrella has stayed there by sheer miracle, and the scarf he wrapped around his neck and nose before rushing out of his room is causing his reading glasses - which he forgot to take off - to fog up making his vision a bit more difficult with every step.  Oh, and let's not forget the scale model he's balancing on his other arm, which is now in potential danger thanks to the drizzle after Regulus refused to leave it in the workroom the day before, and which is to blame for the fact that he's about to be late after spending all night putting the finishing touches on it.

Evan once said "if you see Regulus Black running, it's probably because the world is ending," and while Regulus isn't exactly running yet, if he doesn't arrive in ten minutes for his presentation, his world is the one that will be ending.

Now with his glasses completely fogged up, causing him a complete technical loss of visibility, and unable to fix the problem, he has no choice but to blindly follow the fastest route to the faculty, which he has fortunately done countless times before.

If his calculations are correct (and they are) he should now be standing in front of the glass doors that lead to his destination. Unable to close the umbrella, in an attempt to open the doors, the sketchbook under his arm slips out of his grasp, and Regulus is ready to let it go, at least the entrance is roofed over and maybe he can come back for it later, but he never gets to hear it hit the floor.

"Let me give you a hand," says a voice near him. 

Great, he looks miserable enough for someone to take pity on him.

The last thing Regulus was expecting after that is for the stranger in front of him to remove his glasses, but he is greeted by a pair of warm brown eyes framed by glasses similar to his own.

"The same thing used to happen to me all the time until I tried an anti-fog spray, if you want I can recommend it to you, it's very effective," it's then that the stranger starts wiping his glasses with his t-shirt. 

Regulus cringes. He's having violent thoughts right now. 

"And there you go," the boy says, ignoring the expression on his face and offering him a smile and then putting the glasses back in place. "Take your sketchbook too." 

Regulus, unable to respond, does nothing but stare at him through his poorly cleaned glasses.

"Oh, where are my manners. My name is James Potter," James says, holding out his free hand as if that had been the reason Regulus didn't accept the book. It is then that he seems to remember that Regulus is in a predicament. "Damn, I made a complete idiot out of myself, didn't I? Just let me..." James holds out his hand waiting for him to pass him the umbrella, to which, for lack of a better option, Regulus gives him. The boy helps him close the umbrella and passes him his workbook in quick, precise movements, as if to make up for his earlier mistake. 

James glances at his scale model and his face seems to light up. "So we're enemies!," he exclaims in a tone too happy for what he has just said.

"Sorry, what?" asks a confused Regulus.

"You're an architecture student, aren't you? I'm a civil engineering student, I'm in my third year! Your model looks spectacular but all those curves are a nightmare for me." 

Regulus is about to go blind thanks to all the light James seems to be radiating. He doesn't have time for this now.

"Hey, thank you for helping me, but I need to go."

"But your umbrella-"

"Keep it."

Now Regulus is really running.

—

An hour later, now without his reading glasses and after seeing his and others' models brutally destroyed - something he thinks he'll never quite get used to - Regulus leaves the room with it in hand. He passed and will now spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on the sleep he missed during the night.

"Are you ready? It's still raining."

Regulus considers for a few seconds before turning around. 

"You waited for me?"

"Yes, I couldn't let the work of art get wet. And neither could the model," James replies.

Regulus tries not to smile at that.

And fails.

"My name is Regulus."

"So the work of art has a name," is the reply from James who waits for him with umbrella in hand. "Maybe you can tell me more about the other artwork over coffee? Shall I help you with the model?" James holds out his arm, waiting for him to give it to him.

"Only if you promise not to clean glasses with your shirt ever again."

"I promise."

Not heartless enough to tell him he was planning on taking it to the model graveyard, Regulus hands it to him.

He wasn't that tired anyway.

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