#hate that human med is the same :(

[martyrbat]

so many of you talk about the cruel adults in your childhood that negatively effected you and caused lifelong insecurity yet you're still perfectly fine with being that mean stranger to any kid that has the misfortune of existing around you and thats just really gross !!!

[eli-elien]

Anyone willing to hear my crack idea for a gravity falls oc of a species of monster I just made up and I say crack bc its only understandable once you understand I'm the kind of guy who kicks his feet around when watching an analog horror series/horror movie and is obbessed with hannibal and dexter (its not quite related but you get the gist) if you understand me then you'll understand the character also its mostly just sleep deprived garbage bc night shifts have been draining on me lmao

basically I haven't seen anything based off of my fave monster of all time the wedigo, love the philosophy, metaphors and general symbolism of the thing and wanted to do something like that with the uncanny of general things that may talk, act or walk and be your very 'human' 'friend' but really is just trying to eat you give em all those characteristics....but they're a nice fellow. just don't let em near human blood and we're fine :]

anyways who wants to message me abt it?

[audible-smiles]

[whiskeysorrows]

but like. can i actually last 6 yrs of medcine or should i just skip over and do classics even if i hate learning languages

[midnightwriter21]

demon slayer hcs: motherly hashira!reader x the hashira pt 2

characters: fem!reader x muichiro, sanemi, mitsuri, obanai

AN: this is a pt 2 for the request from @danielle-marie

READ THE FIRST PART HERE

MUICHIRO

I LOVE THIS BABY SM U DONT UNDERSTAND

he's the hashira that ur most comfortable around

he was a hashira before u

but u get promoted and its an instinct

child.

must protect.

at first he probably gets annoyed by you

he's not used to someone caring for him the way that u do

but then one day ur sent on a long mission

maybe a few weeks long

and he finds himself missing something

of course he has no idea what it is that he's missing something

he completely forgot about u

but when you get back to the butterfly estate and he sees u

it clicks

he remembers

he missed you

he missed your overprotective nature

he missed your soft caring voice

he missed the way that you brush and style his hair

he REALLY missed that ^

walks up to u, grabs ur hand and tugs u away

doesn't care if you were talking to someone

and doesn't say a word

brings you to his favorite cloud watching spot with a tight grip on your hand

makes you sit down

and lays his head in ur lap

stop im squealing and kicking my feet from the cuteness

SANEMI

my guyyyyyy

have i ever told yall that i love him?

only in every single thing i post

anyways

he HATES you at first

lmfao rip u

your shy and quiet nature reminds him of giyuu

and if theres one person sanemi can't stand

its giyuu

therefore he don't fw u

and doesn't pay u much attention

UNTILLLLL

he witnesses u pulling genya by the ear to the infirmary after a mission

and telling genya tf off for pulling som stupid shit during the mission

+100 respect right there

not only are u actually talking

but ur screaming??

at his brother??

and taking care of him at the same time?????

my guy is lucky if he doesn't pop a boner right there lmfaooo

starts paying more attention to u after that

and is noticeably a lot nicer and calmer around you

will blush beet red and deny tf out of it if the other hashira comment abt his change of heart

but def develops a soft spot for u

MITSURI

SWEETEST HUMAN BEING TO EVER EXIST EVER

she loves u

ofc she does she's the love hashira

but in mitsuri's mind how could she not absolutely ADORE u

not only are you breathtakingly beautiful in her eyes

but she sees the way u interact with the younger slayers

how u genuinely care for everyone's wellbeing

if she wasn't looking for a husband she would wife u tf UP

she still might lol

mitsuri is gonna go out of her way to become friends with you

she's inviting u to her estate for girl's night with shinobu

she's dragging u along to her favorite restaurant for lunch

she's inviting u to join her at the hot springs to relax

she really enjoys ur presence

even if ur shy she thinks ur very soothing to be around

she loves when you do her hair!!

and when u cook for her??

mitsuri alrdy eats a lot

but if u made the food for her??

girl is not letting a CRUMB go to waste

loves the way u take care of everyone

especially when u take care of her

10/10 would recommend a mitsuri

OBANAI

someone pls love this man

he needs it so bad

so dude had SHIT parents

like bad bad

so when he sees ur interactions with the younger slayers he's prob a lil put off at first

like ma'am?

this is the demon slayer corps??

we don't have time for all ur mothering and coddling

but then he's injured on a mission

and waiting in the infirmary for shinobu to show up and patch him up

and then u bust through the doors???

confused asf

shinobu is on a mission and you've been helping out in the infirmary

so looks like ur the one taking care of him today

and turns out his injury is bad enough to land him an extended stay in his lil hospital bed

and after a few days of u taking care of him

with ur red face and soft stuttered words

he learns that you're not so bad

and he actually enjoys being around you

and being taken care of

won't voice this tho

but when Aoi comes in to give him his meds one day he gives himself away by accident

with a

"where's y/n?"

he's a blushing grumbling mess after that lol

after he discharged best believe the next time he gets injured he's not even going to the infirmary

he's hunting u tf down

nobody else gets to take care of him except YOU

and thats period.

[suiana]

(yandere! vampire x afab! reader) (cw: period blood💀, suggestive) (reader is gn but has a uterus)

he is the young lord of a prestigious vampire family family.

honour, money, respect.

he could be everything and anything. his status allows him to do so. and the fact that he's a vampire only makes him so much more powerful.

a young and educated bachelor of a prestigious vampire family.

elegant, smart, educated.

he'd never make a rash decision, always thinking things through before doing anything. careful calculations, masterful deceptions...

that's why he doesn't understand it when his friend tells him that period blood is tasty.

"dude, you've got to try it sometime. like, it's got this tangy taste and-"

"silence! how disgusting are you?"

his face is completely twisted, eyes narrowing as he glares at his friend of 150 years. what on earth is he talking about? tasty? tangy?

his best friend wasn't like this before. he used to be more composed. he'd never say something that vulgar.

ugh, it must be because his friend got that human girlfriend a while back. ever since they started dating... he doesn't even want to think about it. that human must have brainwashed him or something. like period blood? seriously?

...

he can't say much though. he's the same with you too. if you asked him to do something nasty with your blood... i mean, you're his mate! he'll do anything if you asked for it!

"ugh... my cramps are so painful..."

your vampire boyfriend immediately spins his ehad towards you, an alert expression as he teleports to your side to immediately rub at your belly.

"do you need anything, my love?"

"just for my cramps to stop hurting so much."

your boyfriend hates seeing you like this. all in pain, crouching over yourself. curse whoever made periods! how dare they hurt his wonderful lover? he swears that he'll-

"...babe, you're doing the thing again."

oh.

the vampire lord shys away, immediately hiding his fangs as he clears his throat.

"sorry beloved. you know how I get whenever you're in pain. you don't deserve to suffer, you know? I just get so passionate sometimes."

he sighs, shaking his head as he curls up beside you and snuggles up with you. ah, this is perfect- wait a second.

'dude, i don't know whether your mate will allow you to but whenever they get their cramps getting them to orgasm relieves the pain.'

why the hell did he suddenly remember his best friend's words right now?!

ah...

the vampire turns his head towards yours, a pretty pink hue on his cheeks asnhe snuggles you even more. it catches your attention and.. you can't help but raise an eyebrow. what the hell was your boyfriend up to now? did he kill someone in your name again?

"what?"

"you... have cramps right?"

did he hit his head or something?

"yeah? i literally just said it."

your grunt, feeling slightly more snappy than usual because your hormones were fucking everything up. everything was so uncomfortable, and the pain meds weren't helping either. sometimes you wish you could just tear out your uterus and never have to suffer periods ever again.

wait, wait, wait what?

you were pulled out from your thoughts when your boyfriend suddenly stopped hugging you, instead moving his face lower... and lower- hold on, is he in the mood right now?!

"w-wait! what are you doing? i'm on my period dummy!"

"yeah? i know?"

you feel your cheeks heating up as your boyfriend stares at you from in between your legs. what the hell? is he crazy? you know how much of a clean freak he is! he'd never do something so... filthy!

"get out from my legs then?! what if my blood gets-"

"i... heard from my friend that it would help your cramps go away."

he pauses, face blushing as he stares at your pants before glancing back up at your face.

"and you know how much I hate seeing you in pain baby. I don't care if it gets messy."

you could only stare at him in a mixture of embarrassment and horror as he begins to momentarily outfreak you with his behaviour. he's never... done anything like this before. and you know how much he hates getting dirty and so-called 'un-fresh blood'.

he's gone on a rant about how different fresh blood and not fresh blood tastes like before. you vividly remember his disgusted voice and his horrific face as he recounted what his best friend and hiss mate did.

and yet... he's doing the same thing now?!

"hey... you don't have to do it-! I thought you-"

"yeah, but it's fine. I'm doing it for you anyways."

you didn't know what to say to that so you merely sighed and let him do what he wanted to do. you never managed to stop him when he was set on something anyway.

...

so your vampire boyfriend ended up liking it more than he should.

um.

yeah good luck :3

[dystopyx-blog]

Stuck in twst without meds pt 2

electric boo-hoo-galoo

featuring: CATER, SEBEK, SILVER, LILIA and special guest star ✨️BONUS✨️

Idk I just imagine Cater not giving any fucks. He treats you like normal. This obviously endears Cater to you, as everyone else is low-key very annoying when it comes to your diagnoses. So now you're the closest to Cater, of all people, and he does not hesitate to post a million pictures of you two hanging out to Magicam, reminding everyone else that he's your favorite and missing everyone the fuck off.

Sebek is the fucking worst when it comes to this omfg. You know how he is in game, the annoying little crocodile, obsessing over Malleus and being low-key racist??? towards all humans? Uh YUH he is one of the most ableist by far. And yet he's always helping you, like why??? Bro he acts like he hates you, yet he follows you around like you're Malleus??? He will not leave you alone, insisting you need his help.

Hey you n Silver are kinda similar when you think about it. Like you may not be falling asleep, but you're definitely not awake whenever your attention decides to deficit. He often finds himself wishing he could use his UM to see what you're daydreaming about. I'd only it'd work that way. You do also feel empathetic towards his lights. You even introduce him to the rubber band trick, where you wear a rubber band and snap it whenever your brain wanders or you start to feel sleepy. Sometimes when he sees you snap it, he finds himself fiddling with his own... not because he's feeling drowsy, but because he feels connected to you.

Liliaaaaaa. Silver and Malleus are the only ones who really realize this, but you make Lilia go full dad mode. No joke. He employs all the same tricks he used on those two on you. But neither Silver nor Malleus would ever tell you this, not on purpose. Mostly because Lilia is always watching/listening to ensure they don't. Because he knows you'll get upset if you learn he is quite literally babying you. But it's so hard not to!!! You remind him so so much of them... of Malleus with your mood swings, of Silver with your nodding off. Plus, as a human, you are a baby to him, so in a way, you should let him treat you like one. I think that's Lilia's favorite part, you make him feel so young.

BONUS

Sam has your meds. They're available in his shop, and they have been the entire time. You're just in the shop when you see them, and Sam's just like, "why didn't you ask sooner, of fucking course I have your meds in stock, why wouldn't I, I'm SAM."

So this raises a new problem, because he's, yknlw, SAM, so you won't be getting your meds without paying up.

And with your measly earnings, there's no way you'll be able to consistently pay for your meds.

So this raises a new challenge for the yanderes: who's gonna be your supplier? Your sugar pill daddy, if you will.

[heartfullofleeches]

Vendetta [Magical Boy Yan] with a magical Scientist Reader who experiments on the monsters they fight and is generally just one of the worst magical people to stumble across. It's a mystery as to why Reader does what they do - they hardly have any compassion for their fellow humans and laughs at the ridiculous idea they're performing these experiments to turn these creatures back into humans. The ones that used to be humans that is. They've crafted weapons and armor from the skin and meat of their enemies, but they grown old of their toys before long. Many have asked. The answer remains the same.

"Why do I do this?.... Because it's fun I don't know what else you want me to tell you."

Vendetta swears he hears wedding bells- A ruthless, coal hearted scientist with zero regard for how the public views them who also happens to have a sadistic streak? Where has Reader been all his life? Drags monsters and crooks alike to Reader's doorstep in exchange for a reward - Money doesn't mean shit to Vendetta when he could have front row tickets to Reader's next surgery. I see Scientist Reader being a med student outside of their magical persona which Vendetta would tease them about, but totally sees as a bonus because nerds are hot.

Weakens the locks on Reader's cages so their pets can escape and he can live vicariously through them when Reader comes to collect them.

Reader tries to kill Vendetta when they first met, but upon realizing he likes getting the shit kicked out of him they bail because he's a freak.

Reader is stronger than Vendetta in their magical form, but weaker in their normal because I like the idea of that.

-

[Scientist Reader presses the heel of their boot against Vendetta's neck as they stand over him, sneering down at the man as he gasps for air]

Reader: You disgust me. Any last words before I remove your vocal cords?

Vendetta: You should spit in my mouth. I'd reallllly hate that- Here, I'll show you how to do it.

[Vendetta sucks blood from the split in his lip - spitting upwards directly into Scientist Reader's mouth.]

Scientist Reader: Mother-FUCKER- That went into my mouth! Why does your blood taste like battery acid?!

Vendetta: I'm waiting~

-

Scientist Reader: Give it back.

Vendetta, holding Reader's id card out of reach: Aw, this what you normally look like? You're pretty cute for a dork. I could totally take you.

Scientist Reader: Oh, please- I've beaten your ass more times than I care to remember.

Vendetta: Who said anything about a fight.

-

Vendetta: Got photos of you leaving that old abandoned library. Must've nicked yourself pretty bad down there- All that blood on your clothes...

Scientist Reader: And what do you plan to do with those photos?

Vendetta: Jerk off?- Tf else do you want me to do with them?

[papaya-twinks]

random request but lando norris x reader where he comes to her undergrad graduation or med school?

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, (i have severe mental issues)

Pairing: Lando Norris x medical!student!reader

A/N - sorry to add a negative message, but to y’all who keep sending me hate coz I’m not able to do your request the same day it’s sent, fuck you bud. I’m trying juggle fucking uni and my own job, so deal with it yourself if you want it written so bad. But anyways, @slytherinholland this is a sick request, sorry it took a while

“This robe is SO unflattering,” you groaned, eyeing the outfit in the mirror as you dropped the fifth belt onto the bed. “It’s just a few hours in it,” your best friend smiled, “and that too, no matter what belt, there’s no fixing that,” she grimaced as you snorted. “Yeah, I can tell,” you laughed. And the graduation went well, you collected your certificates and threw your hats, but it was about to get even better. “Oh my god, I’m so happy!” you clapped your hand as your best friend raised an eyebrow.

“Wha-Lando?!” you shrieked, your boyfriend standing behind you as you turned around, a stupid grin plastered on his face. “Thought I’d miss this?” he asked, seeing if you’d really doubted him. He was wearing a green hoodie and joggers, matching your robe and aesthetic. Wow, he really thought a lot about the details. “Oh god,” you threw your arms round his neck, “sorry this outfits a bit…” you gestured vaguely at yourself. “A bit ugly,” your best friend finished, making Lando laugh.

Saying your goodbyes to your friends, you smiled awkwardly at Lando. “Ya know,” he said, gesturing for you to get into his car, “it’s not terrible,”. You raised an eyebrow. “The fit,” Lando explained, “you know who it’d look better?”. Seriously? He had an idea? You thought there was no fixing it. “I’ll show you,” he said, seeing your disbelieving face. You had a bit of small talk, answering his questions about a few things and asking about races, cracking jokes and making each other laugh. Very different to what he had planned.

“Still revising?” he scoffed, seeing you sat at the desk in his apartment, books laid out. “Yeah, got one final exam. Biggest one yet,” you frowned, trying to memorise the body anatomy. “What you learning?” you knew he wouldn’t understand it, just trying to show some sort of interest in your life. “Anatomy,” you showed him the human body diagram. “God, I don’t get why they won’t just let you take a mannequin home,” you groaned. “I can help,” Lando volunteered, hands in his pockets.

“You gonna steal a mannequin?” you raised an eyebrow. “No, silly, I can be the mannequin,” he shrugged, cheeks dusted with a soft pink blush as you blinked. “Okay,” you said, letting him take your hand before he allowed you to lay him down, his eyes trained on yours. “There’s a reason they don’t make mannequins hot,” you muttered, his gaze unfaltering as your flushed. “What was that?” he smirked, knowing he heard you as you rolled your eyes. “Nothing,” you shrugged.

“Stop, that tickles,” he huffed, your featherlight touches along his neck and shoulders making him wriggle. “Better?” you dug your nail into his chest, making him push you slightly. “You’re a pain. Can I help with anything?” he tried to be helpful. “I can’t really see much,” you shrugged, pulling at his hoodie, letting him read the situation and remove it. “Better?” he asked. “Better,” you nodded. “Out loud,” he commanded, his voice deeper slightly as he watched your finger trail down his chest. “Ventriculus,” you said, cheeks flushed as you trailed over his stomach.

“Ishcium,” your hand reached his hips, his lips parting slightly as his chest lifted up and down quicker. “Mhm, what about lower?” he asked, your eyes closing as you tried to hide your blush. “Lando…” you mumbled, his hands coming to your wrist to press your hand against him, his cock semi-hard against your palm. “What is it, hm?” he looked at you, his lips spread into a smirk. Without hesitation, you pulled his joggers down, his cock springing against you as you gasped, hand coming to throw base of it instinctively.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his eyelashes fluttering at the sensation. You hummer softly and, without asking, you wrapped your lips around his tip, swirling your tongue around as he groaned. “Fuck, Y/N,” he gasped, his hand coming to the back of your head as he pushed you softly more. “What’s the called, hm?” he said, hand coming to feel the bump in your cheek as your eyes rolled slightly. The words came out as muffles, making him frown slightly.

“Can’t hear you,” he said, pulling you off as you spluttered, his hand on your neck. “What is it?” he asked again, voice more commanding. “Glans,” you coughed, a smirk on his face as your hand wrapped onto his tip again. “Lift,” he said, sliding the robes off of your body as you crawled onto his chest, head on his shoulder and as he sit up, lifting you onto his lap. “Miss this,” he mumbled, lifting you so he could align himself with your entrance.

“Me too, Lan,” you moaned as he pushed in, his eyes on your face, a picture of bliss and ecstasy, as you sunk down onto him. His hands gripped your waist as he slammed upwards into you, your hips rolling back onto him as his teeth sunk into your neck softly. “Fuck, Lan,” you gasped, his cock hitting the perfect spots as he sucked onto your skin, your eyes rolling slightly. “Gonna cum for me, pretty?” he cooed, hands cupping your cheeks as you choked out a small ‘yes’. “Then go on,” he said, slowing down as you felt yourself come undone all over him.

“Orgasm,” you tapped your boyfriend’s stomach as he pulled out of you, an airy laugh ringing vibrating through his chest. “Yeah, know that one,” he cupped your cheek, pressing a kiss to your head. “Unless you wanna test out the reproductive system, I think it’s best we clean up,” he said, staring at his cum pooling between your legs. “Ideally no, but unfortunately, we have to,” you kicked your foot in mock sadness as he laughed. “Alright, Miss ‘I have a PhD,’” he snorted as you flushed. “I’d never pull that card on anyone!” you said, rolling your eyes. And not even ten minutes later, you did.

[thoughtsafterdark]

Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine

Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.

Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.

By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.

At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it’s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.

It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.

Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled.  Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.

Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.

Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.

He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.

He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.

You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.

He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.

His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.

She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.

[backwzzds]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ grumpy daddies that softened up over time, supernovas

one piece men who didn’t want kids at first, but changed their minds the further they got into fatherhood.

TRAFALGAR LAW

okay you getting pregnant was nowhere near law’s 10 year book of plans. honestly, being in a relationship with someone wasnt either, but you rewrote his expectations the moment he met you.

but having a baby? that was pushing it.

law was always hesitant of starting a family of his own because the one person he did call his family was taken from him at a very young age. and with the world we lived in, the last thing he wanted to do was bring a child into this madness, especially as a pirate amongst the supernovas.

you were always nervous on how law would react to having a kid, especially at such a young age. i mean, you were 23 and he was 26–not really ideal ages to have kids. but the man was so pussy drunk, the darker side of him was willing for one night—just one night—to risk it all to shoot his load between your velvety walls. now you two were facing the consequences.

the first few months were hard. of course, law loved little lea with all his heart. he was never one to deny his little girl, but you were able to tell how new this all was to him. he couldn’t spend all night up studying his med books, instead he had to be in bed by nine sharp, because a certain trafalgar had their bed time at that time.

at this exact moment, law would be hunched over neck deep in some physiology book, scribbling sloppy doctor’s notes on yellow post its. but currently, he was on his side of your shared bed, bedtime story book folded over his eyes as little lea’s head rested snugly on her father’s chest. law’s tattooed fingers protectively held her small frame against his body, almost as if he was keeping her from anyone taking her.

you had just finished doing some spring cleaning when you came into the room. looking around, you noticed that there wasn’t a single surgical book in sight. lea got him so good, she didn’t even let him study before she begged her daddy to read her a bedtime story. and hardly ten minutes in, the same man was cuddling over the same thing he swore he wouldn’t be able to take care of.

RORONOA ZORO

okay we all know zoro is a klutz. the man truly did not mean to get you pregnant. as if he suddenly forgot how biology and science worked, the thought of you getting pregnant the moment he came inside you raw (six times btw) completely slipped his marimo mind.

literally everyone and their mother knew the man hated kids but was somehow one of the best babysitters? if you wanna count out nami and robin. it was no surprise that he’d be a great father once he actually warmed up to it.

so the moment that baby zina turned four, it still felt unreal to him that you two shared an entire human together. ironically, zina had all of zoro’s looks and your entire personality.

that included driving her daddy insane.

“daddy,” zina pulled the pocket of her father’s sweats. zoro grunted with his heavy sword in his mouth, training for the hundredth time that morning. “why is our hair green?”

zoro couldn’t helo but chuckle as he gave out, “not sure.”

not only that, but zina got away with a lot of things even you couldn’t when it came to zoro. you three were at a fair on some summer island, deciding to take zina out for the day. there she was on top of her father’s shoulders, continuously covering and uncovering them as part of a game. “peekaboo!” the little marimo giggled, and to your surprise, zoro actually played back.

usually, you would have expected zoro to get annoyed fairly quickly if it were any other kid. he thought the whole of them were burden’s that talked too much. but he made the little girl sitting atop his shoulders, and he knew half of her belonged to you. so the fact that there was a possibility she’d grow to annoy the shit out if him just as much as you did—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

EUSTASS KID

kid would be the grumpiest dad of it all. he just had a downright shitty pullout game (not that he’d even tried), so it wasn’t a surprise that he got you pregnant fr. he swore up and down he aint want a kid, but the moment baby kuina came out with his fire red hair and bold ass personality—suddenly he was america’s #1 dad.

like seriously, you had no idea after all at fuss you’d find him bathing kuina, feeding her, taking her on walks—everything. the man saw your child more than you and you wasn’t playing dat fr. i mean, as great as it was to get a break from kuina postpartum and kid did all the work, it still amazed you to see such instictive dad behaviors come from him.

like kuina wouldn’t stop crying and you didn’t know why? she’d babble out the words of dada and kid would come flying to her rescue, baby talking back to her.

“aw mama’s being a big scawy meanie?” he’d tease. “i know princess let’s stop crying before uncle kil’ gets the both of us, okay?” kuina wouldn’t even understand half of what her father was saying to her, but he was talking to her and that was all she needed before she’d be thrown in a fit of drooly giggles.

on top of that, but the two would spend hours in the workshop together. “babe don’t forget to take her out every other hour. i don’t want her inhaling any of the fumes for too long,” you’d remind kid as kuina would quietly watch him build something. her pacifier would be tucked tightly between her lips as she almost laid against the terrain of kid’s knees, admiring his handy work.

[yardsards]

it is with a heavy heart that i announce that less than an hour after making this post i Frew Up. btw. on a crowded bus.

bad news every1,,, having a breakfast consisting of leftover cake and tylenol will make u feel Not Very Well. truly an unprecedented and shocking revelation for us all.

[katz-chow]

nsfw headcanons with the 141 + graves

warnings: nsfw 18+, gn!reader (amab & afab versions), past sexual trauma in ghost's part, bondage, edging, denial, teasing, dom & sub dynamics,

a/n: i really thought about this mostly because i don't like it when the fandom has like these takes that are i guess...expected from these men when they're literal soldiers...some are just takes that i deem unrealistic so here i'm trying to humanize them. hope y'all enjoy!

john price

6 in hard, cut, trimmed but is not really maintained as well as his beard, around med thick, a bit darker than his skin tone, curves up pretty straight i feel he's the type to like it really slow and gentle with you. like he takes his time, cigar in his mouth, and just his hand on you constantly. he loves to just relax after an action packed day, so having this as his peace of mind is something he'll really appreciate. he has the oldest, cheesiest playlist that he'll sometimes puts on whenever there'll be a day where he has a whole date planned. like this mf really thinks "rock your body" by justin timberlake something he can get down too. you make fun of him but he feels so good so it's ok. surprisingly has really good stamina for a 37 y/o dude. is very vanilla but he loves body worshipping. loves you like a divine being and to him you really are. he'll rather take you on the kitchen counter whenever you two are too impatient, maybe even on the bathroom vanity when you looks so cute after brushing your teeth that he just can't help it before he goes to work. would rather be on top of you, not really a dom & sub dynamic, just him taking over to make sure you're taken care of. a real good ol' fashion lover boy. after a long day at work and he just wants to relax, he'll just either ask you to blow him while he manspreads on the couch or he'll make you ride him on your bed. this man talks you through, never degrades you unless you ask for it. he'll prefers to baby you like the pillow princess you are...but he also expects the same when he's lazy he also loves it when you tug his hair when he goes down on you, grinding against his face or whatever. won't whine or whimper, but will pant like a dog in heat (he is) tits/chest kind of guy, loves to have his hands on your chest and squeeze them, so squishy! aftercare with him is like heaven because as soon as you two are finished, he immediately cleans you up and draws a bath for you both, or just you, to enjoy. good ol' fashion lover boy

simon "ghost" riley

6.5 in, uncut, doesn't really shave or trim, pink, warm undertones, i'd say pretty girthy, curves left so, so gentle with you. just like really soft with you, always making sure you're okay and that you're comfy the type to lay you down and just slowly press in, making sure your face is full of pleasure and not pain. because of his past experience, getting him to have sex in the first place took a long time, actually it was like year. so now that he's comfortable with you, he makes sure, for sure, that you're comfortable with him. consent is sexy. likes positions where he can sees your face, just to check up (and because he thinks you looks so angelic when you o) i feel like he wouldn't listen to any music while going at it, he doesn't want to be distracted from you. you love seeing his face too so its okay. incredibly hesitant and will not push your boundaries, also hard for him if you do end up doing something you haven't really talked about, even if it was accidental. his fav positions are anything that allows him to see your face and is easy for you to speak, that means no doggy, no pressing your face into the pillows etc etc. is not into bondage or tying you up, hates the fact that it feels like he's interrogating you and he hates the feeling of himself being tied up. always make sure you know what the safe word is, even if he's never going to push your boundaries or even go near it. once he finds a safe zone, he stays there unless you ask and he considers it (the safe word is pineapple) very vanilla and i feel like he wouldn't sub until there is a detailed talk beforehand and really, really trusts you. even then he still makes sure that you're in his view and you both know the safe word. once he does subs and lets you take full control, he's pretty vocal with you, talking to you, groaning and moaning, but he's still pretty quiet actually first time you introduced aftercare to him, he cried. he didn't know how loved he could feel while in the topic of sex, thought it was all hot and rough and not this soft. his favorite thing to do with you is to just wipe you both clean with a baby wipe from a packet you two keep in the nightstand. then he'll put on some clothes for you and him and just cuddle and kiss. he likes when you get him food afterwards when he subs someone please hug this man

kyle "gaz" garrick

7 in, cut, def trimmed, sometimes he'll even shave, darker than his skin tone, med thickness, doesn't curve but kinda rises straight up and hits his stomach, very cute he's 10000% down to do it any time whenever you two are at home. such a good balance between degradation and praise, only if you're okay with it. have you heard this man? he's a giggler, he'll giggle and tickle you and make funny jokes. one time, one of you farted (you two are still denying who it was to this day) and he couldn't stop laughing and mimicking the little toot sound i have a big feeling that he's into choking, but only you choking him. otherwise, he likes having his hand on your throat but not actually squeezing, just to keep you in place and for you to claw at speaking of your claws, he likes when you push him away and scratch at his forearms whenever he's overstimulating you. he just thinks it's so cute. definitely has a few playlists he shuffles through depending on the mood, one for a serious, hot and dirty mood and another for when you two are just chilling and being silly goofy, no kinky stuff. also into handcuffs, especially the fluffy ones. he thinks they just feel so soft and nice, a perfect balance between vanilla and kinky stuff. also because he feels like hes being pampered when he wears them attached to the headboard. lets out such cute and pretty moans no matter if he's domming or subbing. when he is subbing though, he lets out these really nice, low whines and pouts followed by a little giggle if it was silly your safeword is definitely something really funny and an inside joke that instantly ruins the mood (it's toots) he will actually ruin you if he's upset; def the type to have angry sex with you if two end up being really upset with each other. frustration sex? yes definitely. loves when you fuck him really rough, deny him, edge him, make him blabbering. he'll thank you afterwards too. if he's domming, he'll make sure you shower first and foremost, then orders take out and watch some stupid romcom. he loves romcoms (10 things i hate about you, will sing along with heath ledger) if he's subbing, depending on the intensity, he'll either just roll over after you wipe him down and immediately sleep as you pet his hair or he'll cling onto you and you two play minecraft together with him between your legs. 10/10 he's very adaptable

johnny "soap" mactavish

5.6 in, uncut, trimmed and maintained constantly, pretty pink but not much different from his skin tone, vvy girthy, leans a bit left but pretty straight this man is so damn funny. listen this mf has fell, cut himself, slipped, had a cramp, and hit his head too many times. he's so fucking clumsy but he's also so curious! but also...why does he want to have sex upside?!?! ughhhh!!! definitely a switch and definitely a power bottom...for a good 5 minutes. yes he will bite you and act like a brat whenever you dom him and mess with him, but as soon as you tie him up and edge him once, he's a goner definitely makes fun of you to see your flushed face, but also makes fun of himself. he uses his cock like a puppet and it has its own personality and voice. you laugh so hard and honestly that's better than hearing your moans. he loves your laugh makes his cock salute you before you two go down, it's so fucking funny. his "little buddy" jumping up when he calls attention and in parade rest. god it makes you laugh every time. his favorite position when he's subbing is cowgirl and reverse cowgirl. he's such an ass man, loves him some ass, will bite you like its actual cake. reverse cowgirl is reserved for when you're feeling mean though, because sometimes you just pull off of him to jerk him off and sit on his stomach. he has a nice view of your ass but can't see what you're about to do to him :( a big tease when he's domming, will have the most randomest patterns ever just to get you to whine and beg for him to go at certain pace. give him a few pouts and glossy tears and he'll do whatever you want, he's a big softie behind all the tease and bratiness. also a fan of doggy if you two are doing it quickly, he loves bending you over a surface and just going ham at it. good position for him to reach and jerk you off at the same time too. immediately cuddles as aftercare and not cleaning up right away, when he's subbing though, you def clean him up while he clings to you because he's so touchy feely but you want him to feel clean too, esp when he leaks so much (so much). when he's domming though, you two would just lay in bed (maybe even go for another round if you feel like it). gives you kisses and asks what you like and didn't like, a full debrief. plays mario kart afterwards with you and you let him win because you're tired. such a silly man

phillip graves

5.6 in, cut, not really trimmed or maintained, a pretty pink almost red tip, med girth, he curves UP like UP this man is a big tease, and super egotistical. he'll make you beg, whine, pout, and grind against him before he will even touch you. he likes cockwarning a lot while he's on a business call or doing paperwork. he's patient. makes you cum first, doesn't matter if he's domming or subbing, he wants you to use him like a toy for your own pleasure until you're satisfied enough that he'll even think about cumming. when he's domming, he loves to call you the nastiest things (if you allow him), absolutely ruins you and coats you with his cum. he's a southern gentlemen though and will make your mind go numb with pleasure, def a pleasure dom now that i'm using my noggin his fav positions are cowgirl, missionary, and doggy. lotus mostly so he can wrap his arms around you. makes you wear his cowboy hat when you ride him. and will use the hat rule in public to get you to suck him off in the car LOLOL i feel like he's big into gags, not really on you, but def on him. wants to be drooling and leaking all over himself while he whines and begs you to touch him, he's cute. likes being manhandled. grabbing his jaw, digging your nails into his back, biting him, even if he's on top, he'll enjoy it. he likes the scratch marks you give him and wears them like a trophy for his shadows to see. very vocal with you and loves to be a pillow princess when he bottoms. likes to be tied up with a vibe on his cock and edged and overstimulated will whimper and whine and moan and pout, like a little puppy. would probably grind up against your leg when he feels extra needy. aftercare with him is kinda shitty whenever he doms ngl. he'll make you something to eat and probably take you shopping afterwards. not a big cuddler but would hold you if you curl up into him. if he was subbing, he would probably take a nap after you pester him to take a shower. he'll just nap and finally wake up when he smells food that you get him for being so good lol saved by the grace of southerner charm

[mononijikayu]

"i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you." — gojo satoru.

And now, you realize how human Gojo Satoru was. How normal he was. How tender he was for a world that was not the same towards him. You sighed, parting from him slightly as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He took a look towards you, as though searching for the universe behind your lilac eyes.

GENRE: post hidden - inventory arc (2010s)

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of blood, depiction of killing, depiction of suffering, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: in another life by son lux

NOTE: waiting for my meds to kick in and i saw the clip from everything everywhere all at once where waymond says, 'in another life, i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you' and i just thought of them....thought of genmei (you) and satoru, just enjoying this sort of life. very short but this is one to warm your heart. let's remember satoru as the man he was. as the loving human being who was fun and generous and tender. i'll be doing this for a while. until i get my head straight. in a way, this is how i'll mourn him. by remembering him lovingly <333

masterlist

u s and t h e m

YOU ALWAYS LIKED HAVING SATORU AROUND THE HOUSE. Your husband was if anything — always not at home. Even if he’d like to be, it’s not up to him. And you as much as he does, hated it. You’d always understood that. You could never feel hate for Satoru about things he genuinely could not control. 

In these past few years of marriage, you were lucky if he could get the Sundays off. He’d always made the point to the higher–ups that he would never answer calls on that day. He’d like to focus on being around you, being around Tsumiki and Megumi — to be as present as possible.

But in the past few years, the number of curses had dramatically increased and the number of professional sorcerers had dwindled. Of course, you yourself felt some guilt in that. You yourself have taken a leave for almost two years now, having followed in Nanami’s footsteps. Even now,  principal Gakuganji has been pressuring you for your return each and every day. But you flat out refused each and every turn, every call, every message. Satoru did not fault you for it, he understood.

Considering that you had wanted to be more attentive in giving Tsumiki and Megumi an active presence in their lives. You wanted that for Satoru too. You wanted him to know that there was always someone waiting for him to come home. That there was going to be someone that was willing to stay awake, yearning for him to return every day and every night. He had always been so gleeful about that — smug even. 

Because he had something to live for. He had something to look forward to when the days get rough with the amount of curses he’d have to go through left and right. He didn’t mind that your duties in the jujutsu world became his own. What mattered was that he had Megumi and Tsumiki and you, his precious wife.. He couldn’t ask for anything more.  He’d brag to Shoko and his sister about how he had someone waiting for him to come home. 

"You know," Satoru began, a playful glint in his eye, "I brag to Shoko and my sister about how I have someone waiting for me to come home."

You looked up from the cutting board, a smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, really? And what exactly do you tell them?"

He grinned, leaning casually against the counter. "I tell them about how you're always here, making the place feel like home. How you cook amazing dinners and make sure everything runs smoothly."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "You're exaggerating, Satoru. I'm just doing what anyone would."

He shook his head, his expression turning more serious. "No, you're not. You make all the difference. Coming home to you... it's everything. It makes all the craziness worth it."

Your heart warmed at his words, and you set down the knife, wiping your hands on a nearby towel. "Well, for the record, I brag about you too."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh? To whom? And what do you say?"

“To the mothers at Tsumiki and Megumi’s school,” You grinned at him. "I tell them about how my precious husband always manages to juggle being the busiest person I know and still you always make time for me, even when you're exhausted. And how you make me feel safe and loved, no matter what. How you make Tsumiki and Megumi feel happy and safe—seen and cared for.”

Satoru's cerulean eyes softened, and he reached out to take your hand in his. "I'm glad you feel that way. Because that's all I want—for you to feel safe and loved."

You squeezed his hand, the connection between you palpable in the quiet kitchen. "I do, Satoru. Every day."

He smiled, the kind that lit up his entire face. "Good. Because I plan on bragging about you for a long time."

And so, now that he also gets calls on Sundays, Gojo Satoru makes the most of anything and everything — every moment was important for him to measure up to. Today was one of those rare, precious days off for your husband, and you both intended to savor every moment of it. 

The usually bustling Gojo residence was quiet and peaceful, with Tsumiki and Megumi still out for the day. They were still in school, doing some more club activities. Megumi took up baseball, while Tsumiki took on band music. So you and Satoru wouldn’t have to go to school until 5:30 pm. It was only 4:00pm. And so you were adamant to start prepping for dinner — so that when you all got home, the hotpot would just need some cooking. You were there again in your turf, the kitchen, as you hummed a song that’s been stuck in your head for a while. 

As you sliced the vegetables with practiced ease, you could hear your husband Satoru enter the room. He had taken off his usual blindfold, and opted for his round dark glasses. Your husband had a habit of taking even the round glasses when he’s around you. But you know it hurts his head to even do so. 

He’d pout and he’d stomp all about, saying how he just wanted to see how pretty you were. But you always stood your ground. Still, you could still feel how revealing those striking blue eyes glaring at you even when they’re covered up. They always seemed to see right through you. 

Satoru sighed contentedly, his thumb still gently brushing over your knuckles as he watched you chop. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board was soothing, a small anchor in the storm of your lives. His presence beside you felt like a protective shield, his love and strength enveloping you like a warm embrace. He leaned against the counter, watching you with a contented smile. The quiet hum of domesticity felt foreign yet comforting.

"You know," he said softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence, "Sometimes I envy the ordinary people. They have no idea about the world we live in, the dangers we face. Their biggest concerns are mundane things like bills and grocery lists."

You looked at him, a somber smile on your lips. "It's the simplicity we crave, isn't it? The idea of living a life where our biggest worry is what's for dinner, not the next life-or-death battle."

Satoru's cerulean eyes sparkled for a moment. "Exactly, y’know? Rare for us to get moments where we can pretend, just for a little while, that we're just like everyone else."

You smiled, feeling a surge of gratitude for the man standing beside you. "And those rare moments mean everything. They remind us why we fight, why we keep going."

He pulls at your other hand, taking it to his own as you gasped. He presses a kiss on your palm. "You always know how to put things into perspective."

“You know, you don’t bring up these things unless you’re thinking a lot.”

He grins. “Oh, but who says I’m thinking a lot?"

“My love, I’ve known you long enough to know you only talk when you feel like you can’t keep it inside anymore.” You say, putting your knife aside and squeezing the hand he occupies with his own. ”Tell me, what's on your mind?"

He hesitated as he stayed silent. He didn’t know how to say it, having to close and then open his mouth. Satoru was just like that too, when you met him. He took a moment before he just sighed deeply, his expression softening. 

"I don't want to be doing this anymore," he said quietly, almost to himself.

You stopped mid–chop and turned to look at him, your heart skipping a beat. "Doing what?" you asked, needing clarification.

"This!" he repeated, gesturing vaguely around him in the empty space like a mad man."Well, not our life. That’s the best part. But I’m…… I’m always away and I miss this, y’know? I miss having to just be here. Enjoying this. I miss it a lot, darling.”

“Satoru, my love,  you can’t help it if you’re busy.” You say to him tenderly, sending him a soft smile. “That’s your job.”

“But what if it wasn’t?” He says as he lowers his gaze, his lips tight in a prominent pout. He sighs, rubbing the back of his head. “I know that it’s wishful thinking but I just…y’know? What if I don’t have to? What if I just left? What if we just got to Hida and hid forever? All the fighting, the constant danger……the weight of being the strongest. It’s taxing, darling.”

You looked at him, your eyes echoing pain at his words. You walked over to him, his bright blue eyes not leaving your own lilac ones. You opened your arms and knowing Infinity is down when he’s with you, wrapped your arms around him. He settles in your touch rather quickly, resting his chin against your shoulder as he wrapped his own strong arms against your own.

“Is that what you want?” You ask him in a small whisper, looking at him as though trying to make sure he’s sure. “Would you not regret leaving it all behind?”

“I want this, I'm sure I am." he continued, his voice taking on a more wistful tone. “I’m sure I am.”

“But what about your work—”

“I just…” He leans against you even more. "This little suburban, quaint type of the normal sort of peace. All I want in life.  I don’t wanna hear the depths of some curse’s stimulation, darling. Just…. Just wanna hear your breath or the rhythm you have when you chop the veggies for the hotpot. ‘miki’s violin strings when she practices before breakfast, ‘gumi’s little chants in secret when he watches the baseball league by himself. Just…..just want this.”

If you hadn’t fallen for him years ago, you think you would have fallen for him now. His words hung in the air, heavy with longing and sincerity. Your heart was enraptured by him, completely. 

It was always hard for Satoru to be honest with his feelings. You’ve known that the first time you met him, when Yaga forced you to check on your new special grade sorcerers. When he first spoke to you, all of his words sounded ever so pretentious. Annoyingly so. But over time, you realized much about him. You learned much about him. You started to embrace him. 

And now, you realize how human Gojo Satoru was. How normal he was. How tender he was for a world that was not the same towards him. You sighed, parting from him slightly as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He took a look towards you, as though searching for the universe behind your lilac eyes. 

"Gojo Satoru," you said softly, your eyes searching for him beneath all that cerulean hue. "I swear to you, my love,  this life or the next — in another life, I would've really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you."

He chuckled, a soft, genuine sound that made your heart swell. His cheeks were red scarlet as he looked at you bashfully. His cerulean eyes seemed to grow even brighter, reflecting the depth of his love for you.  He presses his cheek against your shoulder, resting there for a moment as though to just let his warmth be felt by your own skin. To let you know, even his warmth was for you.

"Me too." he admitted, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "I imagine a life where the biggest worry we have is what to make for dinner or whether we should wash the whites separately."

You smiled, the simplicity of the idea bringing a sense of warmth and peace. "That sounds perfect."

Satoru's gaze softened as he leaned in closer. "You know, I think about that sometimes. A life without all the chaos, just us. It’s nice to dream, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," you whispered, feeling the weight of his words and the sincerity behind them. "But even in this life, come what may, I'm grateful to have you for all of it. I couldn’t have asked for anything more."

His fingers tightened around yours, a silent promise of his unwavering support. "And I'm grateful to have you, darling. You really are my dream, you know?”

You both laughed, the sound mingling with the quiet of the room. The idea of such a mundane life felt strangely appealing, a stark contrast to the chaos and danger that defined your existence now. But at that moment, it was a dream worth holding onto.

"Maybe one day, we’ll have it." you said, squeezing his hand. "It’s not impossible, hm?”

He nodded, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and determination. "Yeah, it’s not.”

For now, though, you both knew your responsibilities were far from over. The weight of the jujutsu world and its relentless demands pressed heavily on your shoulders, but this stolen moment of peace, this shared dream of a simpler life, was enough to sustain you through the battles yet to come.

“I love you, Satoru. Whatever happens.”

He grins at you, kissing your cheek tenderly.

“I love you too, darling. Always and forever.”

You were living the best of life, loving him.

epilogue

The aroma of the hotpot filled the kitchen, promising a delicious meal. You and Satoru were still wrapped in your own little world, working together seamlessly as you finished up the preparations. Meanwhile, in the dining room, Tsumiki and Megumi were setting the table, so that you can eat soon after the hotpot is cooked and done.

Tsumiki hummed happily as she placed the plates and utensils, a bright smile on her face. "It's so nice to see them like this," she said, glancing back towards the kitchen where Satoru was playfully teasing you as you stirred the pot. “its so lovely again!"

Megumi, however, was less than thrilled. He sighed dramatically, his shoulders slumping as he set down the last of the chopsticks. "I swear, Gojo-san is like a clingy puppy. It's like he can't do anything without being attached to her."

Tsumiki giggled, nudging her brother. "Oh, come on, Megumi. It's sweet. They're happy, and that's all that matters."

Megumi rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah, yeah, I guess. But do they have to be so... mushy about it?"

Just then, Satoru's laughter echoed from the kitchen. "Hey, be careful! You almost burned my hand!" he teased, making you laugh in response. “Darling!~”

“Satoru, be careful or the pot will fall!”

“Ah, but I wanna hug you some more!”

“The kids won’t have dinner if I crash on this pot! Satoru—"

"Blegh! Just one more squeeze! Stop pushing me back!"

"Gojo Satoru, if we starve tonight, it would be your fault!"

Tsumiki placed the last napkin on the table and turned to Megumi, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "See? Everything is right in the world when they're like this. Besides, it's good to see Satoru–san relaxed for once."

Megumi sighed in feign annoyance. But Tsumiki was sure that there was a hint of affection in his eyes as he watched Satoru lean over to kiss your cheek. 

"Yeah, I guess you're right……As long as they're happy, I guess…..we’ll be able to deal with it."

As you and Satoru brought the steaming hotpot to the table, Tsumiki clapped her hands together. "Dinner is ready! Everything looks delicious. Thank you so much for your hard work!”

Satoru beamed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "All thanks to my amazing partner here," he said, giving you a squeeze. “We can eat well tonight!”

You smiled in tandem with your blush, playfully swatting his arm. "And the help of our wonderful family."

Megumi shook his head. "Alright, enough with the love fest. Let's eat."

Tsumiki giggled, taking her seat. "Don't worry, Megumi. One day, you'll find someone who makes you as happy as they make each other."

Satoru smirked, ruffling Megumi's hair. "Yeah, and then we'll tease you mercilessly about it.”

Megumi groaned, swatting Satoru's hand away. "Shut up!”

“Darling, our son’s being mean to me again~”

You smiled at both of them. “I’m not getting involved!”

“But darling!”

[motherofagony]

A HEART FOR EATING // vol. 2

joel miller x f!reader

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

You’ve always hated flying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You of all people know that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He tell you what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s there to even say?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth goes dry.

“How did you –?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel.”

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

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

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

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

“Alright. Lemme see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need stitches,” you announce simply.

“Like hell.”

“Joel.”

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

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

This fucker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like you were.

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

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

“Something to take the edge off.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re doing great,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You try again.

“I like your paintings.”

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

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

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

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not too bad,” he grunts.

“I’ll add it to your tab.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good boy? Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have got to get the fuck out of here.

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

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

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

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart.”

And you hope he means it.

—

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

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

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

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

“He doin’ alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you say so.”

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

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

“Sounds like you know him, too.”

—

A few days come and go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wish they were Joel’s.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Explains a lot,” he mutters.

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

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

“You afraid of the dark or somethin’?”

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

“Sorry?”

“You turn the lights on at night.”

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

For Joel to see.

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

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

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

Joel’s mouth thins into a tight line.

“It’s nothing,” you promise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure about that?”

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

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

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

“Always worried about you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Joel?

“You saved me.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you.

“Jesus, fuck — what the fuck, Joel —”

“You’re late.”

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

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

“I didn’t fall down any stairs.”

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

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

“Sit down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you afraid of the dark?

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

Touching yourself? Watching you undress?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Know what’s funny about that?”

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

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

Something catches in your chest.

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

Then — panic.

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

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

“He have any tattoos?” Joel asks roughly.

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

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

“You know who.”

You do.

You could draw it from memory if he asked.

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

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

“What does that mean?”

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

“Whatever you need it to mean.”

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

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

And you never even thanked him.

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

“You remember how you were before?”

And for a split-second, you try.

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

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

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

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

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

Frustrated, eyes watering, you shake your head.

“That’s why.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But is it? Are you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough that magma pools in between your hips.

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

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

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

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

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

[ckret2]

Do you believe bill will eventually get better, even if it takes close to an eternity? Or do you think that is just his destiny, to forever be in denial of his mistakes?

I think on a long enough timeline change is inevitable. One way or another, Bill can't stay the same for an eternity.

He isn't necessarily getting better, though. Meds could leave him brain damaged, brain dead, or dead-dead—that's a real risk in psych wards from overmedication, errors, or adverse reactions to drugs, and I doubt Bill would have complained about the place being overmedicated unless the drugs were actually doing something to him. He could crumble under the stress and end up complying with whatever it takes to get him out of there and leave as a broken husk of who he once was. Or he could get more traumatized, more angry, more defiant, more hateful, spiraling on into infinity.

Psychiatric hospitals are, by and large, awful places to be. In fact the only time I've ever seen positive reviews of a psych hospital are from people who have been to multiple and are relieved their latest one is so much better than normal. A very common happy outcome of a psych hospital stay is literally "I absolutely needed to be there and going was the right choice, and I'll be traumatized the rest of my life because of it." And that's when the psych hospital did well.

The Theraprism uses solitary confinement + total sensory deprivation—which humans use as a torture and interrogation technique—as a punishment. I don't think they're doing it well.

I think Bill can improve—mainly because, frankly, at this point there's not a lot of ways left his situation could get worse—but if he does, at this point? It'll be in spite of the Theraprism, not because of it. It's pretty common in psych hospitals (particularly forensic psych hospitals, where all the patients also have the stigma of being criminals) for the treatment to hold patients back more than help. Things like patients that have committed more violent crimes being scrutinized much more than other patients and thus rated as more unwell than other patients displaying the same symptoms. Or patients objecting to taking a med that makes their mental condition worse, and being written up as noncompliant for it and pushed further back from being released until they agree to take the drug that makes them worse. Or patients having innocent behaviors reinterpreted as signs of mental illness ("keeps a journal" = "pathological need to write").

But he could improve. Maybe being cut off from his powers & his enablers will cause him to think over his life for the first time; maybe he'll make actual emotional connections with fellow patients that help him improve; maybe he realizes "this is the worst place ever, I've GOT to turn my life around" and starts checking out self help books from the hospital library. There's even a very slim chance he might get a competent psychiatrist who listens to him, doesn't assume he's incapable of self-insight just because he's mentally ill, and sees him for more than fifteen minutes once in a blue moon—all of which aren't traits you find in psychiatric hospitals as often as you might hope.

Dandelions can grow from the cracks in sidewalks, and people can improve in shitty psych wards.

But I expect the Theraprism will have to reform before Bill reforms.

I expect even more that Bill will find a way to escape before either thing happens.