#but people keep forcing me to go to places

[pedgito]

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 | Jackson!Joel Miller x reader

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summary | Your postcards become a personal journal during patrols with Joel.

author's note | a little late, but this is my entry for @jolapeno's dear-uary! i had very little idea what i was going to do initially, but this kinda turned into its own thing. i hope the postcards are a nice addition to the fic, they were quite fun to make.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, jackson era joel, patrol partners, quiet!reader, enemies to lovers, one instance of choking, mentions of violence, angst, mean!joel, voyeurism, forced orgasm, thigh riding

word count — 7k

“It’s the fifth time I’ve came back and she’s been sleepin’,” Joel gripes a handful of feet below as you feign resting, trying to relax the sneer that threatened to cross your face, annoyed with the exhaustion that never left but loathing the man who couldn’t seem to give you a break, “or writing in that damn book, ignoring us.”

“I’ll talk—” Joel interrupts Tommy once more, with emphasis on the amount, but Tommy reels him in, squeezing down on his shoulder as you peek through one eye over the railing, scoffing under your breath, “I’ll talk to her, alright? S’awonder what a simple conversation can fix, Joel.”

His approach comes later during shift change as the night slowly melted into dawn, the sun rising on the horizon in waves of orange and purple, creating a cotton candy sky, hearing Tommy’s voice carry as he greeted people along the way before the scuff of his boots stopped behind you, you turn to peer up at him sheepishly.

“Not a good look, y’know?” Tommy says redundantly, “I’m not tryin’ to gripe you out, but Joel—”

You nod knowingly, waving him off as you toss your pencil and notebook aside, adjusting your jacket over your shoulders as you sit upright, rubbing the sleep out of tired eyes.

“You can always put me on kitchen duty, hell I’ll take—”

“No—no, I’m not moving you. You havin’ trouble sleeping in the singles?”

The apartments, the singles—it varied, depending on who you asked. A place for the younger, single survivors in Jackson. With the constant sound and rumble of life within the walls, you should feel safe, a subtle semblance of home, but sleeping alone was hard. Trapped within four walls, drowned out by the eventual silence as night fell, it left room for the nightmares.

It was easier here, surrounded by others, sounds to help keep you grounded, the fresh air despite the stale smells and faint fumes of rotting corpses. You couldn’t explain it, but it was easier. Besides, it wasn’t like you were being completely negligent—even Tommy knew that.

“I have trouble sleeping in general,” You feed him a half-truth, “I’ll keep it together, though. As long as it keeps Joel off your ass and mine, I wouldn’t be thrilled to be on the receiving end of one of Joel’s outbursts.”

“Tantrums, more like.” He jokes with a smirk, his teeth peeking out under his thick mustache. “I really don’t mind if you’re dozing off a bit, s’long as there’s others keepin’ watch. Maybe–just maybe, try and keep up the act when Joel’s coming and going.”

“Can do,” You agree with ease and Tommy smiles, pointing lazily toward your notebook.

“I’m curious, though—whatcha got goin’ on in there?”

Your brow furrows until you look over your shoulder and surmise what he’s referencing, picking up the notebook carelessly and flipping through to show him–it was a mix of random doodles and sketches, some vulgar words scribbled in by a mix of immature men who you’ve come to befriend with reluctance on the job, a detailed log of everyone’s schedule as they leave and return, random details of weather patterns, things you’ve noticed along the skyline toward the inner city, several months worth of information that Tommy nods at, thoughtful as he looks over the pages.

“Don’t let ‘em give you a hard time,” Tommy tells you, folding the cover closed.

“Yes, sir,” You say endearingly, mostly as a jest at Tommy’s expense, knowing he despised the word, making a face as he turned on his heels to leave.

“Shit makes me feel old,” He gripes, shaking his head in a mix of disdain and amusement, “stop it.”

You smile at his annoyance as you tuck your belongings away into your pack and trade your rifle off to Jesse, who seemed more than eager to take your shift with bright, well-rested eyes and a grin of his face as greeted you both.

As you expect, there is little sleep to be had as you hit your bed, tossing and turning as you fiddle with the ripped hole in your bed sheet or spend time counting the stains on your ceilings—mold spots and holes, signs of a building that was on the way out, but hanging by a thread.

Tommy wouldn’t condemn the place unless it was in shambles, finding use of just about anything if it still had enough life in it. 

And you follow Tommy’s instructional plea—even if it killed you to appease Joel, who seemed just as critical if not more as he rode up on his horse every few nights.

Their shifts weren’t always regular and Joel often picked up extra patrols when someone else couldn’t, complaining entirely too much for someone who seemed like they couldn’t stand living within the sanctuary of Jackson, like he’d rather tough it out on his own.

Ellie blamed it on his inability to let himself settle—Jackson was home, his family was here, and physically he could exist, but he never seemed quite present.

You catch Ellie on a shift change as Tommy and Joel approach, trading out your jerky for her sandwich as she hurriedly tucked it away like she was going to get caught doing something she shouldn’t, snorting softly at her actions as Joel scowled, pulling at the reigns of his horse as he drew near.

The call of your name has you perking up, peering around Ellie’s head at Tommy with a less than enthusiastic look on his face, rifles held between both of the brothers grips.

“I’m askin’ for a huge favor,” Instantly you knew, posture slumping slightly as your boots sunk into the snow, “Cindy’s sick—caught the same bug that’s been goin’ around. Can you cover another shift? I’ll owe ya.”

“Seems more like you’re telling me,” You retort, stretching the beanie down over the back of your head to cover your ears, the cold biting at your skin, “—it’s fine, I’ll do it.”

“Thank—“

“But I want the weekend off.”

“Done.” Tommy agrees without problem.

The patrol box wasn’t all that bad anyways, insulated enough that you weren’t freezing your ass off, enough room for two people, it could be worse. It was better than walking the strip of the barricade, shivering until you couldn’t even feel your toes.

Wyoming winters were brutal, but it seemed like the end of the world had found a vengeance to fight back with, giving you the harshest versions of every season. A blizzard was expected within the next few weeks and those were never ideal—extra patrols, doubling watchmen, curfews. It sucked.

You find yourself sketching out the same tree line you’ve drawn a hundred times, wispy tendrils and thick trunks that wove together like a web, time drifting by with ease as the night swallowed up the day, the thick blanket of snow reducing both the noise and allowing a soft illumination as you peered off into the distance, almost mesmerized at the glowing orb that seemed to grow closer and closer. 

Tommy and Joel were the last ones out, everyone else having returned back hours prior, keeping in mind that they had taken the furthest patrol out north, so it wasn’t all that surprising.

But, it doesn’t take long for you to realize that Joel and Tommy are not alone, horses trotting quickly toward the gates as a small group of raiders followed closely behind and shot of rifle rounds with no exact target, whizzing by your head as you opened the door and ran to your own rifle, sliding to the wall for cover as you quickly loaded your gun and swung it over the ledge.

It wasn’t often that you had to use it outside of training and target practice, finding that Jackson had always been relatively quiet—except for now, as the brothers tumbled to cover as shots fired from your left and right, a few of the attackers succumbed to their flurry of wounds.

You watch as one raider attacks the brothers head on, short-lived as Joel attacks him with his fists, a hand bunching into the front of the attackers shirt before he’s crushing his skull in with pure rage and strength, eventually ending up with his hands around the other man's neck while he choked on the blood that spilled from his mouth, the light in his eyes slowly fading.

There’s a straggler on the outskirts, though, blending in as he slid through the tree line and attempted to attack Joel from behind, you quickly aim down your sight through the scope of the gun, following a straight and calm line as the man approached, stepping a few feet away from Joel before the bullet slices through his head, falling to the ground in an instant. 

Joel’s head whips toward you, your head peeking over the scope as you examine the body before looking over at him, seemingly stunned but the expression was subdued, quietly mouthing something to his brother who wasn’t as good at hiding his shock. 

Either you had made the right choice in saving Joel’s life or he was going to twist this on you, somehow proving that you could’ve killed him with your carelessness, letting a shot ring out so close to his head.

The dread you were feeling does come to fruition as Tommy knocks on your door that weekend, your soft voice welcoming him inside as you perched against the alcove in your room, a small ledge tucked against the windowsill. 

“I ain’t here to lecture you,” Tommy begins, cutting through your doubt, “feel like I’m constantly askin’ so much of you but Joel and I can agree on one thing. You’re a damn good shot.”

You scoff at that, almost a laugh. 

He leaned against the wall near the small kitchen tucked into the corner of the apartment, arms crossed over his chest.

“We lost James,” from what you recalled, he was a young kind, inexperienced, reckless too, “poor kid never fuckin’ listened, got shot before he could even get his gun out.”

“Why are you telling me this?” You ask bluntly, looking up at him through a downturned gaze, picking at the chipped paint by your feet.

“We’re down a person. I want you to take over.”

“I thought this was a council decision. Some prestigious thing, putting people through tests before they could—“

“It’s the least of my worries. Maria’s close to her due date too, that storm is creepin’ in. We ain’t got time to waste, we’ll be doubling patrols soon. Are you in or out, kid?”

Tommy’s face screamed desperation, sunken eyes were a telltale sign of lacking sleep, stress rifling his features. He had a lot on his plate, the weight of Jackson on his shoulders, his burgeoning new family growing within a few weeks. You had a soft spot for him unfortunately and it was always your downfall.

“I’m in.”

—

“You listen to every word I say,” Joel tells you, snaking by the others loading up their saddle bags, side stepping the horse’s head as he crowds you into the small space of the stall, “Every single word, got it?”

He’s never been friendly—cordial, maybe. But, Joel wasn’t the type to ask or suggest. It was always order and demand, his harsh tone constricting the words to instill an edge that had your brows furrowing down into your lids, face scrunching up in annoyance.

You agree regardless, nodding your head as you clip the saddlebag closed.

“I need to hear it.”

“Got it,” You retort, sarcasm laced around your tongue, “Every single word. You say run, I run. Jump, I jump. Good enough?”

Joel shakes his head slightly at your tone, looking off toward the entrance of the barn at his brother who was deep into a conversation, displeased with the idea of being paired with you.

But, he was the only one Tommy trusted to train you properly, even if it meant several hours together with a good chance you both might kill each other. 

With Joel, you were safe from everything else but him.

“Yeah, thas’ good.” He relents, turning on his heels before he finishes his sentence.

The weather was only just beginning to pick up, the winds whipping your loose hair over your face, pulling them from the tie you had pulling the majority of it back, hood snug over your head. You hear the distinct sound of leather rubbing against itself as Joel tightens his grips on the reins of his horse, settling beside you quietly as Tommy called off everyone’s posting.

You were assigned to the ski lodge far north, the furthest they patrolled but for good reason. It kept the raiders at bay, staking claim so far out and keeping them away, for the most part. Plus, it gave them an early jump on any of the migrating groups of infected, finding that they often moved in hoards during the colder months, picking off the stragglers that wandered in.

The trip is cold, lips dry and cracking by the time you reach the lodge, but relatively easy. 

“Tie ‘em up,” Joel instructs coarsely, waiting to latch the door closed as you tie the horses up to the makeshift post in the foyer, his foot holding the door open as you step past him, shoulder brushing his elbow as his eyes track the touch silently, clicking the lock into place.

“Beds are up there,” Joel pointed toward the right corner, couches lined with sheets and pillows, “s’better to sleep down here with this weather, place don’t keep out the cold that well unless we got a fire going and even then…”

“I’ll be fine,” You assure him tensely, stripping your jacket off your shoulders and slinging it over the back of a nearby chair, pack falling slack against the floor, leaving you free to wander around.

“Sign us in,” He points vaguely in the direction of the bar, an old leather booklet resting against the wall with a pin tucked around a page, his voice carrying as you walk further away, “I’ll start up a fire.”

Joel was like a ghost, almost forgetting he was there until he’s approaching behind you, that familiar grimace on his face as he finds you scouring through the book, curiosity getting the best of you—it was harmless, but Joel thought otherwise.

“Is this gonna be an issue?” He asks, eyes widened slightly in an expectant manner, waiting for your response.

You wrestle with the urge to roll your eyes, neatly writing your names down into the book, checking quickly at your watch before you snap the book closed and shove it aside.

You move to walk around him, but his palm flattens out against your collarbone, shoving you back into place—he wasn’t letting you move without an answer.

“No,” You answer casually, pushing his hand away gently, “Are you gonna explain how any of this works?”

“We take turns,” Joel says, mirroring your early actions as he strips off his couch, the warmth of the fire already spreading throughout the room, “I’ll take first shift ‘til morning, then we swap.”

“And if we see something?”

“You wake me up,” He tells you, “otherwise, don’t.”

It was a simple but lethal instruction, a warning.

This was going to be absolute hell.

Luckily, the conversation dies out and you wander toward the small gift shop attached to the bar. It was mostly picked through besides the small plush bear sitting alone on the shelf and a revolving carousel of postcards, aged from both weather and time. You spin them around careful, mindlessly plucking a few that still seemed in good enough condition before you’re shoving them away in your bag, ignoring the creak of a chair as Joel sat with his rifle in his lap, leaned back as he stared out the long expansive window that covered the wall, just on the edge of cliff with a substantial drop.

It had a beautiful view, breathtaking, really. But, looking in his direction only made you feel more and more unsettled, taking your seat beside the fire quietly.

“Should get some sleep,” He suggest without turning his head over his shoulder, your eyes glancing in his direction, “don’t need you fallin’ asleep on patrol here.”

And normally, you could find yourself falling asleep easily given the situation. But, you were on edge, fearful, something twisting in your gut that kept you from relaxing. You’ve heard the stories about Joel, how ruthlessly he killed and maimed. A man of action rather than peace.

You pull a single postcard from your back to distract yourself, hoping that it might help lull you to sleep eventually.

And you wished it had gotten easier, but the more you were paired with Joel, the more tension it seemed to cause, always unspoken—Joel never reacted, barely skirting the idea that this was becoming a problem, the lack thereof with communication, speaking only when you absolutely needed to.

His questions were always odd, like a robot attempting to make small talk—and often, it was observations, one-off statements that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as they did.

But, they did.

“Sleepin’ with that knife ain’t safe.” Joel told you on a crisp, stormy night at the end of January, the tail end of it peeking out from under your pillow, one eye peeling open to look at him with disdain.

“Says the man who sleeps with a rifle on his chest.”

Joel chews at his bottom lip, looking down at the bulky weapon in his lap before he ignores your retort, focusing his gaze on the book in his grip, something he’s read through about a hundred times, attempting to give himself a different view, flipping through the pages mindlessly.

“Where’d you learn to use a gun like that?” He asks suddenly, cutting through the silence again.

Another question, one you could leave unanswered. 

“We’re not put in the watchtower without gun training,” You tell him, “seems kinda self explanatory, Tommy trained me himself.”

“That kinda shootin’ isn’t taught.” Is all he replies with—almost like an accusation. 

“I think you’ve forgotten that QZ kids were born with a gun in their hand.”

It was an asinine exaggeration, but still wholeheartedly the truth. You knew every part of a gun before you could even confidently tie your shoes, it was unfortunately second nature when you had a gun in your hand, similar to a knife. Your grip tightened around the handle as you closed your eyes, succumbing to sleep eventually.

You wade in and out, peeking through bleary eyes and always find Joel’s eyes on you, whether purposeful or not, he was always watching. Even as you wandered, no matter where you were—maybe it was his own strange way of hoping that it provided you comfort, that he was always watching out. But, it never made you feel safe. Not really. And, in turn, you find yourself doing the same thing.

He’s more relaxed when he’s sleeping, the familiar scowl non-existent as he snores alongside the crackling fire or roar of wind, his boots untied and loosened but never off, never too comfortable. Joel always slept with his arms crossed, sitting up or lying down, occasionally mumbling in his sleep as he whimpered, his face contorting in the only sign of emotion you see from him outside of anger and annoyance.

You scribble out your thoughts on a postcard to pass the time.

He never asks about the stack of postcards in your bag, remaining blissfully ignorant. It was an unspoken agreement, that prying wasn’t something either of you were going to make an attempt at—you could simply exist around each other, no baggage or stories to be traded.

For now, at least.

–

It was nearly four months of patrols when Tommy lays his plans out and surprisingly, Joel doesn’t seem displeased and truthfully, things had become easier with him than anyone else.

You didn’t have to put on an act for him.

He could tell when you were exhausted or irritated, giving you space with a silent pass of the sandwiches he had picked up before leaving, retreating to his own corner, though his eyes still lingered.

It had taken a few months, but you did feel that safety with him that Ellie often talked to you about—his steadfast personality, knowing that if something were to happen, he’d handle it. 

But, he’s still a mystery.

“Ellie told me ‘bout that time you killed a group of raiders tryin’ to attack her,” You start the conversation bluntly, biting into the steak sandwich, “You like knives more than guns?”

Bold, he thinks. That’s fuckin’ bold.

“Guns are loud,” He replies, “Knives aren’t.”

You think back to the incident at Jackson with another set of raiders, witnessing Joel kill a man with his bare hands and think - maybe he preferred neither, if given another choice.

The prospect shouldn’t excite you or even entertain you, the brute power he holds.

But, it does.

You make a soft nose of acknowledgement as you nod your head, noticing the subtle glint in his eyes as he revisits the memory with Ellie, his face twitching at the sight of the broken glass slicing through a poor kid’s neck, right along the jugular as he choked on his own blood.

“You kill anyone?”

“A few—just…for survival.” You weren’t sure why you lied.

Joel wasn’t threatened by you in the slightest and lying wasn’t going to change that.

You’ve been lucky enough to avoid it until recently, bouncing from place to place until you landed in Jackson. It had been your home for a while now, so long that you didn’t like to think about it, staying in one place for such a long period of time. 

Joel sat a few feet away in the small house nestled on the mountain, a cool breeze stretching through the open window as Spring had taken hold, flowers blooming over the edge of the windowsill where they threatened to creep in.

His feet were near your head, resting against the ledge of the window as he leaned back in his chair, tapping his knife against the wooden leg of the chair as you pretend to sleep, shifting slightly as the blanket drifted down your body, layers shedded and crumpled by your feet, leaving you in a thin top and and jeans as you turned to your stomach, moaning softly, content.

He’s been less shy about his stares, or oblivious, his gaze lingering when you would catch him in the act—but you count the second in your mind from the moment you catch him through your squinted gaze, his eyes drifting along your body curiously.

Ninety-five seconds.

It was a new record.

And you dream of him that night, it wasn't the first time.

But, this time felt different. Usually the dreams drift away the moment you wake, like a distant and distorted memory, but this one is vivid and lingering as you watch Joel, who had caught you in the midst of your wake but he'd fallen asleep shortly after.

Some fucked up and empty part of you wishes it was reality.

-

You end up at the same patrol a month later, the heat of summer creeping in.

You hadn’t been paired together in a couple weeks and Joel seemed lighter as he stepped beyond the threshold of the house and stripped off his pack, busying himself with a quick sweep 

Wiping your hand over your forehead, skin damp and sweaty as your pack falls to the floor, you sigh, fanning yourself with your hand as Joel catches a subtle glimpse of your obvious discomfort.

“Did Tommy ever fix the water?” You ask with a slight hint of annoyance, more than willing to douse yourself in a bucket of cold water to get some relief, “Please say yes.”

Joel chuckles at that, a small sound that you would have missed had you not been paying direct attention to his response.

“Yes, a couple weeks ago,” Joel answers simply, sinking lazily into the couch, allowing himself a moment of well-earned rest after the long ride here, “go on—I’ll cover the first watch.”

It was all the encouragement you needed. 

And the shower is marvelous, leveled at the perfect temperature to let the cool water wash over your skin, cleaning off the thin layer of dirt that had accumulated from Jackson to here, listening to the faint footsteps as Joel traversed the house, assuming he was setting things up in the bedroom—doors opening, floorboards creaking, the sounds were like a comfort. 

Joel doesn’t talk unless he absolutely has to, more settled in the idea of just existing around you—he knew it brought you a semblance of feeling safe, but he was forcing himself to keep that distance, remaining vigilant to the eyes that constantly watched him, occasionally catching himself doing the same.

Even now, it was like a trance, his head bowed as he passed the bathroom, noticing the small crack in the door as he heard your melodic hum filter over the sound of water, singing a song that reminded him of before, his favorite.

Was it your favorite too?

He doesn’t mean to, not really, but then you’re turning your body away from the shower-head, eyes closed and head tossed back as you washed your hair, the gap in the curtain from this angle giving Joel a perfect view of your body, the pristine slope of your breasts down to your stomach, a few faint scars he followed before his eyes landed on your pelvis, the trimmed patch of hair nestled above your cunt, feeling his throat swell as he swallowed.

The faint creek of his footsteps gives him away, he knows, but you don’t react.

It wasn’t until the midnight hour rolled around, falling asleep on your shift, that Joel sneaks out of the house—sometimes he just needed the silence in nature, no birds chirping overhead, the faint distant growl from traversing hoards that didn’t carry out this far, if he closed his eyes, it was almost as if everything were normal, like he was back at his house in Austin, enjoying a moment out on his back porch.

Unfortunately, Joel was a paranoid man; your quiet footsteps catch him off guard, only feeling your presence as you arrive at his back, turning on his heels in an instant as his hand latches around your throat, tackling you against the ground with his knee digging into your stomach, your face pinched in pain as you throw weak punches at his chest, gasping for air.

He seems trance-like, eyes glossed over as you struggle to breathe, vision blurring around the edges as it begins to tunnel, you muster as much strength as you can to wheeze his name.

“J-oel. Joel, s’me.”

Your voice, broken and strained, seems to break him out of his deadlock grip on your throat, dark eyes snapping back into a soft chestnut, his face softening as much as it could while still remaining hardened, scrambling away from you without a word. Like you had attacked him.

You let out a flurry of coughs as you roll to your side, massaging your throat as your sounds come out raspy and weak, feeling slight pain as you swallow and attempt to rise to your feet, seeing Joel hesitate from your periphery for a moment, considering helping you.

“Coulda fuckin’ killed you,” Is the only thing he offers.

“Yeah,” You respond bitterly, “Almost fucking did.”

“You got a habit of sneakin’ up on people like that? The hell were you thinking?”

He rubbed a hand over his graying beard, the other hand cocked against his hip as he kept a safe distance, watching you pick the clumps of dirt and grass from your hair. 

He’s angry. Angry?

Why the fuck was he angry?

“I was worried—you like to leave at night,” You explain through a strained tone, a tic in your jaw as you clench down, eyes sinking into a scowl as you challenge his expression, “the last thing I need is finding you dead and having to explain that to Tommy.”

A tense silence stretches over, a slow and powerful breath through his nose before he relents and stomps past you, leaving you in a similar position to his earlier, watching his figure trail toward the house as your head turns back toward the sky, covered in stars and picturesque.

The kind of sight you wouldn’t believe if you weren’t seeing it in person.

Joel liked simple pleasures, a moment of silence and a place to sit with himself, and you had disrupted it - the only true moment he had alone all day, to sit, to think. The guilt settles in quickly, lingering for a moment before you decide to make the walk back toward the house.

–

What you aren’t expecting to find is Joel, sifting through your bag, items sprawled out on the floor and the thick cards fitted between his calloused fingers, covered in filth as he read over the notes you had left over the past few months, internal thoughts that you wouldn’t dare let slip.

He'd broken the one unspoken rule you both had kept with each other.

Some of them were slightly more embarrassing than others, forbidden to see the light of day until now, meticulous notes about the details of his face as he slept, how you found the rhythmic sound of his breathing comforting or even more damning, how the more aggressive side of him did the exact opposite of what it should.

It excited you. Turned you on, though the cards held more flourishing details about why and how. Because even then, moments prior as his hands pressed against your throat, there was a brief moment of exhilaration, excitement. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you scramble, stumbling toward him and reaching for the cards he holds easily out of reach, a hand pressing against your shoulder and squeezing tight enough to hold you back.

“You wanna explain this?” Joel asks, the type of tone that made you want to shrink.

Your mouth parts for a moment before you find your voice, brow knitting in frustration as you reach for the postcards once more, failing, “Those are private—why are you snooping?”

“You left a mess,” Joel explains away, the items of your bag spilled on the hardwood floor, chuckling as he continues, “Huh, private? Ain’t much privacy to be had when you’re writing about me.”

You can feel your heart racing, knowing if Joel moved his hand an inch further down he would feel it too.

The stack had to be at least twenty postcards thick, some innocently tame and just a means to let your thoughts and feelings flow, most of them answering questions Joel had asked you earlier in the night that you had refused to answer, giving him nothing to work with.

The ones he does recite are damning, tossing them to the floor as he flips through the stack before reading off a particularly recent one from earlier that night, his confidence slowly flagging as the words leave his mouth.

Shower. Watching me.

It felt good.

“Goes both ways,” You sneer, pushing his hand away and making one final reach for the cards as you successfully pry them from his grip, stuffing them away in your bag along with your other spilled belongings.

Joel’s expression shifts slightly, staring down at your kneeling figure as you avoid his gaze. His boots scuff against the floor as he crowds you against the wall, nowhere to run when you rise to your feet. Attempting to scare, to provoke.

Daringly, you challenge him, “I’m not the only one watching, Joel.”

His eyes narrow, searching your face for any sign of a bluff. For a brief moment, you almost expect him to deny the obvious—lie, lie, lie.

But, even he couldn’t deny the strange connection; or, affliction, that had riddled you both.

You could blame it on the close proximity built over months of isolation, often paired together over your willingness to work efficiently and without issue as time went on—Tommy was used to people butting heads, arguing, favoring one person over the other.

With you two, he could send you off for a patrol and not have to worry about things being left behind or forgotten.

You were innately quiet, even in Jackson, never wanting to ruffle anyone’s feathers or stir up trouble—that was left for the rowdy teens and few and far between drunks. Joel almost suspected you as mole for a brief time upon your arrival in Jackson, a worry soothed by Tommy over time.

But now, he doesn’t know what to think. He can’t figure you out and he’s not really sure he wants to, but you’ve got the kind of look in your eyes that calls out to Joel, silently.

He’s never met someone so controlled, knowing when to keep to themselves and when to bite back; it strings, that bite. He feels it in the way your jaw tightens, attempting to shove past him.

He glances down, noticing the knife tucked away in your left hand. A low, threatening chuckle releases from his lips as his hand grips your wrist, holding it up between your bodies.

“What’re you plannin’ to do with this? Stab me?”

“M’not against it,” You try to keep the strength in your voice, but it wavers slightly.

“I know that look,” Joel challenges, “You ain’t ever killed like this—s’too close, too personal.”

He knocks the knife away with a quick jerk of your wrist as you stumble back against the wall, praying he didn’t hear the small gasp slip from your throat as his chest presses against yours.

“So, you like watchin’ me sleep?” Joel asks in a taunting tone, “Enjoy jottin’ down all those dirty little thoughts thinkin’ I wouldn’t see ‘em?”

“They weren’t meant to be seen. They were private,” You retort, feeling the weight of his body as you exhale, lashes fluttering at his hot breath as it ghosts your face, reiterating, “Private, like my shower? Or, how about all the times I’ve caught you watching me? You know, we could go back and forth about this all night but frankly, I don’t mphh—”

Joel’s hand claps tight over your mouth, effectively silencing you as your face contorts in frustration, hands curling around his thick forearms and fingers, attempting to pry his hand away.

“Look at me,” He goads, repeating it more menacing as you fight against his hold, nodding in satisfaction when you finally relent, “Yeah—now and don’t you fuckin’ lie to me, you left that door open because you hoped I would, right? Stop tryin’ to act so innocent, girl.”

It ignites a fire in you, the demeaning monaker that transforms into enough strength to fist your hands into his shirt and shove him into the reclining chair positioned behind him, a heavy grunt releasing from his chest as you stumble over his boots and into his lap.

“Don’t call me that,” You seethe, not amiss to the immediate instinct of Joel’s to catch you, thighs bracketing his right leg as his hands squeeze your waist, keeping you upright.

Joel speaks your name, almost taunting, “S’that better? Or is that little crush your harboring hopin’ I’ll call you somethin’ a little sweeter?”

You feel the weight of his thumbs as they curl into your belt loops, body swaying with the motion as you take a seat on his lap, ass pressed against his knee and you watch as his chin gradually moves to rest against his chest, his eyeline following your movement.

“Don’t call me anything,” You retorted, his eyes flicking up under a heavy gaze.

Joel was simmering with a controlled rage, his hands squeezing at your hips as he jerked you forward suddenly, your hands grasping onto the back of the chair over his head, the friction at the seam of your denim as it rubbed against your clit, nestled between slick folds that couldn’t hide the arousal you were feeling, how the heat that radiated off of Joel made you sick with want.

“Alright,” He agrees, “then go on ‘head, get off me.”

Something tells you it is definitely a trap.

A moment later, you can feel his fingers gripping around your backside, digging into your ass as he pushes your hips backwards once before slowly guiding them forward, your sneakers scuffing against the hardwood as your lips parted, a silent breath slipping out.

“Go on—get off,” He taunts, the double-entendre making your brain go fuzzy.

“Joel,” It was a weak attempt to tell yourself and him this was a bad idea, but with the pleasure swelling in your core, it comes out more relaxed - you moan his name and Joel hears it.

“You ain’t good with words, but you can show me,” He remedies, the subtle movement as you grind against his leg, denim on denim but you’re almost positive he can feel how wet you are through the fabric, or how the shared heat was almost sweltering, “rub that pretty pussy on me.”

You have half the mind to snark at him, but think back to his eyes on you on the other side of the bathroom door, how he had admired without guilt, no truer words having left his mouth.

Guiltily, you lean against him, forearms resting where your hands were previously gripping, aiding in the quickening pace of your hips as you breathed softly into his ear, one of his hands slipping under the fabric of your shirt, palm spread wide over your back as the chair creaked with the shifting weight.

Your breath hitches, a sharp gasp as Joel’s calloused fingers rub against your spine. The friction against your clit is overwhelming, intensifying with every roll of your hips under his guise, the desperate need for release building in your core, quietly aware of the weight of Joel’s cock through his jeans, hard and neglected.

Your hand slowly moves toward the button on his jeans, ghosting over the swell of his cock before his fingers grip your wrist and return them to their original spot, “This ain’t for me,” He reminds you, “Keep goin’—show me how bad you need it.”

His words spur you toward the ledge you were teetering on, movements increasingly more wild and frantic, soft noises gradually becoming louder as his hands roam your body, the one on your back remaining as a constant while the other roams toward your front, squeezing gently at your breasts through the flimsy bralette, his thumb brushing pointedly over your nipple as you moan.

“Fuck, I’m c—close,” You warn him, blindly finding his hair with your right hand, squeezing at the strands as he grunts, head tilting back against the chair as you moan brokenly, a sob escaping your mouth.

His voice carries you through, his voice enveloping every point of your existence as your orgasm starts and crescendos, “That’s it,” He coos, “s’alright, let it out.”

You obey, weak whimpers cry into his neck as you hide away, hips grinding lazily through the aftershocks as his arms wrap around you silently, holding you steady as the sound of your ragged breath fills the room alongside the quiet chirping of nocturnal animals.

“Gonna write about this later?” Joel teases, whatever hostility he was holding earlier now non-existent, clearing his throat as you lean back, ignoring the obvious thick and permeating tension that was blanketing you both, still unaddressed.

“S’not funny,” You respond, climbing off him unsteadily before you turn your back to him and gather your belongings into a pile and shove them back inside your pack, “You weren’t supposed to see ‘em.”

“We’re partners—you think keepin’ secrets is smart?”

“It’s harmless—and what about you?” You begin, suddenly settling back into your own quiet rage, “Sneaking around, watching me? I notice shit too, Joel.”

Joel sits in quiet contemplation, his permanent scowl growing deeper as his knuckles rub at the spot where your cunt previously was, “Alright—new rule.”

Your eyebrows raise in anticipation, never really prepared for what Joel ever had to say.

“I ask questions, you answer ‘em. For every one you answer, I’ll answer one too.” Fair enough, you think, but then he continues, “It stays between us, alright? And if you want something—ask for it. No sense in bein’ shy ‘round me anymore.”

Not after that.

Baby steps, you say to yourself. 

The thick air between you seems to open, like a weight off your chest.

“Alright,” You reply softly, “I can do that.”

Joel leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes intense as they lock onto yours. "So, those notes. How long you been writin' 'em?"

You smile with a newfound giddiness, though still mostly subdued, biting at your cheek to stop the spread of your grin, shaking your head as you lock down at the stack of postcards stuffed into your bag.

“Only since we got paired up,” You admit, “every other night or so. When I can’t sleep.”

Which was often.

He grunts, processing the information as you fiddle with the strap of your pack.

“Is it my turn?” Joel nods quietly, shifting back in the chair, ignoring the slowly waning bulge in his jeans that he would surely deal with later, “Well—how long have you been watching me? Or, well–why?”

“That’s two,” Joel chastises, but there was no real bite behind it, “Since you came to Jackson, figured you weren’t good—”

You know what he means—mistrusting, suspicious. 

“Does it bother you—that I do? You scared of me?”

You shake your head shyly, avoiding his gaze.

It was the darkest, most sinister parts of Joel that drew you in.

“I think you’d be terrified of the things I like about you, Joel.”

Joel doesn't respond outright, but his subtle grin is enough confirmation for you. He knew exactly what you meant.

[genderqueerdykes]

coming out as a trans man saved my life.

i was so fucking depressed before i found out what the concept of transgenderism was. forced on to estrogen & progesterone as an intersex teenager to try to "fix" my intersex variation, i was the most miserable i had ever been in my life. changes were happening to my body that i didn't want. i was a miserable wreck who hated my body, hated how i sounded, hated how people saw and addressed me, hated the expectations people placed on my body... everything. i felt like a stranger in my own body. i felt like i was speaking with someone else's voice. everything felt wrong. i was constantly uncomfortable, ready to claw my skin off at any moment. a deep, agonizing, howling pain right in my fucking soul that i couldn't soothe no matter what i did.

finding out that i wasn't forced to stay trapped in my body the way it was, and that i wasn't obligated to continue being addressed by terms that made me feel like i was dying inside literally gave me a new lease on life. i went from hating literally everything to suddenly buzzing with energy, realizing that i could take my life into my hands and change it for the better. for the first time in my entire life, i had hope for the future. the prospect of starting testosterone HRT and stopping the estrogen/prog ... it gave me a rush of emotions unlike anything else i had ever felt. hormones i actually wanted. changes to my body i actually wanted. i felt ALIVE. i saw something i actually wanted deep in my heart and soul for the first time in my life and i reached out and i grabbed it as fast and as hard as i could. and i never let go.

i had something to look forward to. i could finally let my facial hair grow out without judgment. i could finally dress the way i wanted to. i could finally use names and pronouns that felt like mine. yes you can do these things as a cis woman- but that wasn't working for me. pretending that i was "cis"- a dubious concept for myself as an intersex person- no longer worked for me. i couldn't keep up the lie anymore. and not having to felt like throwing off a heavy blanket that was smothering me.

i finally saw light. i could finally breathe. i finally felt like i was in my own body. trans manhood is liberating. trans manhood is empowering. trans manhood is fulfilling. trans manhood is an act of creation, bringing your life and your body and your mind into your hands and doing what you know is right for you. i will never feel shame for this part of myself. it literally saved my life. and if you're a trans man, too, coming out or acknowledging it can save you too. trans manhood is a blessing. don't you ever let anyone tell you it is anything else but that.

i will never go back into the closet.

[kaiyunsim]

best lover —

pairing : bf!taesan x gn!reader

summary : after taesan works hard for the newest comeback you wanted to get him a gift... something perfect. but you don't know what exactly to get him so you get help from his roommate.

warnings : fluff, angst (just a little bit), tense confrontation, some music references, taesan gets kinda jealous, kind of a continuation of this fic

a/n : this lowkey made me relapse into the emo/punk genre and now i'm actively listening to them again ! taesan so silly here.

queueing : best lover - bibi, and july - heize + dean

[requested]

— wc : 4.8k — not proof read —

you’ve always known taesan was cool.

not in the tryhard way, not in the way people force an image to seem untouchable. no, he’s effortlessly cool. the kind of cool that comes from simply existing, from being so unapologetically himself that it draws people in.

his aesthetic is proof of that—dark clothes, silver rings, an ever-growing collection of band tees that he claims aren’t a collection but still seem to multiply every time you see him. his playlists are filled with gritty guitar riffs and melancholic lyrics, songs that feel like they belong in a coming-of-age film.

you love it. you love the way he leans against walls like a movie character, the way his fingers tap out drum beats on tables when he’s lost in thought. the way his voice gets softer when he talks about music, when he lets his guard down just enough for you to see the warmth underneath.

so, when their comeback is finally announced, when you see the hours of training, late-night rehearsals, and exhaustion culminate into something incredible, you know you need to do something. something that says, i see you. i see how hard you’ve worked, and i’m proud of you.

but what do you get someone like taesan?

he’s never been the type to want extravagant gifts. he shrugs off praise, mumbles “it’s nothing” when people tell him he’s done well. but you know he keeps every little note fans give him, that he still has the random trinkets the members bought him over the years.

so it has to be something personal. something that actually means something.

you think about it for days, running through ideas in your head. clothes? no, too easy. he already has everything he likes. accessories? maybe, but he’s picky, and you don’t trust yourself to pick out something he’d actually wear.

and then it hits you.

vinyls.

taesan loves music in a way that’s deeper than just listening. he collects records, always talking about how certain albums sound different on vinyl, how the warmth and crackle make it feel more alive. you’ve seen the way he runs his fingers over the covers, the way he carefully places them on his turntable like he’s handling something sacred.

but you don’t know enough about it.

you know the bands he listens to, sure, but not the specific pressings, not which editions are worth having, not which ones he’s been searching for. you need help.

so, you text the only person who would know and would be the most help.

sungho.

—

you: hey, random question, but do you think you could help me with something?

he replies almost immediately.

sungho: depends. am i gonna regret saying yes?

you snort. typical.

you: no, it’s for taesan. i wanna get him some vinyls, but i don’t know which ones he’d actually want.

a pause. then—

sungho: oh. you’re going ot make him a happy boyfriend for sure. sungho: yeah, i can help. you free tomorrow?

relief washes over you.

you: yeah. thanks, sungho. seriously.

sungho: don’t thank me yet. wait till we actually find something good.

you smile, pocketing your phone.

this is a good plan. a perfect plan.

now, you just have to keep it a secret.

the next morning, you wake up with a nervous excitement buzzing under your skin.

taesan is still half-asleep when you see him, his hair messy from sleep, the collar of his oversized shirt slipping down one shoulder. he looks soft like this, different from his usual sharp edges and guarded expressions.

“morning,” you say, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before he can grumble in protest.

he mumbles something incoherent, eyes still closed, before reaching out and lazily wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

you laugh, poking his side. “i have to go out for a bit.”

that wakes him up a little. his eyes blink open, groggy but alert. “where?”

you freeze for half a second before forcing yourself to play it cool. “just running errands.”

his brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t question it. instead, he just tightens his grip around you for a moment before letting go.

“be safe,” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

your heart squeezes at that.

you brush his hair out of his face, letting your fingers linger for a second longer than necessary. “always.”

—

meeting up with sungho feels like a mission.

he’s already waiting outside the taesan's dorm room, dressed casually but still effortlessly put together, a stark contrast to the slightly chaotic energy you’re bringing with you.

“you look nervous,” he says, amused.

“because i am.”

he raises an eyebrow. “it’s just vinyl shopping.”

“yeah, but it’s for taesan,” you stress. “i can’t mess this up. i need to find something perfect.”

sungho rolls his eyes but leads the way inside the vinyl store, hidden in the corners of the busy streets.

the moment you step in, you’re overwhelmed.

rows and rows of records stretch out in front of you, organized into sections you barely understand. the store smells like old paper and something nostalgic, a quiet hum of music playing from the speakers.

sungho glances at you. “you know what bands he likes, right?”

you nod. “yeah, but i don’t know what he already has.”

“then we start with the basics.”

he guides you through the aisles, pointing out albums that fit taesan’s taste. some are obvious bands you’ve seen on his playlists, artists you recognize from the posters in his room. others, not so much.

“this one’s a classic,” sungho says, pulling out a worn-looking album. “he’s mentioned it before, i think he even has a t-shirt of them.”

it was the black parade by my chemical romance

you take it from him, running your fingers over the cover. “do you think he already has the vinyl?”

sungho shakes his head. “nah, he would’ve bragged about it if he did.”

you smile at that. taesan isn’t the bragging type, not really, but when it comes to things he loves, he can’t help but share them with you. you can already picture the way his eyes will light up when he sees the gift, the way he’ll trace the album cover with careful fingers before hugging you in that quiet, deliberate way of his.

this is good. this is exactly what you wanted.

you glance at sungho. “i think we’re on the right track.”

he smirks. “told you.”

you roll your eyes but can’t hide your grin.

this is going to be perfect.

if you can keep it a secret long enough.

you flip through the stacks carefully, the plastic sleeves crinkling under your fingertips as you skim the selection. rows of album covers stare back at you, some bold and vibrant, others muted and mysterious, each one a different piece of someone’s story.

sungho stands beside you, already pulling out records with ease, flipping them over to check editions and pressings like it’s second nature.

“how do you even know all this?” you ask, watching as he inspects a black-and-white cover, his eyes narrowing slightly before he shakes his head and puts it back.

he smirks. “taesan’s not the only one with taste, you know.”

you roll your eyes. “yeah, but you act like this is your second home.”

he hums, running his fingers along the edge of a shelf. “it kinda is. when i first moved into the dorms, i’d come to places like this just to kill time. got to know a lot about music that way.”

that makes sense. sungho has that effortless, older-brother energy, the kind that makes you feel like he’s always been one step ahead of everyone else. but even so, you know there’s more to it. something about the way he says it, like music was a comfort rather than just a hobby.

you glance down at the album in your hands. the artwork is dramatic, painted in deep reds and blacks, the kind of thing you could easily imagine taesan leaving out on his desk just because it looks cool. it was titled a fever you can’t sweat out this time, by panic at the disco

you hesitate. “what about this one?”

sungho looks over, and to your relief, he nods in approval. “solid pick. taesan likes them. they have that whole raw, gritty sound he’s into.”

you exhale, setting it aside in the growing pile of vinyls you’ve picked out. “good. i was kinda guessing.”

sungho snickers. “if you were completely guessing, you would’ve picked something embarrassing.”

you give him a flat look. “i wouldn’t do that.”

“you sure? no boyband vinyls hidden in that stack?”

“why are you acting like that would be a crime?”

he laughs, shaking his head. “nah, but taesan would probably combust.”

you grin at the thought. he probably would. his whole tough, brooding image crumbling the second someone dared to associate him with anything remotely bright and upbeat. you’ve teased him about it before, played pop songs in his presence just to watch him pretend he wasn’t listening.

but this isn’t about teasing him. this is about him.

you glance around the store, taking in the dim lighting, the faint sound of a record spinning in the background. a few other customers linger nearby, flipping through vinyls with the same careful reverence, but none of them seem rushed. it’s the kind of place taesan would get lost in, taking his time with every shelf, soaking in the atmosphere.

you wish he was here.

you shake the thought away before it can settle too deep.

“okay,” you say, straightening up. “i think i need at least one more.”

sungho scans the shelves before reaching over and pulling out a record without hesitation.

“this.”

you take it from him, studying the cover. it’s striking… american idiot by greenday.

“he’s been looking for this one,” sungho explains. “i remember him complaining about how it’s always out of stock.”

your chest warms. “then that’s perfect.”

sungho grins. “congrats, you officially have a good gift… or multiple”

you roll your eyes but can’t help but smile. “thanks for the approval.”

“anytime.”

you head to the counter, placing the records down carefully as the cashier rings them up. the prices make you wince a little. vinyl collecting is not cheap. but you don’t hesitate. taesan is worth it.

when you step back outside, the air feels cooler, a slight breeze brushing against your skin. sungho stretches beside you, squinting up at the sky.

“so,” he says. “how are you planning to give it to him?”

you blink. “uh. just... give it to him?”

he gives you a flat look. “you’re really bad at this.”

“excuse me?”

“c’mon,” he says. “you go through all this trouble, sneak around just to surprise him, and you’re just gonna hand it to him like it’s a bag of chips?”

you frown. “what am i supposed to do? make a scavenger hunt?”

“i mean, that would be funny.”

“sungho.”

he chuckles. “fine, fine. but at least make it a moment, you know? like, put them in a nice box or something. set the mood a little.”

you consider that. he’s right. you don’t just want this to be a casual exchange. you want taesan to feel how much this means.

“okay,” you say slowly. “i’ll think of something.”

sungho pats your shoulder. “good. because if you don’t, i’m telling him i helped.”

you gasp. “you wouldn’t.”

his grin is downright evil. “try me.”

you groan, shoving him lightly as he laughs.

but despite the teasing, there’s a warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before. because for all the effort, all the second-guessing, all the overthinking. you know this is the right thing to do.

you just hope taesan sees it that way, too.

you and sungho are now wandering the streets, bags in hand, the weight of them a constant reminder of what you're keeping from taesan. there's a knot in your stomach, anxiety creeping in at the thought of what will happen once you return to the dorm.

sungho notices you fidgeting with your phone, eyes flicking between your screen and the road ahead. "you've been checking your messages like every two seconds," he says with a knowing smile. "taesan giving you trouble?"

"i... i don’t know," you mutter, glancing at your phone again. "he hasn’t texted yet. i think he’s mad."

sungho snorts. "he’s always mad."

you roll your eyes but can't help the tension building inside you. it's not like taesan to be suspicious like this. sure, he's possessive at times, but you’ve always been upfront with him. today, though, everything feels off. you know he’s probably wondering where you are, especially after leaving so abruptly.

after a few more moments of walking, your phone buzzes in your hand. it’s a message from taesan.

you open it quickly, your heart dropping when you read the text.

taesan: where are you?

you can almost hear the frustration in his words, even though they’re so short. you hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out how to respond. the last thing you want is to reveal anything.

“everything okay?” sungho asks, glancing at you with a raised eyebrow.

“yeah,” you say quickly, typing back a response. "just... running… errands…"

you: just out. why?

you hit send and try to push the worry away. but it doesn’t help when your phone buzzes again, another message from taesan.

taesan: are you by yourself?

your stomach tightens. it feels like he’s fishing for something, trying to confirm his suspicions. you swallow hard. taesan doesn’t know you’re out with sungho. he probably thinks you’re just alone, maybe out with someone else. the thought of him jumping to conclusions makes you tense up.

“you need to tell him the truth, man,” sungho says, half-joking but still serious. “it’s gonna be hard to keep it up much longer.”

you bite your lip, looking at the text again. taesan doesn’t like being kept in the dark. but if you tell him you're out with sungho, there's no way you can keep the surprise a secret.

you: yeah, just me. out by myself.

you send the message quickly, almost immediately regretting it. the lie feels wrong in your gut, but you can’t risk ruining the surprise.

as soon as you hit send, another text from taesan comes through.

taesan: you didn’t tell me where you went. it’s weird, you know. don’t lie to me.

your heart sinks. this is exactly what you were afraid of. you can feel his frustration radiating through the words, even though they’re brief. taesan might not say it outright, but you know he’s pissed.

“is he mad?” sungho asks, eyes narrowing as he watches you.

“yeah,” you say quietly, looking at the screen again. “he thinks i’m lying.”

sungho tilts his head, his expression softening. “well, you kind of are...”

you groan, feeling guilty. “yeah, but if i tell him the truth, he’ll know what we’re really doing.”

sungho sighs but doesn’t press. “you’ve got to be careful, though. taesan can’t stand being lied to. he might feel like you’re hiding something else.”

you take a deep breath, trying to push the anxiety aside. “he’s just overthinking it. i’ll deal with it when we get back.”

you walk in silence for a bit longer, and the weight of the lie is starting to feel unbearable. but then your phone buzzes again. it’s from taesan.

taesan: riwoo just told me you’re out with sungho. why didn’t you say that?

your heart stops. it feels like everything is crashing down around you. of course, taesan would hear from riwoo. he always does. but you didn’t think it would happen so soon.

sungho laughs lightly, though it’s more nervous than anything else. “i mean, it’s not like you didn’t want him to find out.”

you stare at the message, feeling a mix of guilt and frustration. “he’s so mad now...”

“you better fix it,” sungho says with a small chuckle. “he’s gonna blow up on you if you keep avoiding the truth.”

you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “i don’t know how to fix it. i’ve already lied twice.”

“well,” sungho says, “maybe you just gotta... tell him the truth at this point. no more hiding.”

but you’re not ready to do that. not yet. the surprise is too important to mess up now.

you type out a message, your hands shaking a little as you try to keep it steady.

you: i’m sorry. we just bumped into eachothee

you press send, waiting for taesan’s response with bated breath.

it takes a while, but finally, your phone buzzes.

taesan: it was a coincidence?

you let out a sigh of relief. it's not as bad as it could have been, but you still feel like you’ve messed up.

you: yeah, i went out to grab some stuff, and boom, sungho was there getting some stuff for the dorm too

you wait for a reply, and when it comes, it’s still not as angry as you expected, but you can hear the frustration in taesan’s words.

taesan: you know, you could’ve just told me. i don’t like when you hide stuff from me.

your heart drops, and you feel guilty again. you want to explain yourself, but you’re afraid it’ll make everything worse.

“he’s really pissed now,” you say quietly to sungho, who nods sympathetically.

“you should’ve just told him earlier,” he says, though his tone is more playful than critical. “now you gotta go back and fix it.”

you take a deep breath, realizing sungho’s right. you’re going to have to deal with the fallout when you get back to the dorm.

you decide on sungho’s dorm since taesan is rooming with woonhak and jaehyun so it would be perfect to wrap his gift all together and put final touched on it.

but once you open the door, you stand frozen at the door of sungho’s dorm, heart hammering in your chest. the moment taesan walks in, everything about the room shifts. his presence fills the space, and even though he’s not saying anything yet, you feel the weight of his gaze.

“so, this is where you’ve been?” taesan’s voice cuts through the silence. it’s sharper than usual, colder too. he looks at you, then at sungho, his eyes narrowing. “i thought you said you were by yourself.”

you feel your breath catch in your throat. his words hit harder than expected, but you force a smile, trying to keep your cool. “i was… i mean, i am.”

taesan tilts his head, his eyes scanning you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying. you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “i just bumped into sungho, we were talking, and i guess riwoo saw us leave together.” you’re already regretting how this sounds, but you can’t back down now. you have to keep the lie intact.

“bumped into sungho?” taesan’s voice drips with suspicion. “so it’s just a coincidence you were both out together?”

you nod quickly, hoping he buys it. “yeah, we were just… talking, you know? nothing serious. i just didn’t want to bother you while you were busy.”

taesan crosses his arms, studying you with a sharp gaze. “that doesn’t sound right.”

the air between you two feels like it’s crackling with tension. you swallow hard, knowing you can’t let him get too suspicious. “it’s really nothing, taesan. you know i wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

“you wouldn’t, huh?” taesan says slowly, his tone soft but with a dangerous edge. “then why didn’t you just tell me? why go through all this just to cover up some… coincidence?”

you flinch slightly at his words, the guilt gnawing at you. but you won’t break. you can’t spoil the surprise now. not when everything is so close to being perfect.

“i didn’t want to bother you with the details,” you say, hoping he buys it. “i just figured i’d spend some time with sungho, that’s all.” you glance at sungho for a moment, but he’s standing still, like he’s unsure whether to step in.

taesan watches you for a long beat, and you can see the wheels turning in his mind. his expression hardens. “so you thought it’d be better to lie to me, to sneak around?”

your chest tightens, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than you expected. “taesan, it’s not like that.”

“really?” taesan’s voice rises, a hint of frustration creeping in. “because that’s exactly what it sounds like. i don’t know, it’s just hard to believe that you’re not hiding something. are you trying to cover something up?”

you feel your heart race. this is spiraling out of control, and you don’t know how to stop it. the last thing you want is for him to think you’re doing something behind his back.

“taesan, please,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “you’re overthinking this. i didn’t want to tell you because i didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.” you force yourself to look him in the eye, trying to convey sincerity. “it’s nothing, really.”

taesan doesn’t respond right away. he’s still standing there, arms crossed, eyes cold as he studies you. you feel like he’s dissecting every word you’ve said, trying to figure out if you’re being honest or not.

“so what, this is all just some coincidence?” taesan asks again, voice dripping with doubt. “you just happened to be with sungho, and riwoo just happened to see you leaving together?”

you nod quickly, trying to sound convincing. “yeah, that’s it. it’s just a coincidence, taesan.”

taesan lets out a long breath, his frustration simmering just under the surface. he doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t push further. yet.

“you’re making this harder than it needs to be,” you say, trying to change the subject. “it’s nothing. seriously.”

taesan stays quiet, his eyes narrowing, still unconvinced. “i don’t know if i believe you, but fine. if you say so.”

there’s a moment of silence between you two, and you can almost feel the distance growing between you. you want to tell him the truth, but you can’t risk it. not yet.

“you didn’t need to lie to me, you know,” taesan says softly, his gaze softer but still guarded. “you could’ve just told me where you were. there wouldn’t have been any problem.”

“i know,” you say, your heart sinking. “but i didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

the moment you say it, you regret it. taesan’s eyes flash with confusion, but he doesn’t say anything. he just watches you, waiting.

“what surprise?” taesan asks, the suspicion back in his voice.

you hesitate, panic rising. you can’t tell him, not yet. not when you’re this close.

“it’s nothing,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “i just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

taesan’s gaze sharpens again. “you’re lying. i can tell.”

you want to scream, to tell him the truth, but you stay silent, your heart heavy with the pressure of it all.

“you’ve been hiding something from me, haven’t you?” taesan asks, his voice quiet now, as if he’s piecing everything together.

you look away, unable to meet his eyes. you can’t keep lying, but you can’t give in either. not yet.

“taesan, please,” you whisper. “just trust me. i don’t want to hurt you.”

he sighs, his expression softening just a little. “i trust you, but it’s hard when you keep lying to me. i just don’t get why you couldn’t tell me what was going on.”

you open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. your throat feels tight, and your mind is racing, trying to figure out how to get yourself out of this mess.

“i’m sorry,” you finally say, your voice barely audible. “i didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

taesan looks at you for a long moment, his face softening a bit. “it’s fine,” he says quietly. “but next time, just tell me. no more lies.”

you nod, relieved but still filled with guilt.

there’s a long silence, and then you finally reach into your bag and pull out the vinyl and the trinkets you picked out for him. you hold them out to him, your hands shaking.

“here,” you say softly, voice full of apology. “i got these for you. i… i thought you’d like them.”

taesan takes the items slowly, his expression unreadable. after a few moments, he looks up at you. “you didn’t have to do this,” he says, his voice softening. “but… thanks.”

you smile weakly, still feeling the weight of everything. “i’m sorry for making you mad.”

taesan sighs, stepping closer to you. “it’s okay. just promise me no more lies, alright?”

“promise,” you say quietly.

and for the first time in what feels like forever, the tension begins to melt away. taesan pulls you into a hug, and you let yourself relax, knowing that you’ll have to make things right.

but for now, you’re just grateful that he’s still here.

taesan is silent for a long time, just staring at the vinyls in his hands. his fingers trace over the covers, his expression unreadable.

you shift nervously, waiting for some kind of reaction. was this too much? was this not what he would’ve liked? sungho had assured you it was a good choice, but now, standing here with taesan’s gaze locked onto the gift, doubt creeps in.

“you really did all this for me?” taesan finally asks, voice quieter now.

you nod quickly. “of course i did. you just had a comeback, and i wanted to get you something that actually fit your taste. something you’d really like.”

he exhales slowly, his grip tightening around the vinyls for a second before he looks up at you. his expression has softened completely, the cold edge gone. instead, there’s something else… something warmer.

“you’re an idiot,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words. in fact, his lips twitch slightly, like he’s trying not to smile. “you could’ve just told me.”

“and ruin the surprise?” you huff, crossing your arms. “not a chance.”

taesan sighs, shaking his head. “you made me worry for nothing.”

“i didn’t mean to,” you mumble, guilt creeping back in.

he looks at you for another long second before stepping forward, wrapping his arms around you. his hold is firm, secure, like he’s grounding himself in your presence.

you blink, surprised at the sudden affection, but quickly melt into the embrace. his scent is familiar, and the warmth of his body makes all the stress from earlier fade.

“don’t do that again,” he mutters into your hair. “just tell me next time.”

you nod against his chest. “okay. i promise.”

he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his dark eyes still holding a bit of lingering frustration. but it’s different now. less about suspicion, more about the fact that you worried him.

his eyes flicker to sungho, and his warmth disappears just slightly as he levels a glare at him. “and you,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

sungho raises his hands defensively. “hey, don’t look at me like that. i was just helping.”

“helping,” taesan repeats, clearly not convinced. “spending hours alone with y/n, keeping secrets, sneaking around.”

sungho rolls his eyes. “yeah, yeah, i get it. i’d be mad too. but it’s not like that.”

“doesn’t matter,” taesan grumbles, still glaring. “you still got too comfortable.”

you groan, tugging at his sleeve. “taesan, please. it’s not like we were on a date or something.”

taesan clicks his tongue but lets it go, instead looking back at the items in his hands. now that he’s actually processing it, his expression shifts, like he’s finally realizing what you got him, without the worry of why you were lying.

“wait,” he mutters, flipping it over. “this album… where did you find this?”

you grin. “special store sungho knew about. he helped me find the best ones.”

taesan pauses for a moment, then looks at you again, softer this time. “you really went through all this trouble just to get me something i’d like?”

you scoff. “of course i did. i love you, you idiot.”

his ears turn red. it’s subtle, but you notice it. he looks away, clearing his throat. “you’re the idiot,” he mumbles, gripping the vinyls like it’s the most precious thing in the world. “but… thanks.”

he pulls you into another hug, holding you tight, like he doesn’t want to let go.

and just like that, everything feels right again.

[fangirltothefullest]

You know.... tumblr is the only place I've ever felt like people can match my brand of neurodivergence. And I'm not talking about the weird conversations or funny posts either. I just mean in general conversation and interaction.

I've been in a small room with 12 other strangers for this soft skills class I have to take for this program that's helping me get a government job as someone with adhd and I just..... feel like such an alien when I'm in the room with them? They're all different ages and some are even around my age but it's like I'm pretending to be a person for them just as I would be doing around neurotypical people.

I am constantly masking in front of these people that are supposes to be like me.

More than one have adhd like I do but they're so different than me? There's so much unnecessary laughter that feels so forced and fake? All anyone wants to talk about are sports and parties and alcohol and drugs. Its exactly likw it was in every other social situation ive ever been in. "Who last partied and got black out drunk"- "my party days are over but i can still knock back a 12 pack of whatever and function just fine"‐ "last weekend i partied i got too high to remember my name-"

Or who rooted for which sportsball team and why the spoinklers are better than the spronklers. The sprunklies had a great pass but they called it too much for the spranklies and it was all rigged. I would stop watching it but I like mr pitcher-catcher-thrower-frontguy and if he can make it this year he'll win them for the whateverchampioncup for sure.

I feel like an alien studying an entirely different species.

Like is this how people always interact? Is it all fake nonsense or is it code? It feels like it's all in code and I just have no fucking idea what that code is.

Cause like I can tell none of them actually care! I KNOW we are here for a soft skills class but like.... this isn't soft skills this is high school locker room. This is people desperately trying to fit in. Soft skills are keeping things civil and connecting with fellow humans.

This didn't feel like forming connections, it felt like pretending. It felt like showing off. It felt like people vying for their chance to be in the spotlight. It felt like America's next top banana.

We were told not to talk about religion, politics, sports and personal lives at work because all it does is start drama at the workplace. What did they proceed to do? Talk about every single subject on the no-go list the moment we'd agreed not to. Did they think "no" was code for "do this immediately"?

Like is it me? Am I really so confusingly alien that even the people that are supposed to be like me, that also have adhd, are just so different?

And I come here on tumblr and yall get me.

I post about making a PowerPoint about the most fuckable pasta shape and yall are like drop the PowerPoint.

[somefanchick]

-Leona’s Pride and Prejudice-

(This story is from Leona's perspective anytime the events of book three. It does include mention of the Cloudcalling on the Savanna event. I only know information from the English server story and events so sorry if anything is terribly out of character. This fic is platonic and is cannon for my Yuu-sona, but I do just call them (Yuu) in the story [she/her] [feminine terms]. Hope you enjoy!)

(Triger Warning: cussing, derogatory terms, drunk individual, and some sexual harassment towards (Yuu).)

I had a hard time understanding the Ramshackle prefect. She would put up with things that would piss most people off and then fly off the handle at things that only seemed to bother her. Hell, she seemed more pissed at me for not wanting to let her stay in Savanaclaw while she dealt with the octopunk then she was at me for overbloting. She would entertain Grim, Cheeka, and freshmen alike while they did every annoying thing they possibly could, but then lose her mind at Jamil just brushing by her in the hallway without saying a quick apology. 

I could never tell what she was going to do next. I would find myself observing her whenever she came near, making a game out of trying and failing to predict her choices. I would guess she was getting a sandwich for lunch only to get the fish platter and give it to Grim. I would think she came to the library to read or research only to find her pulling out a pen to work on a paper for class. I couldn’t understand her. 

Once again, it was time to play the game. I had hidden in a large tree near mainstreet to sleep, using the people below as some sorta white noise. However, (Yuu) had entered the picture, keeping me awake. The statues had gotten dirty as migration had caused flocks of birds to pass over campus during the changing seasons, leading the headmaster to commission his little errand-runner to clean them. 

She was working on the King of Beasts' statue when I noticed that a group of sophomores had stopped to talk and loiter on the side of the street. I didn’t even notice them at first, but they kept raising their voices to force everyone around to listen.

“Maybe people wouldn’t hate her so much if she wasn’t such a bitch,” the leader of the imbeciles spat, pointing the words at (Yuu), “Maybe then she’d have someone who wants to keep her around.”

“Maybe,” another boy took (Yuu)’s lack of response as a go ahead to keep pushing, “she needs someone to put her in her place.”

The leader wasn’t even trying to hide his smirk. I couldn’t even hear what he was saying properly anymore. My head was racing. As the insults kept hurling towards her, I kept watching for a reaction. Nothing. It’s like she wasn’t even hearing them. 

On the one hand, I knew she could handle herself. Seven knows she can dish out even more than she takes. Plus, she’s dealt with more overblots than anyone with nothing more than her own physical ability to keep her safe. I knew that she could send those cocky assholes to the dirt if she really wanted to. But she didn’t. I kept waiting. 

“I would understand her ego if she wasn't such an ugly prude,” One of the boys snickered, “You would think she’d want to show off the only ‘nice’ thing about her, but she always covers up those long legs of hers.”

She ignored them again, climbing onto the statue base to get bird poop off the mane. They kept getting louder and it was starting to piss me off. They made comments that were more and more specific and vile. I knew she could handle herself, but I also knew that I could handle it. I started to run out of patience. 

“And what is with those freshmen she hangs out with?”

I finally saw her react. It was small and subtle enough to where I don’t even think the assholes saw it. But she froze for a second. I could almost see her switch from ignoring them completely to analyzing everything by the second.

“They are so stupid! I don’t think a single one of them is going to pass their classes,” the boy rolled his eyes, “Plus those guys are weak as hell. I bet any one of us could beat the shit out of any of them while the bitch just watched.”

“Say that again?” (Yuu) had finished with the mane of the statue and was now leaning against it while towering over the sophomores, “I fear my ears may be fooling me.”

“He said,” The leader took over for his friend, approaching the statue in some attempt to look threatening, “that any one of us could beat the shit out of any of those dumbass freshmen while all you did was bitch and moan about it while sobbing your eyes out.”

“Cool,” She jumped down from the statue, leaving the cleaning supplies on the base, “So now that you’ve gotten your delusions out of your system, you can start preparing for the consequences of running that shithole you call a mouth.”

“Oh really?” He got in her face, I was almost out of patience, “And what consequences are those? You getting on your knees to beg for mercy on behalf of your little boy toys?”

“Nope.”

She socked him in the face. It was a perfect attack. A clean hit to the jaw before driving her knee into his crotch. She moved back as the friends went in to make their own attacks. I actually recognized the tactics she used as she quickly dodged and hit the others. They had been the same techniques I had taught at the Bead Brawl tournament.

Soon all of them were hauling their sorry asses to the infirmary. I knew she wouldn’t get in trouble because idiots like those wouldn’t admit they got their ass handed to them by a magicless girl. 

She just moved on to start cleaning the next statue. It was like nothing had happened.

I was in one of the trees in the courtyard, once again trying to sleep while Ruggie was in PE. (Yuu) entered the courtyard in her own PE uniform, probably at a break in her schedule after her own flying class. She sat at the fountain and began reading some history book. I didn’t recognize it from Trein’s class, so I assumed it was one of her ‘fun’ reads. 

I could see a pair of Savanaclaw freshmen at a table near the fountain, and I could see them talking in hushed voices. If I had been anyone else I wouldn’t have heard them, but being me, I did.

One of the students was a jackal beastmen, “I still can’t believe that lazy prick is King Falena’s brother. I’m so glad there's no chance he’ll be king. He’d run the country into the ground.”

“Dude,” One of the other student’s joined in the conversation, “You didn’t even see his meltdown. The dude almost disintegrated Ruggie with that terrifying spell of his. He must be real fucking stupid to try and kill the one person who puts up with his lazy ass.”

I watched as (Yuu) slammed her book closed, not bothering to mark her place, “Could you twats shut your traps?”

 “Excuse me?” The second boy looked at her with disgust and confusion, “We’re having a private conversation.”

“Yeah,” She stood, “Loud enough for anyone in the school to hear. Plus, what your saying is bullshit. I’m not letting bullshit interrupt my reading during my half-an-hour of peace, solitude, and quiet.”

The beastman stood, trying to use his size to get her to back down, “Look, I’m just expressing an opinion. Why do you even care? It’s not like he’s ever done anything for you. He’s just lazy.”

“And that’s how I know you’re just imbeciles who don’t know anything other than what you’ve been told to believe,” She stared him in the eye and showed no signs of backing down, “What exactly do you expect from him? Do you expect perfection without praise? Perfection without any hope for something to come out of it? Do you expect him to make plan after plan to improve everything for everyone else only to get shot down because it’s his idea and not someone else's or because it hasn’t been done before? Do you expect him to try and improve the lives of the people who are figuratively slapping him in the face on the regular? Try to be productive while being ignored, constantly overshadowed, and being put down by everyone around you. After you do that, then you can shoot the shit all you want and I won’t complain.”

“Why are you being so defensive about this?” The other student interjected, “You of all people should know how destructive he is. You’re the one who dealt with his overblot.”

“Exactly,” She smiled a wicked smile that sent a chill through me, “I dealt with it. You cried in the corner. It’s not that he’s scary. You’re just a coward. Plus, it is rich of you to call him lazy or stupid when you are completely aware of his little scheme to win the spelldrive tournament. The plan was actually well thought out and took a good deal of effort. The only folly was that he underestimated me. And Seven knows that he never made that mistake again. He’s constantly aware of every factor he can’t predict. That takes intelligence and diligence. Now will you please give me my…” she checked a pocket watch that someone must have given her at some point, “twenty three remaining minutes of peace, solitude, and quiet?”

The freshmen were silent. The jackal-boy sat back down. An odd emotion swirled inside of me. She seemed to somewhat get it. Everything she had said about me was at least a thought that had crossed my mind at one point or another. Sure it wasn’t everything, and it wasn’t like she knew everything. However, it was odd that she could read that much of me. Especially since I thought her head was too far up her ass to see others so intimately, let alone me.

She sat back down at the fountain and the freshmen left the courtyard. Part of me hoped she would look in my direction. Show some kinda sign that she only said those things or intervened because she knew I was watching. Some part of me thought that would make it seem less personal. Make it feel like she was doing it with some ulterior motive of gaining my favor or getting me to ‘owe’ her. But she didn’t.

She just sat down and began reading again. 

She was strange.

She could handle herself. I knew that. I had seen that first hand. She could fight or outwit any of the other herbivores. But I could never understand her. 

I don’t even know what possessed me to take the bus into town. An odd craving for this one sandwich made by a local business that refuses to deliver and an absent Ruggie maybe. 

(Yuu) was also on the bus. I found myself almost following her when she got off. She had a bag with some books in it, so I assumed she was trading them in at that one bookstore full of used literature. I told myself that I was just going the same direction as her because the two businesses were near one another, but part of me knew it was just to see what she would do.

She turned the corner and ran smack into a man that was all but blocking the entrance to the bookstore. 

“Pardon me,” She didn’t smile as she moved to walk past the man.

“Hey,” Even from the distance I had put between her and myself, I could smell that the man reeked of booze. He hiccuped, “What’s the rush pretty lady? Got a hot date or something?”

“No,” She kept a neutral expression, “Just errands and a limited time to do them.”

He stopped her from moving past him, “Well then why don’t you stay a while? Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be all alone. Plus,” I could see him scan her form, “I’m sure I could find something good to entertain both of us.”

I wanted to rip his head off. He was being annoying and (Yuu) at least deserved some assistance after she went out of her way to defend me. However, I knew she could handle herself. I waited and watched for her to do something. For her to punch and kick, knocking him to the ground like those asshole sophomores. For her to talk him into the grave and bathe him in shame like she had with the freshmen. But it was nothing. She let him keep going.

“Why aren’t you smiling? Beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be frowning,” He put his arm against the wall, keeping her in place, “Come on sexy, smile for me.”

Why wasn’t she doing anything? I know she didn’t typically do what I would think she would do in any given situation, but to do nothing? What in the name of the seven was going on in her head? 

I didn’t even notice I wandered closer until (Yuu) and I made eye contact. I had never seen that look in her eyes. It wasn’t exactly fear or numbness, but an odd mix of the two. As if she had completely disassociated but some small part of her was screaming for help. I didn’t even think she realized that it was my eyes she was looking into. She only knew that it was someone who could possibly help. 

She could handle herself. But not right now.

“Hey,” I found myself gripping onto the man’s shoulder, “Leave.”

“Excuse me?” He swayed as he turned to try and confront me.

“You’re drunk, not deaf,” I nearly growled, “I told you to leave.”

“What’s your deal?” He seemed even more drunk close up, “It’s none of your business. I’m just talking to a pretty lady. What happened to being a bro and not cockblocking a perfect stranger?”

Sevens the bastard was drunk off his ass. 

“Leave before I tear your fucking head off,” I grinned to show off my teeth, “Or don’t. I don’t mind catching a charge.”

The man put his hands up in surrender, “Whatever dick cheese. A guy can’t shoot his shot with a sexy lady anymore? Sevens!” 

I didn’t take my eyes off him until he completely disappeared into the streets. I just hoped someone called the police on his ass for public intoxication or some shit.

“Leona?” (Yuu) finally spoke again, the look in her eyes replaced by her normal neutral or annoyed tone, “What are you doing here?”

“Getting a sandwich,” I put my hands in my pockets, “What else?”

She sighed, “Can we just not talk about what just happened? It’s a pain in the ass.”

I tried not to smile, “Yeah. It sure is.”

I went with her to the bookstore and she followed me to the sandwich place. The day was filled with a comfortable silence, only broken by random comments that never really led to a full conversion. It was nice. Plus, I no longer felt like I needed to pay her back for her defending me to those freshmen. It was a win-win situation. 

It still didn’t stop me from thinking about it. She had no trouble standing up to people at school for talking shit about me and her freshman. However, she seemed to completely shut down when it was about her. I didn’t get it.

She sat next to me on the bus as the sun set. She laid her head back on the seat and I could see the moment that she fell asleep. It was oddly peaceful. 

… 

I had a hard time understanding the Ramshackle prefect.

[sviebella]

✎ . 𓂃 @sviebella’s 𝐁𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐏 ֶ֢ ⸝⸝⸝

★ . . . dc, marvel & the bear!

⁺⠀⠀⠀◟⠀ DC UNIVERSE .ᐟ

I . 𝗝𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗢𝗗𝗗 : haven ( greekgod!jason )

❝ Brutality, devastation, violence — these were not mere facets of his nature but its very marrow, carved into the rhythm of his pulse and sealed with innocent blood. He was forged in wrath, the living embodiment of war’s merciless design. A boon from Zeus, or a curse laid bare by the deities: god of warfare and its violence. The mantle was his to bear. To long for aught beyond such a purpose would be only heretical. Or should be. ❞

II . 𝗝𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗢𝗗𝗗 : repression ( tw )

❝ It was no surprise Jason hadn't processed things well. Between looking after Sheila and scavenging for scraps, being adopted by a billionaire vigilante, being brutally murdered and resurrecting three years later, his mind had done what it had to: compartmentalize. The useless, the unbearable, all of it went into some rotting drawer deep in his head or straight into nothing. Maybe not a model of mental health, but did Jason care at all? He was alive and he had you. What's the whole point in bringing anything up, anyway? ❞

III . 𝗝𝗢𝗛𝗡 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗘 : off the rails

❝ Right, you could call John’s habits slightly self-destructive. Sometimes. Let’s face it, he had the self-preservation instincts of a moth flying straight into a bloody bonfire. When it came to himself, he gave as much of a toss as a gambler with nothing left to lose. But you? That was a different story. Sure, you could hold your own — he knew that damn well, or he wouldn’t have let you get tangled up in this demonic shit in the first place. Didn’t stop him from sneaking protection spells on you. Or from throwing himself headfirst into danger to keep those hellish bastards off your back. That’s what partners did. Last night, though, it all went to hell. ❞

⁺⠀⠀⠀◟⠀⠀THE BEAR .ᐟ

I . 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗘𝗡 𝗕𝗘𝗥𝗭𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗢 : costumer service

❝ Then there was you. Newly hired, smooth as hell under pressure, carrying the kind of calm most servers couldn’t fake. You handled people with this patience Carmy couldn’t really figure out — being polite without being a pushover, controlled even when the kitchen exploded into chaos. He trusted you. That’s why, when he heard yelling out front, his first thought was that you’d somehow managed to stay out of it, right? ❞

II . 𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗘 𝗝𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗩𝗜𝗖𝗛 : front staff

❝ Because every time you leaned in to explain something, he caught himself staring. Your lips, the way you moved your hands — it was distracting, fine? And when you told him he’d gotten something right? Jesus Christ, the high was just embarrassing. He felt like a puppy wagging his tail, desperate for a pat on the head. Ridiculous. All of it. This was supposed to be a lame punishment from Carmy, and now here he was, practically melting every time you said his name. What the fuck was wrong with him? ❞

⁺⠀⠀⠀◟⠀⠀MARVEL .ᐟ

I . 𝗙𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗞 𝗖𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗟𝗘 : when is it going to be my turn?

❝ You chose a lilac layette. Frank held your hand and followed you through every aisle, picking up blankets and bedspreads, tiny onesies that looked too small to fit even your palms. The diaper packs were neatly stacked on the cabinets you two painted together, though he insisted you shouldn't overexert yourself — not with the little baby curled up inside you. Sometimes, he'd run his calloused fingers over the clothes you bought, whispering about how she would look beautiful in them, and you would mumble a prayer to fate, to whatever force was kind enough to give them to you. ❞

𓄲 . thanks to @artyandink, @luvelykiki and @faiszt for helping me on this! i love you all 𖹭

[joocomics]

18+ mdni

i love his classy looks so much but they always make me think of bf!keeho taking you out on a dinner date; both of you look your best, the restaurant where he made a reservation for the two of you is elegant and has a nice romantic atmosphere, and of course - you just cannot look away from him, he looks so fine and sophisticated, fitting in just perfectly with his surroundings. other people keep staring too, wishing to be in your shoes so they can be the one getting his full attention

and then, the moment you arrive back at his place he becomes a complete mess - exactly the opposite of that graceful look he had earlier. he doesn’t care if you’re going to ruin his clothes with your arousal when he tells you to get on all fours so he can eat you out. the luxurious coat is tossed over the couch, his belt is undone, but his dress pants are still on and his black turtleneck too, being decorated with stains from your juices as he forces his mouth further into your pussy. his accessorised sticky fingers are grasping at your ass meanwhile his face turns glistening with a hint of pink blush the longer he fucks you with his warm muscled tongue; his hair becomes entirely different too especially when you get tempted to reach behind your back and pull on few strands, urging him for more

maybe he’s aware of the effects he has on you when he’s dressed up like that and that’s why he doesn’t rush to remove his clothes; maybe he also enjoys feeling you tug on them with desperation, watching you rub yourself against the fabrics and leaving spots of arousal and spit as you salivate for him…

[mourndust]

hi hi hiiiii! this is my first time publishing in tumblr! english is not my first language so i'm sorry for any mistakes, either way i've doubled checked so hope there's not many around! be kind and tell me what you think about it! reblogs and likes are always welcome. minors dni wlw content, good old finger-fuck that never fails, oral sex, spit.

it’s meaningless at first.

you don’t pay much attention to her. she’s in the corner of your eye but you’re too busy flirting, fighting your way to get a free drink since you refuse to pay for one but she’s there. you saw her fighting hours ago, and you know she’s looking.

it’s meaningless. a silent invitation that caught you off-guard cause fuck, you’re drinking a beer in peace and why the hell would anyone bug you? either way you recognize her before she’s even talking to you, a light scent of alcohol mixed up with sweat that has everything to be nasty, yet, somehow, it’s almost nice when she sits in the stool next to you.

it fills the air. surrounds you in a cloud of haze cause hell she’s good at making you pay attention, at noticing she’s there, closer.

“vi,” she says introducing herself, and it makes sense later why you’re locked up in the bathroom, why exactly you folded so fast — always so needy, so eager to please the rest—. “nice to meet you.”

she points out some shit about seeing you around in the pit-hole, how you’re always unfazed by the place, always pretty, always unavailable, and she’s getting you, caught you in her bare hands cause you don’t know why you’re letting her follow you to the bathroom like a lost puppy, but it’s good cause you want it, as soon as her magenta hues touch your bare fingers and she’s laughing, making the most amazing sound you’ve heard in a while, you’re all in.

you crave casual. can someone blame you? world’s crazy out there, and you don’t really do it commonly but man — you just want to have fun with her, commit to the strange magnetism that connects you every night to this girl. so you let her do it, let her rough hands lock the door, roam over your sides as she ends wirh the space left between you and her own body.

it’s nice. tuesdays are slow, not many people gamble around so the place is not really crowded, and it’s even refreshing when she pushes her knee between your legs like she didnt know it was fucking heaven, lifting you up to the counter as she relish on the taste of kissing you, god — her kisses are soft even when there’s a certain sloppiness lingered to them, some roughness she tries to keep in line but slips away for the moment, demanding and demanding as she got lost in the sensation, the smell of your perfume, that shampoo you liked and began using religiously.

can you blame violet too? fuck. caitlyn’s been fucking up her life since she went full weirdo mode and stop talking thanks to the thirst of revenge, and vi’s been having so much in her life lately she just need to pull the switch down in her brain, shut it off at least for twenty minutes and not depend on the amount of booze she’s lately depending on, actual human touch.

so you? you are similar to an oasis in plain dessert.

“there you go, so good for just a few kisses,” vi points out to praise the way your hips move seeking for a bit more friction, driving her insane as the fabric of your jeans rub against the black pants of the fighter—. “help me get you out of this.”

violet’s a force of nature, crawling under your skin as her bandaged hands struggle with the button of your jeans, taking a second or two to actually get you out of the thick fabric that’s only annoying her. the contact of her skin soothes the sting of pure need and she has the audacity of taking time, alluring as she places soft kisses over the crook of your neck like she’s really imprinting the curves of your body in her memories, the soft and smooth flesh that you posses, the moles and that tiny underwear that only fuels her desire to keep taking what she wants.

surely vi thrives on making you a mess, talks a lot a when your brain becomes a pile of erratic thoughts. the music is so loud outside you can hear the bass bouncing on the walls, making them shake as the air is filled by the sound of your moans, the way the fighter’s mouth sucks on your skin only to leave red marks she hopes to see on the next days in the pit.

"fuck's sake," she says looking at the slick mark on her jeans — "you made a mess on my knee-" it's noticiable when she point it out, the fabric is slightly darker on the zone and it was visible when you put some attention to it — "how are you going to fix this huh? it's your mess, your problem."

clearly she’s all bark and bite.

"talk baby, you can do it. i'm not even fucking you yet," she demands when you're too zoned out to say something. "tell me how are you going to fix the mess you made on my knee."

"don't care" you answer soon after. "i'll think of something after- please vi."

your voice is rough, raspy by the delicious sounds you make when she's spreading you open, using a hand to keep you steady over the sink as she raises your shirt from over your chest.

“after? after what?”

she kneads one of your breasts in her hand, squeezing the bare flesh before taking it in her mouth, the warm sensation spreading all over your spine: formalities are now left aside to let over that primal need take over, so you're pulling her poorly-dyed black hair closer, even when she bites and uses her tongue as a method to make the sting hurt less, moving to one breast to another — you just want her as possibly close.

and your jeans are hanging in the air holding by one leg only, black paint smeared on your tummy as her kisses now become more desperate, careless about their repercussions or what they stained as her mouth seems to follow this invisible path back to your cunt.

she's good at teasing, make you work for it, whispering praises all over your skin like she's not even close to have all that she wants with you in that hot bathroom. the fighter kneels only to be more comfortable, using her hands to spread you open, tasting you from over your underwear — only to have a taste and mainly, because the fabric there it's almost non-existent: mental kudos to you.

you've become a teenage boy at that point. driven by words and gentle touches, the flick of her tongue as she moves eagerly travelling from your aching hole to your clit, casually rubbing the tip of her nose as she delves deeper, pulling your underwear to the side when she hears you say some erratic words of praising: she needs validation.

the fighter don't have to spit, but she does it anyway, soaking up her own fingers with saliva like they aren't already soaked with your arousal, hooking up her thumb in your entrance to stretch you out, moving it back and forth in almost a cruel, sweet torture, almost making sure you're going to beg to be filled at some point, all needy and pliable only cause you need her fingers inside.

"can you lift up your leg?" vi knows it's a greedy question, but she says it anyways in hope you'll comply, and you clearly do when you're clinging in the sink, trying to not lose balance when one leg stays in the floor and the other one is holded over the fighter's shoulder, the cold leather of her jacket pressing against your tight as you rest it over her back—. "good girl, you okay there?"

the wet sounds her mouth do left you nothing but stupid, her half lidded eyes following every involuntary movement your body makes as she moves between your soaked folds: how much is going to take for you to cum all over her face? soak her lips with the prettiest lip gloss?

"vi..." she knows what you're whining for, the pleaded tone that stained your words. she's hoping to be the cure of all your aches, comply every little thing you ask for. her fingers fill your core, sucking them in as you clench around the intrusion, and fuck. fuck it's just what you needed, the way they curl all the way in, rubbing on that nice spot she wastes no time in finding.

how can a fucking hand feel this good? makes your brain melt as your hips move in search of release, lost in the lewd sounds of your cunt, the way she find a way to comfortably eat you like a regular meal, how you shake and move against her mouth and that faces. violet’s been looking at all since she decided to put her damn knees on that filthy ass floor.

she gets off by your orgasm pouring in.

fucking soaked in her pants as she helps you ride the tidal waves that pours over you, that shake your body and makes you weak in the knees, struggling to keep on your feet as vi holds you still. and oh how she loves it. loves how she made a mess out of you, how she fucked up your defenses like they were nothing, and fuck it’s so nice.

she kisses your stomach, the marks she made before now red against her teeth, tracing up a path of kisses back to your mouth, cause she simply cannot get enough, she’s ready to keep going, take more if she wasn’t in a dirty bathroom.

your breathing is still heavy as you get off the sink, vi’s hand still on your hips as she pulls you closer, stealing a kiss that in contrast, is nothing but slow and fucking hot — and you wonder, by a whole damn minute, how the fuck is she so good at everything? kissing, teasing, touching, eating pussy-

“get your pants off,” you say, looking back at the stain on her knee with crimson cheeks—. “you cannot go out looking like that.”

violet tilts her head slightly backwards as the sound of her laugh fills the bathroom walls, shaking her head in disapproval — “it’s not really necessary. kinda like having a reminder of you.”

it’s a great tuesday, yeah that’s for sure.

so it’s not weird at all when it becomes usual the rest of the week.

[robot-roadtrip-rants]

Because I am a CHUMP and a FOOL I went and watched the short after I finished your video. It brought up a lot of memories from my youth. As some of your commenters noted, Amberlynn is a stereotype from the aughts, not from the 20s. I saw jokes like Amberlynn all over the place when I was a teen. I remember the fandom and the fangirls who inspired the Amberlynn jokes. Let me tell you about the world--well, the US--that the real-life Amberlynns grew up in.

This is the era of abstinence-only education. Purity balls are in the news, and Disney Channel pop stars are wearing purity rings. When Amberlynn is a teenager, her teachers tells her that people who have pre-marital sex are like chewed-up gum. When she turns on the TV, she hears Miley Cyrus announcing that True Love Waits. If her family goes to church, she may have been issued a promise ring. Amberlynn is a nerdy girl; she may be reading fantasy/sci-fi novels with smutty content, like I did when I was a teen. And she may have to hide those novels from her parents, like my friends did, or else they'll get taken away--she's too young for that filth.

But there's this wonderful new thing called the Internet. It opens up all kinds of amazing doors. Amberlynn has been composing adventures about her favorite characters in her head for years, and now she learns--she's not the only one! There's this whole site, fanfiction.net, where people post all the adventures they composed for their fandoms. Some of it--gulp!--is pornographic. And there's this thing called a "blog"--it's sort of like an anonymous online diary. Amberlynn can post whatever she likes, and no one will know it's her! Best of all, her parents have no idea what she's getting up to on the computer. They're probably not Internet literate. If Amberlynn is careful, they'll never find out about all the filthy, disgusting smut she's reading and writing, they'll never know all the fucked up, angsty thoughts that she lets out on her Livejournal.

And all that filthy, disgusting smut that she's writing...well, there's kind of a running theme. Whether het or slash, the top is always a dominant, sexually aggressive man forcing his attentions on a shy, innocent, submissive bottom (either woman or uke). The bottom always cries and struggles and insists that they totally don't want to have sex, but when the top keep harassing them, they slowly give up the fight. They can't help themselves, it just feels too good to be kissed, felt up, penetrated. Pretty fucked up, right? Why on earth would anyone write such problematic, rape-excusing shit?

I want you to go back and reread my second paragraph, and I want you to think about what that does to a teenage girl. What it's like to be told that having sex is like being chewed up and thrown away like gum, to hear pop stars on TV tell you that "not everyone, guy or girl, wants to be a slut!" You're looking at the boys around you and you're wondering what it would be like to touch and be touched, and everything around you tells you those desires are Wrong and Bad and Slutty. That's what Amberlynn is going through right now. Good Girls don't have sex. Good Girls don't even want sex. But hey...if a really hot guy forced really good sex on you...well...it's not your fault, right? Not even if you enjoyed it.

Amberlynn isn't the first girl to unconsciously follow this line of thought. This shit predates the Internet by centuries. I'm dead serious, you can find Regency romance novels that follow the same formula. Dubcon/noncon gives women who have been raised in repressive environments an excuse to enjoy sexual fantasies without feeling shitty about their natural urges. A lack of agency means a lack of guilt.

Now, the Internet offers Amberlynn a degree of freedom to express herself that she may not have felt beforehand. But it isn't 100% free. Early on in her geeky Internet journey, Amberlynn is going to learn that not all geeks are created equal. There's a hierarchy.

See, geeks in the aughts really REALLY want everyone to know that they're Not Like Other Geeks. Society hadn't atomized into a million little niches yet; there was much greater pressure to conform to "normal." Geeks weren't "normal." And the way we handled that was to cannibalize our own.

One of the best ways to demonstrate normality is to find an even weirder person and mock them for their normality. So that's what we did. I say "we" because I definitely participated. I laughed at all the furry jokes. I sneered at the OCs and the self-inserts. I'm guessing Vivziepop did, too. We were geek kids learning how to be geek adults, and our only model was, well, The Geek Hierarchy. And it was really, really important to reaffirm our normality because, deep down inside, we knew we were at the bottom of the hierarchy.

Geek girls are abnormal. Geek girls are intruders into male spaces. Geek girls write fanfiction (ew!) about boys kissing (EW!), and they obsess over hot male characters (EW EW EW!!). It's normal for (straight!) dudes to thirst over sexy female leads, to draw dirty fanart, or to even write their favorite male character kicking ass and getting allllll the pussy in 50-chapter sagas that everyone praises. But a woman doing the same to male characters? Or worse, writing them as a f****t? Disgusting.

(I'm sticking to the cishet perspective here because that was my experience, but TRUST ME, there were queer issues a-plenty. Not a few of the Amberlynns of my era were using fic spaces to figure out their sexualities and/or gender identities. I don't think I can describe those experiences, but I want you to know they were happening.)

So if you're a geek girl in the aughts, you never, ever, ever talk about your fic to anyone outside your fanfic circle. You definitely don't discuss dirty fic, or self-inserts, or slash. You never talk about your ships, you never crack certain jokes, you never give people your Livejournal (or Tumblr, or AO3, or...). And when other nerds mock those FREAKS and WEIRDOS obsessing too much over their smutty headcanons and ships and whatnot, you nod and smile. You comply with the Geek Hierarchy.

Amberlynn doesn't comply. Amberlynn chooses violence.

By the time we meet Amberlynn in her twenties, she has long since abandoned any pretense of normality. She proudly wears her fandom merch. She covers her walls in monsterfucker posters. She has the gall to watch pornography. And--gasp!--she has kinky, gross fantasies, and she wants to be desired. She is every stereotype of gross girl geeks piled into one character.

Are we going to discuss how geek girls have used fandom spaces to explore their sexualities for decades? Are we going to discuss how purity culture has impacted those explorations? Are we even going to bring up how so, so many people who have issues with organized religion will latch onto Hell/paganism/magic/whatever their childhood faith told them was Bad? No. Amberlynn has grievously violated the Geek Hierarchy. She needs to be punished. She needs to be made an example of what not to do.

I may be swinging a bat at a hornet's nest here but comparing the Weeaboo-boo short to literally any Hunter: The Parenting episode, especially Boy Story or any episode with Grimal in it, really makes the difference clear. That short sucked so much ass, mostly due to mean-spirited misogyny.

[blueskrugs]

I Know I Could Have Loved You | Brock Boeser

at long last, it's here! this is my fic for @wyattjohnston's winter fic exchange, written for @one-night-story! Once again, I am SO sorry this is a bit late, but I had a really brutal week.

I hope you enjoy!!

length: 2000 words

You met Brock Boeser in 2015 when you were both freshmen at the University of North Dakota.

He wasn't your best friend at first. 

In fact, he'd rolled his eyes and when you were forced to partner with him for a stupid project in your intro to stats course. You don't remember exactly when he did become your friend, but  before you knew it your weekends were spent watching hockey games, then going out for fast food french fries with Brock, or lounging in each other's dorm rooms while you did homework. (Or while you did homework, and Brock pretended to do his own.) 

You don't know when you fell in love with Brock Boeser, either, just that you did.

Brock dated a few people while at UND, like most of the hockey players did. They stuck around for a few weeks or months before disappearing. Brock never bothered to introduce you to any of them. You tried to not let it bother you. 

“You should move to Vancouver, "Brock said suddenly one summer day. He'd signed his ELC just a few months prior—instead of returning to UND with you in the fall, he’d be off to Vancouver for training camp with the Canucks. 

You were both tanning by the lake, and you lowered your sunglasses to look sideways at Brock. He wouldn't meet your eyes.

"Brock, some of us have to actually finish college before getting a job," you said. You still had 2 years before graduation. "And why the hell should I move to Vancouver?"

Brock shrugged, all forced nonchalance. "Well, I'll be there."

You scoffed. "Sure, from October to April." You didn't know anyone in Vancouver, excluding Brock, who only counted during hockey season anyway.

"But I'll miss you," Brock argued. "What am I supposed to do without you?"

"I think you'll manage just fine, Boes," you told him. "You survived this long without me before we met, didn't you? You can keep surviving now, too."

Brock pouts at you, but doesn't argue the point further, so you think that's the end of it. You put your sunglasses back in place on the bridge of your nose and settle back against your chair. You can’t deny that it leaves a nice fuzzy feeling in your chest that Brock thinks he’ll miss you so much that he’s begging you to join him in Vancouver.

Brock doesn’t bring it up again that summer, or for the next two years as you’re finishing up college, and you forget about the whole thing. The years pass; you graduate. 

Brock comes to your graduation party, kisses you on the cheek, and spends the afternoon charming your parents and your friends from high school and from UND. Brock always manages to stay within your orbit, never more than arm’s reach away from you. It’s nice, to have him back at your side like this. 

It's only when the party is over and Brock is helping clean up that he springs the question on you again.

"Have you thought about it at all?" he asks, apropos of absolutely fucking nothing.

You've had a few drinks, and it takes your brain a few seconds to catch up. "What?" you ask. "Thought about what?"

“Moving to Vancouver with me."

You already have a job lined up in your hometown. You haven't thought even once of moving to Vancouver instead.

"Brock, I can't just move to another country."

"What if I want you to?“

"Oh, sure, that will go over well on a visa application. ‘Because my bestfriend wants me to.’"

Brock sticks his tongue out at you.

"You should at least come and visit me," he pleads, "I really think you'll love it."

You roll your eyes at Brock. "I guess I can make time to visit,” you say, ignoring Brock's exaggerated cheer before he squishes you into a hug.

Brock manages to talk you into visiting him in June, because—in his words— "It's prettier in the summer."

He's not exactly wrong, you have to admit, after a week of traipsing around the city with Brock. You're watching a firework show with your head on Brock's shoulder when you realize you're starting to picture yourself in Vancouver, starting a real life here.

"D'you really think I could get a job here?” you murmur to Brock during a pause in the fireworks.

"What?” Brock asks. He turns to you. His blond hair glows in the light of the fireworks overhead. "Never mind,” you whisper back.

You begin searching for jobs in Vancouver that night, in the quiet darkness of Brock's spare bedroom.

Before you know it, you've lined up the perfect job—even better than the one you'd originally found back home, not that you'll ever tell Brock that—and Brock has helped you find an apartment in the city. 

"It's not far from me,” Brock had told you when he was helping you move in, "so you can come over and walk Milo and Coolie whenever."

"Oh, is that the real reason you wanted me to move out here?” you tease. "Free dog walking?"

Brock shrugs innocently but chuckles. "Well, I need someone to watch them when we're on road trips and stuff.”

You throw a wad of bubble wrap at him.

Later, while you and Brock are eating pizza on your living room floor, Brock flops into his back and sighs. You poke him in the head with your foot.

"You good, buddy?” you ask.

"What do you think of dating apps?” Brock says, which isn't really an answer.

You've always been too scared to try dating apps yourself. Instead of telling Brock that, you say, "You're a professional athlete.” And a very attractive one, but you don’t say that part. "What do you need dating apps for?”

Brock looks up at you from his sprawl on your floor. "Because I'm tired of being single?” he asks.

You flip him off. You don't say, I'm single, too, you could always date me. You got used to putting aside your feelings for Brock a long time ago.

"And you think dating apps are the solution? You didn't have any issues getting people to date you in North Dakota.”

Brock rolls his eyes. "I didn't play for the Canucks, then. It's all people I meet now seem to care about.”

You're still not sure how dating apps will solve that problem.

As if he hears your unspoken question, Brock continues. "At least this way, I can weed out puck bunnies or whatever a lot faster, instead of wasting my time.” He cranes his neck around so he can look at you directly. "So will you help me or not?” 

You think you'd rather get stabbed directly in the heart than to help Brock date someone else, but you never could say no to him.

"Fine, whatever,” you say. "Gimme your phone.” 

You're already regretting your decision less than ten minutes later as you watch Brock scroll through his camera roll to add pictures to his profile.

"You can't use your official headshot!” you tell him, trying to snatch his phone. "People are going to think they're getting catfished.”

"I don't have a lot of good pictures of myself!” Brock protests.

You've nixed three more photos—all pictures Brock has evidently stolen from the team's social media—("Why the hell do you save all these, anyway?”)—when Brock throws his hands up and passes you his phone.

"You do it then,” he tells you.

Brock's own camera roll is obviously useless, so you pull out your own phone. It only takes a few minutes of scrolling for you to pluck a handful of good photos out of your camera roll and Airdrop them to Brock. He's looking at you a little strangely when you hand his phone back.

"What?” you ask.

"I didn't know you took so many pictures of me,” he says. 

"I don't take that many,” you defend weakly. It's not like you have an entire album on your phone of pictures of him, or anything. 

Brock drops the subject, but you still feel uneasy as you continue helping him finish his profile. The two of you spend almost an hour bickering over which prompts to choose or the answers Brock writes for them before Brock deems his profile "good enough”.

"'Good enough?'” you argue. “This profile is a masterpiece,” you declare. "We'll get you cuffed in time for Christmas.”

Brock snorts at you. "All thanks to you,” he says, smacking a kiss to your cheek.

You try not to feel any particular way about it.

Brock spends the next few weeks bringing you his dating app matches to "approve.” He even shows you some of the funny ones—mostly girls tripping over themselves for the chance to sleep with The Brock Boeser of the Vancouver Canucks. He gets a lot of matches. 

You try to muster the appropriate enthusiasm for Brock, as he seems to be throwing himself into this endeavor with all the energy he throws into hockey.

It's hard, though, when all you can do is compare yourself to them. You wonder what Brock sees in them that he’s never seen in you.

Brock never seems to notice if your encouragement is lackluster.

Matches turn into a revolving door of first dates for Brock. A few times, first dates turn into second dates, and even into a third date or two. 

You force yourself to stop obsessively keeping track of his dates, and to pretend like each date he goes on doesn't drive the knife even deeper into your heart.

Brock's in the middle of telling you about his latest date—you think he’s been seeing this person for nearly a month—when he stops abruptly in the middle of a sentence.

"Are you okay?” he asks.

"Yeah? Why wouldn't I be?” you say. It doesn’t sound very confident, even to your ears. 

"You've got that look on your face, the one where you're mad at me, but trying to pretend that you're not.”

You try to arrange your face into something more neutral.

"I'm not mad at you, Brock,” you say. You don't think he believes you. 

"So why do you always get all—” Brock gestures vaguely at your face. “—pissy whenever I talk about my dates?”

"I do not! And besides, I didn't know moving to Vancouver meant a front row seat to your dating life! Don't you have teammates to talk about this shit with?”

Brock scoffs. "They don't care about my dating life, and, apparently, neither do you.” 

"Brock, it's not that I don't care—” 

Brock cuts you off. "Then what is it?”

"I care too much!”

"What?” he says.

"Dammit, Brock, why don't you want to date me?” you snap.

Brock shakes his head. You probably shouldn't have said that.

"What do you mean?” he asks slowly.

"You heard me the first time, Boeser. Why are you searching all over Vancouver for someone to date when I've been here the whole time?” 

Brock takes a step closer to you. You take a step backwards; your kitchen is small, and you end up trapped against the counter.

"The whole time? "Brock repeats dumbly.

You could slap him. "Yes, Brock. Boy, it's a good thing you're pretty and good at hockey, because you can be really stupid sometimes.”

"Hang on,” Brock says. He's moved even closer. "How was I supposed to know?”

"Do you think I'd more to another country for anyone?” you ask.

"Oh,” Brock says. Then he says, "For how long?”

"Huh?”

“How long have you been in love with me?” Brock asks.

“I don't know, sometime freshman year, I guess.” There was never really a lightbulb moment for you; your feelings for Brock grew and morphed so slowly you almost didn't notice until it was too late.

Brock kisses you then, crushing you up against the cabinets with the force of it. His hands are warm on your hips, his lips gentle and firm against yours.

You pull away, a little breathless.

Brock grins at you. “If I had known this was an option, I would have kissed you a long time ago.”

"So, can we delete that dating app now?” you ask, forehead resting on Brock's shoulder.

"We can do whatever you want,” Brock says, leaning in to kiss you again.

You suppose deleting his dating profile can wait a little while.

[azrielmasterlist]

His Shadows & Their Starlight

Storyline:-(Ver.2.0) Azriel is sitting next to Elain as you sit by the fireplace reading. You've been staying with Azriel, Cassian, and Rhysand for the past two months in Velaris. You're a mortal but Rhysand says you have different abilities that no mortal should be able to have. For example, winnowing or teleporting. Azriel is in love with Elain Archeron even though Elain already has a mate.

Word count:- 1.13k

Warnings:- Insecurity, Lonliness, Jealousy, Angst.

Series:- Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7

Chapter 8: The Storm Within

Isla's POV

The storm began quietly, like most do—not in the sky, but in the depths of my chest, a swirling, tightening feeling that made it hard to breathe. I didn't need to look out at the darkening skies of Velaris to know something was brewing. I felt it in the air, heavy and charged with unspoken tension.

I found myself in the great hall of the House of Wind, my fingers brushing along the edge of the bannister as I peered out into the distance. The rain hadn't started yet, but the wind whispered its warning through the mountains, teasing strands of my hair loose from my braid.

Azriel was somewhere in the house, though I didn't know exactly where. I hadn't seen him all day, but I knew he was near. I could always tell when he was close—the shadows always gave him away.

I sighed, leaning against the cool stone railing. Ever since our last conversation, things had shifted between us, though not in the way I'd hoped. He'd opened up just enough to let me glimpse the storm within him, but then he'd retreated, more distant than ever. Yet his shadows still lingered around me, a silent contradiction to the walls he tried to rebuild.

"Lost in thought again?" Mor's voice pulled me from my reverie.

I turned to find her standing a few feet away, a knowing smile on her lips. She always seemed to know when something was weighing on me, and tonight was no exception.

"Something like that," I admitted, forcing a small smile.

She joined me at the railing, her gaze sweeping over the city below. "You know, Velaris has seen its share of storms. They come and go, but the city always endures." She shot me a sideways glance. "People are the same. We endure, even when the storms feel like they'll tear us apart."

I didn't respond right away, but her words settled in my chest, resonating with the storm I felt brewing inside me. Before I could say anything, though, the sound of raised voices drifted up from the lower floors.

I tensed, recognizing one of the voices immediately. Rhysand.

And the other... Azriel.

Mor's expression darkened. "Stay here," she said firmly, but I was already moving.

Ignoring her protests, I made my way down the winding staircase, my heart pounding with every step. The tension in the air thickened with each passing second, and by the time I reached the main hall, it felt almost suffocating.

Rhysand stood at the centre of the room, his usual calm demeanour replaced by something sharper, more commanding. Azriel stood across from him, his shadows coiling tightly around him like a living barrier.

"You can't keep doing this, Azriel," Rhys said, his voice low but laced with authority. "You're not just hurting yourself—you're hurting her."

Her. I knew he meant me, and the realization made my breath hitch.

Azriel didn't respond right away, but I saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. His shadows flickered wildly, betraying the storm within him.

"You think I don't know that?" he finally said, his voice rough, strained. "You think I don't feel it every time I see her?"

Rhysand's expression softened, but only slightly. "Then stop running from it. Stop hiding behind what you think you should feel and face what's right in front of you."

I wanted to step forward, to say something, but I was rooted in place, torn between wanting to comfort Azriel and respecting the space he so desperately clung to.

"She deserves more than what I can give her," Azriel said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm... I'm not whole, Rhys. I never have been."

Rhysand's gaze softened further, a rare glimpse of vulnerability in the High Lord. "None of us are whole, Az. We all carry our scars. But that doesn't mean we don't deserve happiness. It doesn't mean we don't deserve love."

For a moment, there was only silence, the weight of Rhysand's words hanging in the air like the calm before the storm.

Azriel didn't say anything, but I saw the way his shadows stilled as if absorbing every word. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his shadows trailing behind him like a cloak.

I stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. Part of me wanted to chase after him, to demand that he stop running. But another part of me knew that this was something he had to face on his own.

"He cares about you, Isla," Rhysand said gently, drawing my attention back to him. "More than he's willing to admit. Give him time."

I nodded slowly, though it did little to ease the ache in my chest.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Later that night, I found myself standing outside Azriel's door, hesitating. I didn't know what I was going to say, but I knew I couldn't leave things as they were. I raised my hand to knock, but before I could, the door opened, and I found myself face-to-face with him.

His expression was guarded, but there was something in his eyes—something raw, unspoken.

"Can we talk?" I asked softly.

He stepped aside, letting me in without a word. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the small fire crackling in the hearth. His shadows lingered in the corners, but they didn't seem as restless as before.

"I heard what you said to Rhys," I began, turning to face him. "And I get it. You're scared. But so am I, Azriel. I'm scared of being in a world where I don't belong. I'm scared of these powers I don't understand. But more than that, I'm scared of losing you before I ever really had you."

He didn't respond right away, but I saw the way his shadows moved, reaching out toward me like they always did. It was as if they couldn't help themselves, drawn to me in a way that mirrored the connection I felt with him.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to be what you need."

"You don't have to be perfect, Azriel," I said, taking a step closer. "I'm not asking you to be. I just want you to let me in. To stop pushing me away."

For a moment, he didn't say anything. But then he closed the distance between us, his shadows wrapping around us both like a protective cocoon.

"I'll try," he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. "I don't know if I can give you everything you deserve, but I'll try."

And as his shadows enveloped me, I felt something shift—a glimpse of truth, a promise of something more.

The storm within us hadn't passed, but for the first time, it felt like we were facing it together. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Taglist:- @donnadiddadog@onebadassunicorn-blog@wintersquirrel@rcarbo1

[iscdisc]

Little bit of a 2012 rant / tangent with this one- LMAO

I genuinely loathe the writers of this show painting Za-Naron (The Aeon that was housed inside of the crystal that April was given during Season 4-) as this "evil entity" or "evil being" when I genuinely disagree-??

It makes me sad because I feel like Za-Naron was more of a victim than the show acknowledges? My biggest reason for thinking this is because of the fact that things seemed fine / copesthetic with Za-Naron while April was still in Space. I also think it helped that they didn't stay in one place / planet for too long during the Space Arc, which could have also prevented any corruption with Za-Naron during that timeframe. But then when April returns to Earth, of course she's going to stay there permanently / for a WAY longer amount of time because that's her home. The show even states that Earth (More specifically humanity-) was the sole cause of Za-Naron's deterioration (From basically, "City At War" to "The Power Inside Her"-). Za-Naron couldn't just leave, you know-?? She was essentially powerless and helpless during this time, and was ultimately forced to be corrupted,,

I'm not saying that this was entirely April's fault, because it's not like April can control the fact that Aeons are kind of fragile to environments that don't necessarily benefit them- But I do think her attachment to the Aeon crystal and the fact that she enjoyed the power boost that she got from Za-Naron's power did play a significant part in Za-Naron's downward spiral,,

I also wish April wasn't painted as such a victim in this entire situation, personally-?? I know a lot of people like to point out that Za-Naron's corruption was the biggest reason as to why April was acting "out of character", but personally I disagree for two reasons. One, we've seen April have shitty moments before the Aeon crystal was given to her in Season 4 (Not that the show necessarily likes to acknowledge them as bad moments from her- 🙄). So it's not like she's entirely innocent or incapable of having these types of reactions / bad attitudes, not to mention the fact that it rarely gets addressed by her friends at all (And if we're being speculative I personally think she knows that they don't call her out on anything-?? That's why I personally think it was so easy for her to keep the crystal despite everyone pretty much acknowledging that it was bad for her, because when she tells them to leave her alone, they actually listen. But let this be any other character than April and they would've forcefully taken that crystal away post haste, dude. 💀). And two, April's still human at the end of the day- I feel like she should've been allowed to be an asshole and it not be because of some outside influence-? I think this would have been a great way to stray away from this "perfect / flawless" persona that they like to associate with her character so badly. April should be allowed to have moments where she acts out and does things that are messed up simply because she's having an immature moment / she's clearly still is growing as a person. Just like everyone else.

That's what's super upsetting about this entire Aeon crystal Arc with April for me, because I feel like instead of these writers painting April as a victim (yet again) of an alien possessing her / it being a, "There was nothing she could have done- Oh no ! Poor April ! 😢" type of scenario, this Arc should have been about her having a really terrible moment as a character and growing from it / truly taking accountability and solving the issue herself. I think this should have been about her feeling weak and growing attached to the power and competence she gained from Za-Naron / Za-Naron's power. This would have made sense?? Not only could this have been a good callback to April during Season 2 when she was expressing frustration with the Turtles always helping her during combat (i.e. "The Kraang Conspiracy"-), but we also had this issue be revisited in the same Season with "City At War" and her feeling incompetent / not where she wants to be yet again (Which "City At War" this is a whole other can of worms, because I hate this episode too. They could have done so many things differently, and I don't know why they chose to do this episode the way that they did- 💀).

I guess to summarize, I think April should've properly owned up to the fact that she did mess up as well in this situation (Because I know Za-Naron was not entirely innocent and her way of thinking wasn't okay, but I'm not surprised by that given that she's an ancient alien species and probably has a very straightforward / tunnel vision kind of logic-) and Za-Naron maybe should have been sent back to Space / her home planet to recover from such a traumatic incident. Or something. 👍 Lmao

[hannahssimblr]

The next day, I find myself there again, following the path from the beach to the wellness centre, through the hallways and to the back of the room. The guru, again, saying his bit about the present moment, and me, cross-legged at the back of the room, trying to observe it. 

My breath, my legs, my arms, my face, determined to focus, but unfocussing anyway, mind whipping away, spiralling, pirouetting like paper on the wind. This time, I stay twenty-three minutes, and then spend the day exploring. Afternoon, I eat a bowl of noodles in a restaurant without a top on, bare feet blackened from dirty floors. 

I meet an Irish tourist there, a freckled faced girl, thick, rural accent, says she’s from Tullamore.

“Tullamore,” I echo, stomach flipping. “I know some people from there.” And give her the short list, Shane and Kelly Healy, Claire O’Gorman, tacking Evie Kilbride to the end, a desperate plea for intel disguised as afterthought.

“Don’t know an Evie, but my sister’s friend went out with a fella called Declan Kilbride before. Could be some relation.”

“No, I dunno. You don’t know her, it’s fine.” I could go on about her, this girl I knew for a while. Evie, from Tullamore, like you are. I’ve a girlfriend now, though, Danish girl, and I’m in love with her. Sometimes, though, I imagine what could have been if I had acted differently last autumn. Not that I regret it, I just wonder. It’s probably normal to visualise other avenues sometimes, the road untraveled, don’t you think? Veronica? Is that what you said your name was? Do you think I’m normal? Do I seem normal to you?

She clearly doesn’t. I’m shirtless and shoeless at a noodle restaurant, bits of sunburnt skin peeling from the bridge of my nose, long, knotted hair like some kind of beach hobo wandered into civilisation. I act aloof until she goes away, leaving me to finish my meal. Then, aimlessly once again, I wander the island until sundown. 

On the third day, the meditators greet me. 

“You’re the little dude that keeps leaving before the end,” one says, and I respond with a sheepish smile. “Well, I’m back for another crack at it.” 

Jonas is with me today, colour back in his cheeks, fresh from his morning shower, fed and hydrated. This time, because of peer pressure, I stay until the end of the session, though with no improvement. Thoughts seeming louder, somehow, like rubber balls bouncing around the inside of my skull for the duration of the session. 

The fourth day, we join an evening session on the beach, the sand slowly cooling around us as the ocean shimmers crimson under the setting sun. There, it is easier to immerse myself in the present, the breeze, the birds, the waves whispering through pebbles on the shore, nevertheless, every sound reminds me of something else, the past reaching out and holding my face, forcing me to look at it. I sit in place long after the others have left, staring, unseeing, at the horizon. 

“Was it better today?” Jonas says, so quiet my by side prior to speaking, I assumed he had nodded off. 

“No, I’m still bad at it. I’m still thinking all the time.”

“You don’t need to keep coming back if you don’t want it. If it is annoying you, or you are not getting anything from it, then you can simply stop.”

“Hm. I like the idea of not thinking.”

He nods. “A quiet mind.”

“Yeah, exactly. I think it’s annoying me, meditation, like, because I’ve realised how absolutely batshit wild my head is. I’m always just… thinking about things.”

“That’s probably most people.”

“Most, but not all. I want to be part of the few that can control it.”

He makes a noncommittal sound and stretches out on the sand. Foliage lining the shore rustles in the balmy wind, and little grains of sand lift, sprinkling over my bare feet. What a beautiful place. Heart stopping, breath stealing beauty, with those mystical rocks rising steeply from the sea, and yet I’ve found myself in a mood since we touched down. Distracted, restless, unhappy. I express this to Jonas, the frustration, my near certainty I am immune to good feelings and enjoyment. 

“You always seem like that,” he points out. “Not just this week.”

“Oh.”

“You’re the most haunted man I know.”

Self-conscious, now, I rake up a handful of sand and squeeze it, focussing on the rushing sensation through my fist to avoid seeming too interested in his opinion of me. “Oh, am I? How do you mean?”

“Ever since we met, you have seemed troubled. I thought maybe you were feeling unsteady after moving, but you still seem that way. I hope it is okay to say that.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“I used to try to ask you about yourself, in case you needed to talk about it, but you never wanted to share, so I stopped.”

“Yeah, that was a weird time for me, back then, to be honest with you.”

He pauses a while, then encourages me with a cautious “yeah?”

“It’s weird, because I thought I was fine about it now, and I am fine about it, but something about being on my own so much this month has me feeling like I’m back there a bit. I’m, like, saddled with all that old shit again. And the summer and the sea and...” I trail off, gesturing lamely towards the ocean, as though it means something to him.

“What is it about?”

A sigh, or a laugh, or some combination at the ridiculousness of what I am about to admit. Something he could have guessed, and I’m sure he’ll think is quintessentially me.

“A girl,” I say. “There was this girl in Ireland.”

Jonas is quiet. I feel his eyes on me, but don’t meet them. I grab more handfuls of sand to soothe myself. “It was so weird though, because we–she wasn’t my girlfriend or anything. She was just this girl I liked. And maybe–if I hadn’t moved to Berlin. We… I…” Breaking off, embittered. “Doesn’t matter, though. I have Astrid now.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make feelings about other people go away like magic.”

“It’s not… I don’t love this girl anymore. I don’t even know if I did to begin with, but it’s like she’s always there somewhere in my head, like some ghost not knowing it's dead, not moving on. It bothers me not knowing what could have been.”

“You think you would be together if things were different?”

“If I wasn’t an idiot, maybe, but maybe not. We were in different places in our lives, and she was really young. A year and a half younger than me, which is whatever, but she was young in a different way. Like, she was all having fights with her friends and stressing out about random drama and what things people were saying to each other. Things for me were already so much different than that. She was fun, though. It was easy.”

“Yeah?”

“Man, she was so funny. She made me laugh all the time. She used to come out with all these things, like awkward things she’d done or various thoughts she was having throughout the day, and they were always batshit thoughts, like, not at all normal things. Hilarious. And she'd ask me after, all embarrassed of herself, if it was normal, and I'd burst out laughing and tell her honestly, like, no. And the way she’d say this stuff. Like she knew it was fucking weird, and it was, but it was what I liked most about her. She felt like she could share it with me. I dunno who else she talked to in that way.” I hesitate. “She also, um, liked me a lot. Sometimes I think that maybe that’s the reason I spent so much time with her. Like, I craved the attention, or something, but that makes me feel like I’m actually horrible, so.”

“It’s nice to be liked.”

“Yeah. She obviously thought I was great, and stuff. She laughed really loud at everything I said, and was always agreeing with my opinions, telling me I was right, which I loved. In hindsight, it makes me think I’m awful. I'm thinking maybe all this is me grappling with the guilt.”

Jonas makes a thoughtful sound, and when I glance at him, he’s looking not at me, but out to sea. The final apricot streaks in the sky tossing a slash of light over his cheek. “Maybe you don’t really miss her, but the way she made you feel, and the person you were back then.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“That was awfully profound.”

He chuckles. “I’m happy I could offer some insight. Maybe you are apart for the best, you and this girl… What is her name?”

“Evie.”

“Evie. I imagine that being with her would have meant giving up some part of your life. Maybe not moving, or trapping you both in a long distance relationship.”

I shudder. “Yeah. That was my justification. But I guess now I see the fuller picture, too. I don’t think we would have worked long term, in terms of what we both needed from each other.”

“You are talking about sex now.”

“Basically.”

“You didn’t do it with her.”

“No. One time, almost. I knew I could have, but it was obviously not the right moment. Like, she was definitely– Um. I was planning to move away and just leave her there, anyway, so. It’s weird, though, to have all these feelings about someone I never had sex with, when I've done more with others and felt less.”

“You haven’t seen her since you moved away?”

“No.”

“Maybe if you do, you’ll feel differently about her, then. Sometimes, for me at least, I realise my mind has created a story about another person that isn’t true. Like somebody I'm certain I don't like, but I meet them and remember that they are perfectly pleasant.”

“God, wouldn’t it be weird if I saw her again?” I muse. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’d see her and be like ‘oh, she’s actually just some girl.’”

He shrugs. “Maybe she is, as you say, some girl. Perhaps she simply represents something to you, and reality will disappoint you.”

The prospect of this is devastating and freeing in equal amounts. Evie, an invention. An ordinary girl I projected my hopes and dreams upon. Easier to let go of, in that case. Less a real girl than a mirage.

I imagine for a moment, somewhere in the distant future, running into her at some fictional supermarket. I’m picking up some lemons. She’s got a baguette in her bag, and we smile and exchange pleasantries. She’s doing well. Steady job, bought a house last year. I’ll search her left hand for a ring and find one. A strange feeling to see it, to imagine who the someone-else might be. Though I’m married, too. A baby on the way. “I always thought you’d be a good dad,” she’ll say, and I’ll nod and say yes, I kind of always imagined a family. We’ll talk for a minute, pleasant, but brief. Her, a strange woman, and I, a strange man. Knew each other once, a long time ago, teenagers on the Wexford coast, a summer that tasted of sea salt and ice cream, so long ago now we can barely remember it. Memories bleached and faded like old photographs by a sunlit window. “Goodbye, now,” I will say at the checkout, and I will go out onto the street, and never see her again. It won’t matter, for I no longer focus on the past. Barely think of it, never dwell. Enjoying, at last, and concerned only with the present. Content with all the things I already have, and never again cursed to wish, yearn, want for anything more.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[ngage2003]

To me, Marble Hornets partially works so well as a story due to its incidental use of parallels and when it contrasts them. Alex and Jay are both people corrupted by Operator influence who ultimately follow the same path and up in the same place, both of their differing selfish qualities (Jay's Curiosity, Alex's need for control) ultimately dooming them. Tim saw the Operator as a kid and implicatively so did Alex, yet those two end up being both our devil and martyr of the story, two totally opposites.

Marble Hornets does this though not only with characters but relationships, the most infamous example being Brian and Tim being friends before the former's death, and Masky and Brian being partners in crime after it.

A lot of this is probably to some degree incidental honestly, especially when we get down in the weeds, but I believe that there is another parallel to Brian and Tim's friendship in the narrative too, one that is more about contrasting it than paralleling it as with Masky and Brian.

Let's talk about the relationship of Jay and Alex.

⟦content warning: some vague talks of codependency⟧

Alright, so far warning, this is going to get a little "headcanon-y" but I really just want to talk about/analyze the fascinating relationship of these two and my personal thoughts on how they know each other.

Most of the time between Jay and Alex on screen is spent in season 2, but really their whole friendship is to blame for this series happening. After all, Jay was a close enough friend to visit Alex before he moved out, and to ask in the first place for his tapes.

I think its important to talk about what we specifically see of them though, as Alex's reluctance to kill Jay is by and large a defining feature of the series. If he hadn't been so hesitant after all, Jay would have never uploaded the tapes and the series wouldn't exist. But while Alex leads Seth to his death and as to be practically forced to kill Brian by the Operator—

Clarification: in Entry 51, the one where Brian is presumably killed the first time, Alex has to be tortured by the Operator before he is seemingly willing to hurt him. If you're wondering what I mean by that, please check my #ng.operatorture tag for elaboration. - Basically though, I think when the Operator teleports fully living people away, it tortures them, like how we see with Tim in Entry 65. This process is done as a way to sort of break people down mentally by the Operator, as a way of feeding and also to compel them or try to get them to accomplish a goal it wants. Tim only avoids this fate because he is a system and Masky protects him.

—he doesn't kill Jay, despite having ample opportunity too, and the Operator more than seeming to want him too. Sure, yeah, Alex attacks Jay when giving him the tapes Entry 71, but even then, even with Jay defenseless and unconscious and Alex thinking everyone else his dead, he can't kill him.

Why? What makes Jay special? Or rather, what makes him special to Alex Kralie?

Well, I believe that Alex and Jay are long time friends, a relationship purposefully contrasting the fast friendship of Tim and Brian in college that similarly runs deep for the both of them. I think they could have known each other in highschool, and maybe even a little before, both being neglected outcasts who ended up clinging together as they finally found community in the other. I think that foundational connection is why, despite all Alex's hard edges and his antsiness which harshly contrast Jay's passivity, he keeps Jay close, holding him at arms length as a script supervisor rather than a camera man but always near.

I don't think this deep of a connection could just be a college crush or something similar, because for Jay's part, we see a similar level of emotional connection from him, with how doggedly he is willing to follow Alex for many months before he finally snaps to get information, being led around in circle after circle and doggedly following at Alex's heels. Sure, Alex is a lead, but Jay's willingness to keep his head done and follow him is frankly ridiculous, especially after he witnesses certain things like Alex being willing to break their associate's leg and leave him got dead in a dirty, abandoned building.

The two enable each other in a way. Jay does little to press back against Alex's harsh will and rude remarks, not even helping Tim out of the building and often flailing with responding to his vitriol, and Alex uses Jay's curiosity against him, manipulating him onto the path he wants because he has the answers and he knows Jay wants them. I don't think they were always like this of course, but this is a pattern of behavior that is too easy for them to fall into, and honestly could come from them being isolated and only having the other as a friend for so long in the somewhat rural south. When you are two hurt people in a bad situation, you tend to accidentally do stuff like this, as you grow around the other much like a tree and a strangling vine. There isn't anything wrong with that, the problem comes in with the fact that Alex never changed and neither did Jay, and under the corrupting influence of the Operator they're getting worse.

Despite that, I think if there are things Alex Kralie holds near and dear to the core of his self, Jay Merrick is one them, and I think because of that it is very likely that early on in season 2, Alex was still subconsciously fighting the Operator's compulsion. Now, I don't think he was consciously aware of it—lets not get ahead of ourselves—but we know Alex is a stubborn person, and if Jay was important to him I think he could've been resisting to some extent. We know the Operator's mental manipulation isn't absolute, as even if it leaves people believing they're right, Jay pushes back against it in Entry 82, fighting subconsciously before the Operator straightens him out. Why couldn't Alex have done that too? Why couldn't that be why Jay lives so long? Despite the fact Alex tried to knock Seth, Brian and Tim all out within 24 hours.

Advertisement: Curious why I believe that? Read the Deluge section of my analysis/theory, "why the hell is Brian using Catholic Imagery?"

I think the moment Alex finally crumbles, and the moment he is beyond saving, is Entry 52. There is a lot going on at this point between him and Jay, but to some degree I believe this is because he finds out about the Marble Hornets channel, and his trust in Jay, his guilt at the idea of killing him, his resistance to the Operator's manipulations- it crumbles. After all, if he can't trust Jay, who can he?

Alex: I didn’t want Jessica involved! That’s why I told her I found Amy! That’s your fault! When I gave you those tapes, I told you to never mention them again! I thought that implied not sharing them with the world!

◉ Entry 52, at four minutes, 18 seconds.

In Alex's eyes, Jay is practically spreading this sickness like candy on halloween. He is taking a delicate matter and manhandling it and undoing all Alex's hard work to contain it. Bringing in Jessica was bad but this- this is a new low. I think its possible Alex could have even been considering bringing Jay in to help him "stop" the sickness, whatever strange way Alex believes he can/is doing that, but this straw, finding the Marble Hornets channel, on top of everything else, it broke the camel's back.

That is when he finally, properly threatens the life of one of the most important things in his.

Alex only continues to decline after this point in the series, his death as a husk of who he once was being inevitable.

Footnote: For the record, I do not think Jay is some hapless victim of Alex, don't be silly. Jay is just as bad as him in a lot of regards, but is just actively less influenced by the Operator and more subtle with it. Honestly, he is a low empathy autist to me, and that doesn't inherently make him bad, but he also just doesn't act to try to be kind to people when he does inevitably pick up on things, instead prioritizing his own wants most the time or ignoring them unless he has a reason otherwise. He is selfish, and he acts selfishly throughout the series, and that is important to acknowledge about him. I think both he and Alex came from broken homes and I think their behavior and codependent relationship reflects that. Cougjs. If folks are interested in my highschool Jaylex headcanons feel free to send me an ask.

[boybandbaby]

The Sweet Escape Part V

911 AU (Prince!Evan Buckley x Fem!Baker!Reader)

previous part

word count: 4855

warnings/tags: smut (18+ minors please do not interact), cheating/homewrecking, unprotected p in v, biting, riding, slight nipple play, light choking, cream pie (I wish I had a baking joke to go along with this)

note: not sure when the next part will be out - haven’t planned past this chapter yet

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

It’s been weeks since you’ve seen Buck and you truly miss him. You wonder if he misses you too. You’ve heard through Albert who’s heard through Chimney who’s heard through Maddie that Buck has been compliant lately. No arguing with his parents, actually learning King duties, helping out with the wedding.

You hope he’s doing well despite everything. Even after you heard him say that you mean nothing to him, his is still everything to you.

You beat yourself up everyday for pushing him away so cruelly. You tell yourself it is justified because of what he said.

You begin to replay your conversation with Chimney and Eddie from just last week.

“He’s miserable. He misses you so much.” Chim informs you.

“Did he tell you that?” You raise a brow and cross your arms over your chest.

“Well no, but I mean I see it on his face. You have to reach out to him.” Chim follows you as you move to sweep some crumbs off the floor.

“Guys, I appreciate what you’re doing but he’s getting married in a few days.”

“He should be marrying you. Everyone knows it.” Eddie says matter of factly.

“There’s nothing that can be done.” You sigh in defeat, handing Albert the broom to place back in its holding place.

“You could always object at the wedding?” Albert adds.

“Yeah right, the queen would have my ass.” You laugh. “She’d get the bakery shut down as punishment.”

“Maybe that’s true but you could still be there for him. He needs a friend.” Eddie shrugs.

“He has you guys, Hen, Bobby. He doesn’t need or want me around.”

“You can’t possibly believe that.” Eddie sasses.

“I heard him say it.” You blurt. “He said I don’t mean anything to him. He didn’t even know I was in the room when he said it.”

“It has to be a misunderstanding. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” Chim leans against the counter, stealing a croissant from Albert.

“You should’ve heard all the whispers at the ball. Girls were jealous of the attention he was giving you, some of the parents thought you were already together. You both looked good together.” Eddie utters.

You feel your cheeks and neck get warm before turning your head down, trying to find something to busy yourself.

“Just… think about it. At least send him birthday wishes.”

There’s two soft knocks on Buck’s door. He groans, thought he told Eddie to go home to Chris.

Buck’s had a long day. He’s met so many different people, allies in which he should remain connected and respectful for future support. He’s taken a few classes on public speaking and history and a dance class for the wedding. He’s just gotten back from a charity event, while rewarding and eye opening, he’s ready to call it a night.

He chooses to ignore the knocks, shedding his blazer and shoes off. Two louder, more impatient knocks ring out.

“What the hell?” He grinds his teeth, suppressing a groan. He storms over to the door, whipping it open with force. The door is heavy but with his determination, he opens it up quickly, enough to create a gust of wind.

Your back is turned to the door, keeping an eye on the hallway and also ready to book it out of there. You jump when you feel the cold air and hear his annoyed tone. “What!?”

It’s quickly followed by a “Y/n, what are you doing here?” He is shocked to say the least. His voice comes out more soft than just moments before.

“Hi,” you whisper. “I wanted to see you.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about you.” You admit, shyly.

Buck looks around the hallway and pulls you into his room before anyone can see. You’d surely be in trouble if you were caught.

You’ve never been in his room before. You’ve never really been anywhere other than the kitchen and the ballroom before either. His room is somehow exactly as you’d suspected with a 4 post king size bed, long silky drapes, ceiling to floor windows, a fireplace, a leather couch. What you didn’t expect was for the little unique parts of him throughout. The pajama pants thrown onto the messy bed, a pair of slippers laid beside his bed, a cork board with a variety of pictures of friends and family, and a little bed side night light. The items seem so out of place in the grand aspect of his room.

Buck runs to tidy up a bit, hoping he’s not embarrassing himself in front of you. “I’m sorry. I haven’t let anyone in here to clean in a while.”

“It’s no problem. I stopped by unannounced.” You swing the basket in your hands. “Your room is bigger than our entire apartment.” You laugh, mouth open in awe as your fingers run along the back of his couch. “You have a balcony?”

Before he can answer, you’re running to the set of double doors and out into the night air. From his view you can see the layout of the land, from the yard around his home to the rows of trees that cover the path leading down to town. You can see the roofs of the familiar buildings you’ve grown up around.

You have to squint to really make out things but it still looks beautiful amongst the dark blue sky.

“I used to come out here a lot when I was younger. I would just sit and watch the sun rise and fall every day.” He leans over the railing a bit.

You keep a fist wrapped in the back of his dress shirt as he leans too far over for your liking. “You don’t do it anymore?”

“Don’t have time.” He shrugs, eyes flicking to the basket in your left hand. “What do you got there?”

“Oh! Um,” you set the basket on one of his lounge chairs and kneel down. Your skirt bunches up as you slink down to your knees. He loves that you don’t care about the balcony dirt getting on your skirt. It’s something so simple but it shows who you are.

He briefly thinks back to his fiancé and the meltdown she had this morning when one of the servants spilled a cup of coffee on the floor causing droplets to fall on her heels. Buck had to apologize for her outburst.

He watches you take out a small box. It’s wrapped in makeshift wrapping paper from a brown paper bag tied with a silky pink bow.

“Come here.” You beckon him over.

He’s in dress pants so he can’t get down to the floor unless he wants to further embarrass himself and split his pants. He sits on the chair beside your basket. “I know I’m early but happy birthday.”

“Wait, you remember my birthday?”

“Of course, it’s like a city wide holiday.” You laugh. “Plus you never shut up about it when we were kids. I know it’s not much really, but it’s from my heart.”

He unties the bow and pulls the wrapping off. Inside is The Finest Flour’s signature baby blue box, a clear window showing the little cake you made for him. It’s a small two tiered heart shaped cake, sage green frosting with white swirly accents. On top is a sparkly “25” in fondant.

“You made this for me?” He exhales, his eyes glossy.

“Yeah, I figured I’d make you a good cake with flavor since your wedding cake is bland as fuck.” You laugh. You only know because your bakery has been requested to make the wedding cake with specific instructions to “make sure it’s moist.”

Buck sets the box down and looks down at you. “Y/n, I-“

“You don’t have to say anything, Buck.”

“I do. I’m so fucking sorry. When I said you meant nothing to me, I didn’t mean it. You have to believe me.”

“How do you know that is why I was mad?”

“I figured it out surprisingly. I know I have a reputation for being a himbo but I’m not that dumb. Also, Hen helped me realize.” He chuckles.

“You’re not dumb at all.” You shake your head, “just not the smartest.” He snorts at that and doesn’t argue. “You know Chim and Eddie must really love you. They came to the bakery saying they wanted to visit Albert but the entire time the kept vouching for you like they were you’re lawyer or representative or something.” You shake your head with light laughter.

“I know you keep getting hurt by me and I don’t want you to. I would never want to hurt you y/n.” Buck reaches for your hand. You let him hold it.

“I know, Buck. You’re not like your parents or all the rich douchebags around here. You’re sweet and soft.”

“You think so?” He blushes.

“I know so.” You smile up at him. “How’s the wedding coming along? Sometime next week you’ll be married.”

“Let’s talk about anything else please.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. His eyes follow his movements before he slowly pulls away. “So, how are things with you and Albert?”

“It’s going really well.” You smile, hands falling to your lap. “I love having him around.”

“I’m really happy for you y/n, he’s a great guy and I know he’ll treat you right.”

“Wait.. what? We’re not together!” You laugh, “no, I mean he’s been really great help for the bakery.”

“Oh… tha-that’s good. I’m sorry I assumed.” He breathes a sigh of relief. You both smile softly at each other. Buck bites his lip while you shake your head, laughing to yourself.

“Well I should probably head out. Don’t want to get us both in trouble.” You reach your hands out to him, he stands and helps pull you up. “It was good seeing you.”

“Yeah.” He nods quickly. He uses your locked hands to pull you into him for a hug. His arms wrap around your upper back. You don’t hesitate to wrap yours around his waist. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” You pull back slightly. You decide you can only hold back slightly, your feelings for him are clearly still here and urging you to make a move. You know he’s an engaged man, soon to be married but you can’t seem to care.

You bring your lips to the apple of his cheek. Your lips are smooth and slightly sticky and scented with your favorite chapstick. You keep your lips there long enough to hopefully leave the ghost of the kiss there when you leave.

Just as you’re pulling away, youre stumbling backwards at the desperate force of Buck’s lips on yours. Before you can trip on the rug below you, his hands hold you in place. His hands are splayed over the sides of your neck as he pulls your face into his. The kiss is hot and cradles every part of your body, spreading over your skin. It feels like you’re in a sauna despite the cold air filtering in from the balcony.

Buck’s hands travel down to your hips as your steps mock his own, long and slow like a waddle, until you’re backed up against his bed.

“Jump.” He commands, voice low and light. When you do, his hands on your hips guide you up onto his bed. His bed is high up on its platform, definitely accommodating his tall height.

His bed is squishy and soft, like a cloud of cotton candy. He wastes no time in unbuttoning his dress shirt, a thin white tshirt under it.

He stands between your legs, holding into your thighs as you take over. You’re pulling the fabric from his shoulders and letting the shirt drop to the floor.

Buck undresses you slowly, savoring your scent and leaving kisses on your shoulders.

He lays you back onto the bed, pushing you up to fully enjoy the expanse of his mattress. His lips plant a kiss to your forehead, down the bridge of your nose, then your lips and chin.

He’s been respectful up until now, eyes glued to your face. Not until you say “keep going” does he give your collarbone a kiss and let his eyes roam your chest.

His body is planted on top of yours, with enough room between you both to move, he trails down your shoulders and chest, not missing any inch of skin.

Buck is licking and kissing down the slopes of your breasts, over your stomach and down your left hip. You’re squirming and giggling at his lips and growing stubble. He sucks marks down your inner thigh to the inside of your knee before he leaves a kiss.

“God, you smell amazing.” It’s a mix of sugar and cocoa powder on you. “I could just eat all of you.”

“Eat me or eat me out?” You look down at him as he runs a hand down your calf, kissing your ankle.

“Why not both?” He smirks.

“Maybe another time, I need you.” You pant. His kissing has worked you up, never having experienced a partner shower your entire body with love.

Buck stands at the edge of the bed, slipping his pants and socks off. His tshirt is next to go, thrown on the wooden footboard of the bed.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks, just in his boxers.

You sit up on your elbows to look at him. “I am. Are you?”

“So sure.” He smiles before shimmying his boxers down. He disappears for a moment as he bends down to take the boxers off his feet.

When he comes back up, the next thing you know is that his full weight is on you as he’s resting on his elbows. One of your arms is wrapped under one of his arms, your fingers running through the hair at the nape of his neck. Your fingers get caught in his curls but he doesn’t mind the little tug that happens every so often.

You’re getting restless under him as all he’s done is kiss you. His kisses are intoxicating but you need more.

“Buck,” You mumble against his lips.

“You need more, baby?” He whispers into your ear.

“Yes, please.” You shudder.

“Tell me exactly what you want.” He teases. You can’t think straight, you thought his kisses left you dizzy but then he called you baby.

“I want you inside of me.” You whisper, afraid someone other than you two will hear how bad you want him.

Now that Buck is sure you really want this, that you’re consenting to this, he nudges your thighs open. His hips slightly fall closer to the mattress as you make space for him.

“I need you to tell me when things don’t feel good or you want me to stop.” He holds his cock in his right hand, stroking gently while his left is holding him above you.

“Okay, okay.” You rush, feeling impatient. “Please Evan.”

Buck uses the tip of his cock to find your entrance. It’s not a perfect hole in one as he runs his tip along your folds. He can feel your body tense and he knows he’s at the right spot.

“Don’t tease me.” You warn.

He laughs, dropping his head to your shoulder. He pushes himself into you. It’s a slow stretch due to his size.

Your hands hold onto his shoulders, nails digging into the skin. You’re holding back, not wanting to hurt him. He has a different idea as his teeth sinks into your shoulder. It’s not too hard but there will definitely be indents of his teeth.

It feels like forever when he finally gets to the base of his member.

“How are you feeling?” He kisses the teeth marks.

“Full.” You laugh. “But good, really good.”

“Can I move?” He kisses the skin right in front of your earlobe just above your jaw.

“Yes, please. Been waiting for so long already.” You whine.

“Needy.” He jokes before pulling his hips away from yours and thrusting back into you slowly.

He starts slow and picks up the pace at your begging. Your hand goes back to pulling at his curls, the other is wedged between your bodies, fingers applying pressure to your clit. With every thrust, he feels your knuckles brush against his happy trail. His left leg shakes uncontrollably each time it does.

Your hand cramps from the position but you don’t stop, moving slowly in circles to keep building on your high.

He’s kissing your neck and shoulder, changing from simple pecks to sloppy kisses to sucking. His lips graze your jaw every so often sending a moan from your lips. He’s smiling against your skin, teasing you with his stubble. He loves the reactions he’s getting from you.

You’d never expected Buck to be a guy who enjoys and is good at slow sensual passionate sex. You’d always picture him as a guy who fucks like a jackrabbit, rough, fast and sloppy.

“I love feeling you on me.” You confess. “Every part of you feels so good.”

“Can’t believe I’m with you right now. Could spend hours exploring every inch and crevice of you.” He whimpers. “I love you, y/n.”

“Buck-“ You gasp, his hips pounding into you. You feel the tip of his cock hitting the same spot over and over.

“I do, I’m so in love with you.” His eyes are screwed shut.

“Evan, look at me.” You say between moans. Your bodies rock up and down and you’re clinging with sweat. He lifts his head to meet your eyes.

“I love you, too. So much.” You don’t even have the chance to smile because his lips are on yours again. You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in closer, which you didn’t think could be possible.

“Holy shit, don’t stop.” You moan, your fingers are about to give out, clit practically burnt off by how fast you’re brushing your fingers over it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Buck mumbles into your neck. You don’t say anything out loud but you can feel his tears, dripping down his cheeks and pooling on your neck.

“Come on, handsome. We’re almost there.” You encourage. That’s all it takes for him to release. His hips stutter and he lets out a noise that’s similar to a groan, mouth open in an “ah.”

He clings to your shoulders, arms between your back and the mattress as he holds you tight. He has no control over his hips as he brings you to your high.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod.” You screech, thighs squeezing his hips as if you’re cracking a walnut. Your toes squeeze and flex, tickling his skin. His nose runs along your cheek as you whine out a long moan. “I-“

You can’t even get a word out as you shiver the tenseness out of your body. Your body goes slack, releasing his body. You laugh, completely overwhelmed by what just happened, not sure how to communicate your thoughts.

Buck just watches you with fond eyes, savoring this feeling. You shake your head, blinking. When you’ve come out of your haze, you meet his eyes.

Your thumbs brush his cheeks, damp with tears. “You okay?” He sniffles, giving you a nod. “Good tears?” He nods again. “Come lay beside me, wanna cuddle you.” You kiss his birthmark. Buck slowly pulls out, blowing out a breath of air and hissing when he is fully out of you.

He scoots himself into your side, head resting on your bicep, thick thigh thrown over to cover your lower half. One arm is squished beneath him and his other massages your hand. He feels the tension in your hand, milking out the forming cramp.

“You’re making me feel all tingly, Buckley.”

“You make me feel loved, y/n.” He bypasses your compliment. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him so serious.

“You deserve all the love in the world. Not because of your good looks or because you come from a well off family but because of your heart. You care so much about others.” You drop his hand to your chest, brushing aside his curls from his face. “I can’t wait for you to be King. You’re going to use your big heart to better not just yourself but those around you.”

“What if I don’t become King?” He whispers, his hand traveling up to your neck, running his thumb over your throat.

“Then what would you do?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a teacher.” He reveals. “I love kids. I would love to be able to help shape them into good people you know? Provide a safe space for them to grow and express themselves.”

“You’d be good at it. You’re patient and you make people feel welcome. When we first met, we’d never even spoken but you started speaking to me like we knew each other all our lives. You make people feel comfortable.”

“You think I could do it?”

“I know you could.” You smile. “Stay here.”

You pull your arm from under his head and grab the closest clothing item you can find. You press it to your chest to cover yourself. You tip toe over to the balcony to grab his cake.

“Should we try some?” You struggle to keep yourself covered as you hold the box on one hand.

“Ooh yes.” He claps before pulling part of the comforter he’s on, over his lap. He pulls a pillow under his head and upper back. You hand him the box and get a running start to jump onto his bed.

He’s laughing as he opens the box. You’d hoped he would want to eat with you so you’d provided two forks.

You cheekily pull the blanket off his lap and sit on his thighs. You pull the cake out of the box and rest it on his stomach like a table.

It’s almost his birthday and you want to spoil him while you have him. You give him the first bite of the cake. The moan he makes around the fork has you squirming on him.

“You know what? Forget the cake.” You rush to get it off of him and onto his nightstand.

Buck tucks his arms behind his head. He’s sprawled comfortably on his comforter. He watches as you lean over, pushing the cake to a comfortable spot where it won’t fall off.

You lean down to kiss him, cleaning the frosting off his lips. You suck his bottom lip into your mouth, biting it and dragging it open.

Buck sucks in a breath. “Let me take care of you.” You whisper against his mouth. He nods slowly, lips chasing yours as you lean back.

He’s just about to whine when you begin to suck on his neck. You creep down to his chest, not wanting to leave any noticeable marks. You decide to run your tongue over his pecs and close to his nipple. He curls in on himself, giggling.

“Don’t tickle me!”

“I wasn’t trying to!” You pinch his nipple.

“Okay, that was just mean. It’s my birthday, you have to be nice to me.”

“Oh? I have to?” You pinch his other one and he squeals. “I’ll be nice from now on.”

“You better.” His arms are crossed and his hands are covering his nipples from any further torment.

You start up again, kiss down his tummy, sucking the skin as you get lower. Buck is trying to stop the little spasms his body does every time you kiss him. He’s rock hard again in no time, hand lazily coming to stroke himself as he watches you shower his thighs in hickies.

“What do you want to do birthday boy?” You look up at him, though it’s hard with the stroking that’s happening in your line of vision as you try to look at his face.

“I wanna kiss you a little more.” He beckons you to come back up. His right hand strokes as his left hand comes to rest on your hip. His moving hand is tucked under you, continuing his movements as you lean down over him to kiss him.

Buck whimpers into the kiss and has to bite his lip to stop himself from making pathetic noises. He loses the battle when you ask if you can ride him.

In seconds, he’s lining himself up for you to sink down. His grip on your thighs helping guide you down onto him before going back behind his head. You both moan in unison at the feeling. Your pussy easily sucks him in this time.

His comforter pools around your thighs and calves as you slowly start to grind on him. The material caressing your legs with every move.

Your hands stretch across his abdomen, grounding your every movement. Your hips roll and roll as you fuck him. Buck relaxes into the bed, hands behind his head, simply watching the way your eyes scrunch with each forward thrust you make. Your head is dropped forward, your chin tucked almost to your chest.

Your movements are slow and rhythmic, calculated.

“You look so fucking hot.” He moans.

“You feel so good.” You cry out. “Love how you stretch me open.”

“Keep going baby, you’re taking me so well.” His voice is husky and breathless. “Don’t stop, please.”

Your hips speed up, causing Buck to flinch and buck his hips. His hands shoot out from behind his head to grip your hips as you begin to topple forward. His hands clutch to the fatty skin between your thighs and hips as he pulls you forward and back on his cock.

Your hands hold onto his outstretched biceps for stability when you begin to change from grinds to bounces.

“Oh shit.” Buck whispers through a soft gasp. “Right there.”

“Yeah?” You puff, exhaling deeply. “You want me to keep going?”

“Yes, yes please don’t stop.” He pleads, eyes droopy. His mouth opens but nothing comes out as his neck strains. You can see a vein on the side as he throws his head back. “You’re perfect.”

You put pressure onto Buck’s chest with your hands as you slam down into him. He’s close, that much you can tell by the way he whimpers and tenses.

“You look so fucking pretty like this, Evan.”

His entire chest is flushed red and he has a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’s glistening under you. Your orgasm is near as well, his trimmed hair tickling your clit with every move.

“Shit shit, I’m gonna cum again.” He thrusts up.

“Me too, handsome.” You moan, bringing your hand to his throat. You give it a gentle squeeze as you both ride out your highs. Buck’s given up any control as you watch him release.

Your orgasm comes quick and you clench around him, slowing your hips. Before you can come to a full stop, he’s wrapping his arms around your back and pulling you down to him.

You squeak and fall onto his chest. “Babe, hold on. We’re all sweaty.”

“Don’t care, just want to hold you.” He mumbles. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Happy birthday, pretty.” You kiss his temple and slowly pull from him. You feel like a piece of tape, struggling to get out of his arms and skin sticking to his own.

The breeze from the open doors soothed the hotness in your body. You’re still trying to catch your breath as you begin to collect your clothes.

“Stay the night?” He sits up, resting on his elbow and reaching for your hands.

“Buck, we both know that’s not a good idea. As much as I would love to stay, we don’t want to get caught.” You grab his hands and kiss his knuckles. You let his hands go to get dressed.

“When will I see you again?” He gets up from the bed and slips on a clean pair of boxers and his pajamas pants.

“Soon, I promise.” You pull him into a kiss by the waistband of his pants. “Have a great birthday.”

He nods and holds a hand onto the back of your head, bringing his lips to your forehead. You’re both smiling like idiots as he opens his door.

“I’ll walk you to the kitchen.”

“I’ll walk her to the kitchen, goodnight Evan.” You both jump at the sound of Athena’s voice.

“I-“

“Goodnight.” Athena emphasizes and looks between the two of you.

Buck nods and gives a small wave. His hand squeezes your shoulder and moves up to cup your neck before he’s closing the door.

“You best get back home y/n, before someone else catches you.” She kindly scolds. You can see a faint smile on her lips as she escorts you through the palace and to the kitchen. “Don’t make this a habit y/n. I won’t always be around to save you and Buck.”

“Yes ma’am.” You bite your lip and get your bike started. She watches you drive off and shakes her head with a laugh.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

next part (coming soon)

[softpascalito]

I To Dig a Grave I Chapter 7 I

Summary: Twenty-one years after the outbreak, you come to Wyoming looking for something and end up in Jackson after a stranger saves your life.

But he doesn't stay a stranger.

Turns out Joel Miller is looking for something too. It feels like a fresh start. But when bad luck seems to follow you, Joel is the only one to turn to, forcing both of you to confront your feelings about your pasts- and each other.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 29k+ Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Smut, Explicit Content, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Chose not to use Archive Warnings, Tags to be added

AO3 LINK // Series Masterlist // Playlist // ko-fi

notes: everyone be safe this year ♡

this fic will deal with heavy topics. please note that it doesn't use archive warnings and tags will be added as we go in order to avoid spoilers. each chapter will have detailed warnings in the end notes on ao3.

Chapter 7 – The Ceremony Part 2

‘I feel that I want to be forgiven, that I want her to forgive me. But I do not know how to state my crime.’

— James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room

The church is filled with more people than you even thought lived in Jackson. The front row is occupied by Mrs Moss and a woman that keeps patting her back reassuringly. Next to her, you make out Cat among a few of Lane’s friends, two or three others that you know played important roles in her life. She got to Jackson years before you, having spent most of her teenage years with the community and, evidently, having left quite an impression. The two seats on the very right are yours and Joel’s. He is anxiously perched on his, his fingers tapping the wood below him as he keeps his focus on you.

The rows behind him are filled with more friends, acquaintances, the others that help out at the school. And behind them are children. Seemingly all the children of Jackson, the ones that have been told off a million times for talking in class or not doing their homework by both Lane and you, are sitting in their finest clothes, staying still and quiet, somber expressions on their small faces.

It hurts more than anything else could.

You finish taking stock of the audience by letting your gaze fly over the last rows—and those standing behind them, for the lack of space. You see Maria and Tommy, him sending a reassuring nod your way before you both turn your attention back towards the priest, who is finishing up his speech.

“The only thing we can do is keep the memory and spirit of Lane alive. We will now hear a few words from those who knew her best. And I ask you all to listen and remember her, not for how her story ended but for who she was before.”

A short nod from the priest towards you is followed by the walk up to the small podium that seems to last a very long time. You’re painfully aware of the eyes on you, eyes that have not seen you since you’ve been carried through the town in Joel’s arms a few days ago. This too, seems much further away than it actually is.

You place the neatly typed sheets of paper on the podium and take a deep breath.

***

Joel doesn’t leave your side the entire way to the graveyard. The wind has picked up again and the gray sky promises that more snow is on the way. You’re walking just behind the front of the procession made up of Mrs Moss and a few people around her. You would’ve been very content to stay a bit further behind—it makes you feel exposed to have so many pairs of eyes following your every move. How many of them believe you didn't know about this? How many will go home and whisper about Lane behind closed doors, saying that they saw it coming. How could anyone?

The grave is outlined, even if not dug. A small wooden cross has been erected where the headstone will be eventually. You can barely bring yourself to watch as the priest places the wreath in front of it. It’s beautifully crafted, decorated with a black ribbon in the front. For a second, you forget what it symbolizes and instead just stare at the flowers. You’ve never known you could find so many colors in the Wyoming winter. There is purple and yellow—and blue. Hydrangeas and bluebells, trailing all around the twigs that hold the wreath together.

The words of the priest bring you back to the reason you’re staring at the flowers and immediately, their beauty is lost on you.

There is no ritual, no petals or earth. With no grave, you can’t help but feel there is no way to say goodbye. The cross is just a piece of wood, carrying Lane’s name and the two dates that mark the span of her life.

It’s not a very long one.

Joel steers you through the crowd, people occasionally giving you a small, sad nod. You try not to look at them for more than a few seconds, tired of the look they all have. The same face, the sad somber eyes, the same pat on your shoulder. You’re glad when you reach the town hall, the tables decorated with the same flowers you’ve just seen placed on Lane’s grave. It kills whatever appetite you try to pretend to have.

There is cake, mostly homemade, a few women and men still shuffling around the tables, trying to find a place to squeeze in their baked goods. Just like in the church, it feels like the whole town is around and, slowly but surely, people grab food and drinks and settle down, their voices low and eyes cast downward.

A few of the younger people, including Cat, eventually come up to you, expressing their condolences and inviting you to sit with them. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Joel mutters into your ear for the third time and you give a small nod. “Yeah, I get along with them. I swear, it’s okay.” He only seems mildly satisfied with your response, lingering next to the table you’ve settled down at for another second.

“Just—” You lean over to him. “Don’t leave without me?”

“I’ll be around, just want a quick word with Tommy. You come and find me if you wanna leave early, okay?” He hums into your ear and you give a quick nod before watching him make his way through the crowd.

He’s a tad less touchy, with all these people around, and as you listen to the conversations around you and attempt to swallow the cake that feels much too dry in your mouth, you catch yourself longing for another cold night and a good excuse to curl up against his body and let his warmth soothe you, away from the prying eyes and the whispered conversations that seem to follow you around.

***

Joel's eyes are scanning the crowd when he finds a familiar face, one that makes his insides churn with guilt. He glances over his shoulder, checking if you still seem okay, before making his way over to a corner towards the front of the hall.

He sighs as he reaches the table tucked away there, leaning against the wall. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey,” Ellie replies quietly, her gaze wandering around the room behind them, her eyes never quite reaching Joel. Her gaze avoiding him the same way she does. He lets a few seconds pass, forcing himself to soak in the uncomfortable silence. Then, he clears his throat quietly.

“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t come by yet, it’s all been a bit—” He struggles to find the right word. It’s complicated because Lane is dead and he needs to get that into your head without ruining you, and during all that, he also needs to ignore the thoughts in the back of his own head that seem to get louder each time he feels your body pressed against his.

“A bit much,” Ellie finishes for him. She stares at her feet for a moment before looking up, this time directly at him. “It’s fine. It’s nice she has someone who looks out for her. If that’s what this is.”

Joel feels like he’s been punched in the gut. If that’s what this is?

He sucks in a breath, watching as Ellie sways back and forth, her eyes still on him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, if you look out for her, that’s nice. Unless that still includes lying, by your definition.” Her face shows that she knows it’s a low blow. Joel nods curtly, clenching his jaw for a moment. His glance wanders back to the table you’re sitting at and he half wishes there’d be something there, some sign of distress that would give him an excuse to walk away from this conversation. But there isn’t and he knows that he doesn’t deserve it either way.

“Ellie, this ain’t the time for that,” Joel mumbles, shaking his head a bit as he shifts his focus back onto her. “If you’ve got something to say about—”

“I’m moving in with Dina.”

If he’s been punched in the gut before, now Joel is certain his attacker has added a knife to the equation. It must be visible on his face because Ellie’s defiant gaze falters slightly and seems to soften a tiny bit as she watches him, no doubt waiting for the reaction to her news. For once, he looks absolutely dumbfounded, his mouth slightly open, waiting on a confirmation that he hasn’t just heard those words.

“I didn’t mean—” Ellie groans a little, moving her hands into the air. “Not right now. But we’ve been talking about it and I figured…” She gives a small shrug. “I figured you should know. Means you can have the shed and—”

“I don’t want the damn shed,” Joel blurts out. He doesn’t say that he just wants Ellie, and preferably you, close by. He gets that she wanted some privacy, more than the illusion of it in the form of a thin wall between their rooms, but having her in his backyard seemed like a good compromise. It allowed him to make sure she ate or to have breakfast at the kitchen table, the window facing the backyard and Ellie’s front door.

Joel lets out a small breath, slowly, as he nods to himself. Damage control. That’s the best he can do right now.

“The shed is yours, always. The house is already way too big for me ‘n myself,'' Joel mutters, fighting the urge to tell her that he should get some say in this, that this is a decision that they should make together. One he’d very much like to put off for a long, long time.

Joel doesn’t know how to let go because he’s never had the chance to. Everything he’s lost has been ripped away from him with violence and blood trailing behind it. Not once has he willingly given something up. So he doesn’t know how to.

He protects and holds them close until they die in his arms. And they always die.

The image of Sarah's body flashes before his eyes for a moment and Joel grabs the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white as he tries to push the thoughts away.

“Look, I think Dina is a good—you seem to like her,” Joel mumbles, glancing around to make sure they’re not being overheard. “You do … like her, right?”

Ellie makes a noise that almost sounds like a small laugh, but somehow, it only makes Joel feel even smaller. “Yeah, she’s not so bad.”

“Right,” he responds because he can’t think of what to say to that. He racks his brain for a reply that won’t immediately cause another row, something that feels impossible with Ellie these days. He distantly longs for their time before Jackson—when she hung on his every word, never quite did as he told her but stuck with him nonetheless. A tiny voice in the back of his head points out that maybe the town tucked away behind Wyoming's mountains doesn't hold such good luck after all.

Ellie’s gaze is back on the room behind Joel and she tilts her head slightly as she speaks. “You won't be completely by yourself in the house though, right? Not with her moving in.”

It's not that she doesn't like you. The few lessons of yours she attended were admittedly fairly interesting and more than once you'd brought Ellie a new book you'd stumbled upon while learning to navigate the library—usually something about space. But the one thing she's never quite understood is your relationship with Joel, why both of you have dinners and dance around each other and still never seem to get anywhere.

“She’s not moving in,” Joel clarifies, his voice straining slightly. “Look, if that’s what this is about—” 

Ellie quickly shakes her head. “It's not. I mean—it's a factor. But it doesn’t… I don't care who lives with you, Joel.”

They both know her words are not entirely true, but Joel decides to let it slide, knowing that the only thing waiting for him here is another argument. “Okay, look. You don't know what she's going through. Lane’s death has been hard on her and none of us can imagine—”

“What it's like to see your best friend die?” Ellie interrupts. Her tone isn't loud enough to stand out among the noises of the crowd around them but it still carries that hint of disappointment. “Yeah, jeez, I really can't imagine.”

Fuck.

Joel shakes his head, his fingers tapping against the fabric of his pants more quickly. “Ellie, I didn't mean—” He sighs, his gaze wandering back to the crowded room.

It's at the same moment that Joel's eyes meet yours and you take in his features, a small frown appearing on your forehead at what you see. 

He doesn’t know that he looks so incredibly tired.

***

His mind is still on the idea of being all alone in his house, of Ellie being so damn far away, when you finally leave the funeral feast, stepping out into the cold air.

“Was that Ellie with you earlier?” you ask politely.

Joel nods weakly, unable to open his mouth, unable to tell you about their conversation or about Ellie’s plans. It feels like the knife is still lodged in his stomach.

“It’s nice you two are speaking.” He’s lucky your attention is still on your own thoughts, enough to not notice the small flicker of something that dances over his face before he takes a deep breath and goes back to pretending that everything is okay. He has an idea that you feel very similar about the day. Pretending that it’s normal to be writing eulogies instead of finals.

“Your speech was lovely,” he says in a low voice, remembering how he had to pinch himself to stop the tears from gathering in his eyes.

“Thank you,” you mumble back, your gaze focused on your feet below as you leave the main street.

“I wanted to stop by the graveyard again,” you pipe up softly. “If that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course. You wanna go now?” Joel asks carefully. The sky is still overcast, the snow piling up more and more. The town seems more bleak and cold than ever, even more so in direct comparison to the warmly lit town hall with the smell of good food and the constant hum of conversation all around.

The graveyard is empty.

The small cross and the footsteps in the snow are the only signs that someone was here. Or in Lane’s case, that someone isn’t.

As you turn the small corner that opens up to the meadow that holds around two dozen other graves, Joel carefully sneaks his arm around you, pulling you a bit closer into his side, silently vowing his support.

Your stomach drops as you get close enough to make out Lane’s name carved into the wood. Something seems to be clawing at your chest from the inside, violently attempting to find its way out of you and into existence.

A bit of snow has gathered on the cross and you reach out to wipe it off when your gaze falls onto something between the flowers below. Slowly, you bend down, trembling fingers pushing the snow to the side, only to be met with the most horrifying thing you could see placed on a grave.

It is a kid's drawing.

Two stick figures, one with blue hair, your names written underneath. A small rainbow hovers above Lane’s head, the colors just slightly off. You feel like you’re going to be sick.

You barely notice the sharp intake of breath behind you as Joel glances over your shoulder to see. His hand rubs small circles into your shoulder.

“I didn’t think they’d put them out here.”

Whatever has been inside your chest finally breaks free and with it a wave of anger like you have never known rolls over you. It settles inside every inch of you, wrapping itself around your skin, casting your body.

It moves faster than it has in days when you turn around and roughly shove Joel’s hand off you, taking a staggering step back into the untouched snow.

“You knew?”

Joel stares at you with a mix of pity and surprise. And you truly, fully hate him. For giving you that look, always giving you that look, since the first time you met. Like you’re something that’s broken, that he needs to fix.

He seems to fight to find the right words for a moment before nodding carefully, the hand that was on your back a moment ago slightly raised in a calming gesture. “They wanted to help the kids grieve. So they let them draw the pictures. Maria said—”

“I should’ve been there,” you press out, not yet willing the tears to fall that you can already feel bubbling up.

A flicker of something else flies over Joel’s face. A sternness you haven’t seen on it in a long time. “We didn’t think you were—”

“I don’t care what you think!” you roar, sending a flock of birds up in the trees flying into the sky. “I’m so tired of all of you treating me like a goddamn child!”

Joel’s face has fallen slightly and he swallows hard, raising his hand a little higher. “I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant! None of you know what this is like so stop pretending that you understand! I never wanted this!”

“I know you didn’t,” Joel says quietly, his eyes alert and trained on you.

“You said it would all be better! You said it was so much easier and safer in Jackson, that everything would be better here! You were the one who made me stay!”

Joel just stands there, letting you yell and rage at him, and somehow, that makes it even worse. You want him to yell back, to fight you on this, to do anything but stare at you like you’re this sad thing he can’t leave. An animal that has been grazed by the bullet. Enough to hurt, not yet enough to bleed out.

“What else have you been keeping from me?!” You don’t think you even care. But now that you’ve started yelling you can’t seem to stop. Because you know that the anger is the only thing between you and the overwhelming wave of grief that will come crashing down on you the moment you allow yourself to breathe.

Joel almost looks like he wants to apologize but then his face changes and he shakes his head firmly. “I have not been keeping things from you. I’ve been protecting you.”

“I never asked for your protection!” you yell, moving a step forward to shove at his chest. It barely makes him stumble. Controlled, strong, as always. But something is simmering under his skin too. And you can practically see the moment it reaches his throat.

“Fine! The next time the kids draw pictures for you, I’ll just shove them right into your face!”

You both immediately know he’s crossed a line. Your lungs are burning, the cold air hurting your throat as your voice finally quiets down. “They drew pictures for me?”

Joel opens his mouth and closes it again, shaking his head and it suddenly becomes clear to you that he didn’t mean to say this, that you only know of yet another secret something because you’ve pushed him to a breaking point. He takes another breath, forcing his voice to be quiet when he speaks again.

“I put them below the stairs. I was gonna give them to you, I just thought it was a bit early to—”

You don’t hear the rest of his sentence, instead storming off towards the large metal gates of the graveyard. The white house on Rancher Street is not locked. The hallway seems oddly long as you hurry through it, your gaze fixed on the wooden stairs leading to your bedroom.

His bedroom, you correct yourself. You don't live here. And you surely won't after this.

The first two cupboards you open contain fresh linen that you carelessly shove out of the way. The third one holds a small plastic container that is filled to the brim with paper in a variety of colors.

There are pictures of the school, the classroom, Lane at the front. Lane surrounded by children. Lane next to someone that looks like you. Lane in the woods. There are a few poems and cards in between, each one neatly stacked in the container. There is a weathered postcard showing Flat Creek Lake.

You’re on the wooden floor of the hallway when Joel finally steps into the house. The box clutched to your chest, your body practically curled up around it.

He has been able to keep the tears at bay during your speech. He isn’t able to now. He doesn’t notice that he’s crying until the first tear slips down his cheek and he quickly uses his hand to wipe it away.

Your sobs are almost silent, your body shaking with the effort of keeping them that way.

Joel knows it’s his fault. Because despite all the arguments he’s been storing in the back of his head, he knows you’re right. He is the one who made you stay. He promised you an easier life in Jackson, watched as you trusted him and built your life here rather than anywhere else. And in return, you’d gotten two years of happiness and two pages of goodbye.

A whimper escapes your throat, weak and high-pitched, like the animal that has been grazed by the bullet is finally dying. You’re all trembling limbs and weak sobs as he carefully pries your fingers off the plastic container and sets it aside, making sure not to hide it. He’s done with that.

His back protests as he lifts you up with no support from you, no hands clutching on to him like they usually do, no arms wrapping around his torso. But you don’t fight him, which is all he thinks he can ask. He takes the stairs very slowly, careful not to trip before placing you down into his bed.

Your eyes are closed but he can’t tell whether the grief has worn you out too much or if you’re just trying to ignore that he’s there. He only lingers for a few moments, taking off your shoes and coat and spreading the thick winter blanket over you. Then, he quietly closes the bedroom door behind him and heads back downstairs, ignoring the fact that every part of his body is screaming at him to turn back, to find your trembling body below his sheets and wrap himself around you, hands sneaking over your skin.

Instead, he creates a makeshift bed for himself on the couch, kicks off his own boots and settles down, his eyes landing on his wrist. The hands sitting below the cracked glass of his watch are still, the exact way they have been for over twenty years.

He allows his mind to wander to his daughter for a few moments. Not the night of her death, not even the year. But to her first day of school, to their first Christmas, to his daughter Sarah rather than his dead daughter Sarah.

‘Remember her not for how her story ended but for who she was before.’

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

notes: thank you for reading ♡