#i dont have to words to even truly convey my feelings

[moondirti]

im sick. im feverish. im throwing up. im fucking hyperventilating holy shit

lev, you truly never, ever disappoint. every single one of your fics leaves me aching with some sort of cotton-mouth, afternoon nap delirium. i don’t know what to do with myself, usually, but this one has sent me reeling into a whole ‘nother dimension entirely.

i aDORED THIS, if you couldn’t tell. not just adored; loved, treasured, revered. you have such a way with words and prose that strings along borderline lyrically. you are a wonderful person and a phenomenal writer and i am at such a loss for words that i hope any of this is even comprehensible.

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

rIGHT OFF THE BAT you managed to capture Joel’s character perfectly. the fact that this entire thing took place from his perspective and not one bit sounded out of character is a feat in of itself, but the way you managed to add another layer to the man we all know and love? goodness. this did not feel like 10k words at all (in the best way possible); at no point did i ever lose interest. i sat down to read this and did so in one sitting, unmoving - hell, my arms have pillow marks like i just woke up from a 12 hour night.

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

and do not get me started on the dynamic you’ve laid out for MC and Joel. i love her. I LOVE HER. she’s femme fatale in a way that feels real; because not only do we get romanticisation, we also get the pain, the weakness, the vulnerability. as much as i enjoy innocent damsels, joel absolutely wouldn’t, and so to have her be so beautiful and ‘unassuming’ only to imbue her with so much darkness is the perfect perfect direction.

(also, the way her monologues about her beauty only to huff out that she’s nothing to him? it’s giving Joel for sure)

(and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess). 

also, i feel like this goes without saying but i wanted to give kudos anyway; the fact that u didn’t just erase ellie or tess or the canon from this fic !! please, it was perfect. the undercurrent of hurt joel feel’s from ellie’s scorn, the mistakes and comparisons he makes with reference to tess. the nightmares of MC getting infected, and the violent imagery that intrudes on him that so closely resembles sarah’s death on outbreak day. you’ve truly given us the version of joel we know - the one we love, from the games and the show. it makes it so much easier to sympathise and fall into his stream of consciousness. ur a fucking wizard babe

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

and how can i have a reblog without leaving immense praise for your PROSE? HI? HELLO? there’s nothing i can say that i haven’t said already, before, but i just need to emphasise how in love with your writing i am. ur one of my favourites; not just in the COD fandom, not just for TLOU, or on tumblr, or on the internet, but of all goddamn time. you inspire me in a way no one else can and i can only hope to write something as beautiful as this one day.

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot. 

this is so him. ‘satisfied’ YES! GIVE ME DARK JOEL

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

a tear just ran down my leg tbh. This was so hot i had to take a breather

The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest. 

I'll outlive you, old man. 

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

listen, i know i praised u for sticking with canon lev, but i swear to god - that scene better not exist in this world. thanks. (this fully made me sob by the way. im not even kidding. its the combo of a rough week with this unfiltered angst and i want u to know I appreciate u for it)

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

》 SUMMARY: It's her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of.  》 WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT (mild); allusions to death, assault; female gendered reader, female gendered anatomy; minor game spoilers; Joel isn't bad at feelings – he just doesn't want them. Joel is tired™ 》 WORD COUNT: 10,9k

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

》 NOTES: I did something different with my writing. It's still a Reader insert, but. I tried third person instead of the usual second. also, how this ballooned up to nearly 10k is lost to me since it was just supposed to be smut?? I had this clear image of older Joel laying in bed, his guitar leaning against the wall, catching the light of the sun as you slowly rode him, and now? I don't even know. ⤑The gif is mine. Please don't take or repost without permission

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter. 

It doesn't exist. 

Shouldn't. 

And yet—

His guitar sits, abandoned, in the corner of the bedroom. The wood still carries the heat from his thumb this morning when he played a song alone on the porch. Eyes bleary, full of sleep, of rest, as he took in the varicoloured dawn cresting through the indigo sky.

Those same weathered, beaten hands that strummed the chords to Hurt are now occupied again. One perched on her hip, skin sateen soft and plush, full and warm and clean from the shower last night as she bears down on top of him in a quiet cadence, a muted, languid dance. The other cups the swell of her breast in his palm, nipple still damp from his hungry mouth, and flushed red from his teeth. 

This should just be a fantasy. 

A dirty thing in the recess of his mind when he has a moment to himself breathe. A thought, a whim. Something to needle away at the last vestiges of his consciousness when he sees her in the wild—vibrant, young, and free—and then sullied in the back of his head when he leans against a tree, and thinks of the dirt on her skin, the blood on her delicate hands, and how they'd taste under his tongue.

But this isn't a dream.

When he sleeps, he dreams in black and white. The only colour that bleeds through is red. Blood red. Pulpy and vicious. Ugly. Garish. It splatters across the pavement where he laid Sarah down, where he lost Tess, and everyone else he never promised to save and still couldn't. 

He knows this isn't a dream when he blinks his eyes open, and she's there. Sitting atop him in a kaleidoscope of colour, drenched in ochre from the still rising sun. The only red is her blistered lips, the rough burn between her thighs from the scrape of his beard, and that sinful little tongue that slips between her teeth when he slides in deep. 

And then—his eyes drop to her side—that ugly wound that cuts her flesh, ripped over the seam of her ribs. 

He's awake. Lucid. 

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy. 

He doesn't say this, of course—Joel isn't stupid, and for someone so considerably smaller than he is, she packs a hefty punch in those slender fingers that curl into a fist barely the size of an apple. The sharp jab of a rusted, blunt knife. Knows where to hit him, too. 

He tucks it away, and lets his hands explore, feeling the tangibility of her weight, her presence, under the tips of his bloodied fingers. 

(Broken on the same teeth that caused her to hurt.)

The knob of her hip bone juts out through her flesh, and he grazes it with his thumb, feeling the soft curve. 

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone. 

He can feel the flutter of her racing pulse under his hand when he kneads her breast in his hand, and lets her nipple graze teasingly over the rough skin of his weathered palm.

The tight clench of her around him—pussy a perfect knot around the base of his cock, all pretty and tied tight like a bow—is another stroke of realism his dreams, nightmares, fantasies, could never imbue. 

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston. 

Joel feels each breath that leaves her heaving chest. Each gasping hiccup of his name when she raises her full hips up, and then slide back down the length of him in a slow, languorous roll until he nudges against the seal of her womb, and steals the air in her lungs. 

It's real. 

A paradox, then. 

One of those things that shouldn't happen, but is. Like her, and him, and everything else in between.

He knows what the others in town say when they see her—pretty and soft with a ginger touch and a sweet curl of a voice when she whispers his name. It doesn't make sense for her to be all wrapped up in him, following along behind like a shadow to a man who's cut from ashlar, and reeking of rot. Ruin. 

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops.

That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

They glare at him from the corner of their eyes when she swells like a lighthouse in the midnight gloam at the sight of him wandering back from patrol, eyes all bright and beaming, and beautiful—Christ. 

She's a picture, he thinks. 

One of those pinup girls he'd find in dirty magazines as a kid. When he and Tommy would sneak a peek behind the barn, away from prying eyes. A portrait of lust. Desire in high gloss. 

A classical beauty—the type that would make men drown themselves at sea. A starlet in the golden age back when it mattered. 

Writers' muse, maybe: she would have been the girl everyone talked about—the one that eluded the tortured artist, made him pine. 

Hemingway would call her brutal. 

Cat in the Rain. 

(She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.)

He doesn't know much about poetry but he knows she's the type who could make a man want to stain his fingers in ink just to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled. 

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith. 

Her voice is a song when she says his name. A hymn. 

Dangerous. 

He doesn't know when this started. 

Maybe, when they brought her in with the rest of the group she was travelling with. Beaten down, hungry. Clinging to life with frostbitten fingers. 

Her eyes were flat; a stagnant pond. Lips a grim, blue line. Placid. Gone. She'd been out there for too long to ever find comfort behind walls, and he knows the feeling of trying to crawl out of your own skin when people stand too close. 

She scoffed at the idea of this place, of sanctuary. Resentful and derisive. He could see the distrust in her clenched jaw, balled fists. This world was a whim—evanescent—and what they gathered from the rest of the group, survival hadn't been easy outside of safe zones.

Wall after wall fell, she said, tone flat. Blank. Haunted by ghosts still lingering in the canyons of her eyes. Stopped believing in stuff like this after a while. 

Her eyes were stained—jaundiced and red, filled with burst blood vessels—and raw from how hard the edges of her knuckles had dug into the flesh of her eyelids. They spoke of sleepless nights. Ones interrupted by her own sense of survival, hyperarousal. 

He knows the feeling of jerking awake whenever his brain starts to lull, to slip into that dangerous facsimile of security. 

Pipe dreams. She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield. 

(Sleep often feels like a bad habit for people like her, like him.)

But like him, it waned slowly. 

The chips in her veneer cracked, split, and he saw the incipient filament start to seep in. Complacency. Comfort. 

A few months in, she stopped being so defensive when they invited her out for drinks, and when they talked about dinner parties, and birthday celebrations. Derision was still a heavy weight in her distant gaze, clutched in bleached knuckles like a claymore, when she looked at them, a touch incredulous. 

Joel understands the feeling. 

The itch in your guts, the discomfort in your chest. It festers, doesn't it? 

Children play close to the fences, making up games of tag, and hide and seek, as if those things with broken, pustulous faces weren't skulking within arm's reach just a breath away. 

This whole place is a vacuum. The interior is covered in thick molasses; stuck in stasis. They pretend that birthdays and holidays matter. Dance around the saloon at night with drinks in hand. Pale ale. Old booze. 

It's rigid in its structure: patrols that span the entirety of a day—from dusk to dusk in three shift increments—and daily checks of the fences, the gates. Trading with other communities. Rules. Regulations. 

It gives the idea of safety. Of security. 

(But the bruises on his hands and the gash in her side are proof that it's sometimes not enough.)

Slowly, though, as the days wore on and the fences stood proud and tall and secure, she softened. Tucked it away with a smile, and started saying, I'll think about it instead of clipped jerks of her chin, or nothing at all. 

Joel doesn't know if she ever really did think about it like she said she would. 

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well. 

She never showed up despite the invitations. Never came to celebrate. 

She stood by the fence, and looked out, eyes wide, mouth flat. The coil in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, reminded him of a trapped animal. Cornered, and tense. 

She'll bite someone eventually. 

(He just never expected it to be him.)

The tension didn't flee the crease of her eyes, but she tried to integrate herself into the fold, the community. Slowly. Slowly. 

He took stock of her in the same measure he does everyone new who wanders in. Assessing. Watching. Cautious. 

He could tell right away that she was a wildcard. A lit match slowly burning down the wick in a sea of gasoline.

Pretty, he finds, despite himself. Drawn in by her allure; a coruscating light in the middle of endless, unfathomable grey. 

He catches sight of the weathered face that blinks back at him from the frosted windows, hazy and thick with condensation that make the grey in his hair, his beard, look startlingly whiter than it was ten seconds ago. It's a jarring reminder of who he is. What he's done. 

It's not insecurity that keeps him from seeking her out, but self-preservation. Some people, he finds, just have this magnetism about them. A beacon. A light. A gravitational pull that drags you closer and closer. 

And hers is purely primal. Animalistic. She smells of sex and sin and makes him think of object permanence when everything around him had been clouded in the sharp shade of ephemeral grey. 

She's a fractured mirror. Medusa in the making. 

Joel's always avoided broken glass. 

(Ladders. Black cats. Cracks in the pavement. Pretty girls who swallow everything like a black hole—)

Too sweet, he finds. Forbidden fruit. Tart, ripe, and sugar dipped. 

(He never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.)

Through his observations—necessary, he tells Tommy when he catches the way Joel's gaze follows her around when she moves; limbs ballerina lithe, swan songs after dark: just because we let them in, doesn't mean we can trust them—he finds out everything he needs to know. 

A rusted sign on the side of the road says, stay away. Danger in dulcet. Soft and sweet. A perfunctory bow in battle before the deadly blows come. 

He oscillates between finding her both too soft and too hard, and it's the unknown that makes him wary. 

She's a caged animal. Everyone is just kidding themselves if they think she's domesticated. 

Somewhere in the throng of people milling about, drinking and dancing like the world wasn't in shambles, she finds his gaze, matches his stare. 

Most people looked away. 

But she's not most people, is she? 

No, she's dangerous. Pretty in a way that's entirely too ethereal for the broken remnants of what remains. Left behind. Mouldering until death claims its victims. Until the spores released from the earth itself burrow in the rucked lines of your head, sprouting up like flowering buds. 

She makes men want. 

And while the pickings might have been slim, Joel knows there are several (and maybe a little more) above him in terms of desirability. He's older. Gruff. Rough around the edges without any whim of changing, or scouring himself down so that his jagged pieces don't pop something as tender and sweet as her. 

He doesn't put himself in the same bracket. Despite Maria's insistence, Tommy's needling, he isn't a bachelor. 

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't. 

Not since Tess. Not since—

None of that matters. He's too old to think about romance, about skin and sex, and warmth. And more.

The thought of it all leaves something sour twisting in the gnarled rot of what remains inside his chest. 

Despite that, or maybe in spite of it, she comes to him. 

(Somehow. Somehow.)

She asks him to dance, and the breathy tone of her voice tastes like a lit cigarette; it plumes nicotine in the air. Second-hand smoke. A contact high. 

He finds it disarming when she laughs after he says no. Firm. Hard. Dismissive. 

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart. 

The unspoken stay away rang clearer than the echo of her laughter. 

And that was that. 

But she came back. 

("If not a dance, then how about a drink?"

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

She grins, then, soft and coy. "Not much else to do with it these days besides chatting up a handsome stranger."

He pretends she didn't make him choke on his drink, and eyes her warily instead. Dangerous, he thinks. The type that just doesn't quit. One who is just small and malleable enough to slip inside the tiniest splinter.

Just like a raspberry, she'd rot fast. Festering. Clouded white and infectious. Worse, in many ways, than the parasites outside of the walls. 

"Just don't get your hopes up." He settles on after a moment, a lull, that makes her blood-red lips curl up like the curve of those stupid hearts dangling overhead. 

And hates that he doesn't really know if he's still just talking to her or the wandering eyes in his own skull when he says it.)

He doesn't know why she takes a liking to him of all people. Of all men. He might be out of touch with the reality they live in now, always on the fringes of waiting for things to buckle at the knee, and collapse into ash, but he isn't stupid. Oblivious. 

Joel sees the way she stares at him. Open, wanting. Curious. 

She shouldn't be. There's nothing in him—nothing left. His insides are polluted, gnarled. Ugly. A gurgling cesspit that doesn't know how to fix, only dissolve. Consume. He's acidic. Caustic. 

Bad for anyone's health. 

He can't keep anyone safe, and all he knows how to do anymore is push people away, and lie (and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess). 

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

It's enough. 

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

His hands grip her tight sometimes—too tight—and the stains he leaves on her skin set his teeth on edge. It's too much like ownership. Possession. 

(And he finds the colour that blooms on her flesh to be too fucking pretty to ever sit comfortably in the gnarled pit of his guts.)

"Don't worry, Joel," she whispers when she catches him staring at the marks he left behind. Dark and ugly. Contrition tastes of old nickels. "You won't break me that easily." 

It's a bad decision. 

But he was never known for his good choices, and when she fluttered her eyes at him, hand pressed to his chest like she were allowed to touch him, he crumbled. 

She didn't give him much of a choice to fight back when all she asked for nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the taste of him on her tongue. 

Pleasures of the flesh. It's easy. Simple. He fucks her behind the saloon, rough and dirty, and swallows the sounds she makes against the brick like they're just for him. He takes her home, and knows that when he's nestled between her thighs, it's as close to heaven as a man like him will ever get. 

And then—it's over. She leaves. He pretends to sleep. 

Rinse. Repeat.

It carries on this way for nearly two years. Distant, cold. He can't remember the last time he had anyone warm his bed, but it takes the edge off, the stress and pain of Ellie's distance, her mistrust, and hatred, and she asks for nothing. 

She lets him grab her when he wants. Lets him bend her body into whichever shape suits him best, and says nothing about the fingerprints that he leaves behind, the astringent tang of rot when she slides out of his bed, his hands, and out the door. 

He lays back, the same hand he used to grip the back of her neck when he fucked her into the mattress now resting under his head, and he pretends doesn't feel colder now than he did before. 

There is no promise of forever. There's no promise of exclusivity, or monogamy, but he knows that she hasn't fucked anyone else since she got here, that those pretty thighs only ever parted for him, and he's too worn down to entice anyone else who wasn't looking for a sleazy fuck against a tree into his bed, anyway. 

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

They settle down in their borrowed homes, in their borrowed beds, and think about making the most of their borrowed time.

In that, they yearn. Family. Togetherness. Everything they had before they tried to drag into the now. Forcing a square through a round hole. A mismatched puzzle piece into the slot it wasn't made for.

Sometimes, they get lucky and it slips through. It distorts itself into something different, and new, just to fit through the preconstructed crack.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it. 

He isn't the type of man someone brings home. The one you push and push until he fits through the front door, and back into normalcy. Stagnancy. 

And she's not the type of woman who'd ever try. 

He likes that about her.

Poisoned candy apple. Pretty on the outside and rotted within. 

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin. 

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

Lifeless, blue. The way her head splits open is beautiful in that macabre sort of way horrible things sometimes are. Flowers burst behind her eyes, petals budding out of the hollowed space that once made his chest stutter when the sun caught the crevasse of black that split from her pupil and bled into her iris. A small stream of ink. 

The canyons of gradient colours are now filled with blooms of enoki. Red amanita curls out from her ears. 

Where he once laid his palm over her chest is now a gaping hole flowering with a pulsing mass of candlesnuff and staghorn. 

Death cap where her heart once beat. 

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the curve of her name heavy on his tongue. His knuckles pop when he fists the damp sheets between his trembling fingers, but the ache feels good. The sting reminds him he's alive. Whole. 

He's awake, but the nightmare doesn't end. The sight of her body lingers in the back of his head when he strums his guitar and plays a song for the demons within. He thinks of her when he forks over the expired box of condoms he found on a run, and listens to Jesse ramble about how Ellie is doing in exchange for the loot. 

It's her he sees. 

She blinks at him, eyes that same shade that sometimes makes his breath hiss between his teeth, and then her crown caves in. Forehead splits down the middle. One half stands where it was as the other falls over on her shoulder. 

Fractals spill from the plumule that was once her brain stem until the two halves are bleached white like dead corals on a ruined reef. 

The flowering toadstool quivers. What was once her—wit, charm; that uncanny ability to make him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling—is a mass of spores. Polluted. Rotted. 

Where she once stood is a puppet. Dead. Gone. 

Her head tips. Ink spills from the putrefying blood vessels, congealing in the air. It spools into a circle. A black hole. 

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all. 

Everything he could have felt, feels, is syphoned into the needlepoint of no return, the place where she once looked at him, and said, I don't want anything from you, Joel. I just want you.

He wakes before he can see the aftermath of pulling the trigger. 

A fluke, maybe. But it happens each night after that. 

He knows, then, that there's no turning back. 

Permanence doesn't belong in this borrowed home, but she somehow drags it through the foyer and into his bed, anyway. 

She stayed over last night. 

Joel doesn't think he tried to let go when he collapsed into the bed beside her, arms woven around her sweat-slicked back, locked tight like a pair of shackles that mean about as much as a prison or the law these days.

It was cold. Late. He didn't want her to walk back in the snow all alone. 

That's all. 

But Joel isn't a gentleman, and despite how much he wishes he wasn't, he's egregiously self-aware. 

He knows he's in trouble when it just makes sense to keep her close. When it's easier to have her within arm's reach than it is to meet at the front door, and let her in. 

(When he sleeps better if he can feel her burning skin on his.)

"You're thinking too much," she gasps, eyes lidded and heavy. Drinking him in. 

Joel doesn't know what a pretty thing like her sees in a man like him. 

He can't offer her anything except the cold comfort of a warm body, but even that is null. He knows there are younger men prowling outside her door, just itching for an opportunity to make her look their way. 

(She never does.)

"Yeah," he rasps, the word sticking to his teeth. "Never been much of a thinker."

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

His hand slips from her hip, palm swatting at the soft flesh of her ass. The sting makes her tighten around him like a vice. 

"Watch your mouth."

The way she gasps his name, breathy and aching, makes him stifle a groan between clenched teeth, her voice rolling over him like warm sea breeze. 

She's a lot, he thinks, and yet—she asks for nothing. 

(Nothing but him. One of the things he can't give her. Won't.)

Still. 

Her nails press into his damp chest, catching on the smoked dusted patch of coarse charcoal hair. Bracing herself against the swell of his ribs, and slowly rocked back into him, taking him deeper and deeper into her soaked, tight cunt. 

The pulse in his neck throbs out of his skin, a tick she likes to press the flat of her tongue against and drink up the briny droplets of his sweat. He can see the want in her eyes when he catches her staring at the column of his throat, the way she bites her lip like it's a substitute for how badly she wants to sink those same teeth into his flesh. Mark him as her own. 

Possession. Ownership. 

Sometimes, he catches the glossy, rotund image of himself in the inky puddles of her pupils, blown wide with feverish desire, and he can see the same expression, the mien, captured in her startling hue. 

Mutual want. 

It's easier to give in sometimes. To let go. 

He can't, though, and selfishly, he knows she'll never ask. She will bite your lip, the inside of her cheeks, and your tongue until it's raw and bloody before she lets the words slip through the gap of her teeth. 

(He feels the rough, chewed ridges on velveteen flesh when he rolls his tongue between her ivory teeth, swiping over the insides of her cheeks; broken skin split and metallic—a testament to her own selfless desires.

He tastes it on his tongue long after she's gone. Wet pennies. Dandelion sour.)

It knots inside of him. She'd ruin herself before she asked him for more. 

Maybe somewhere in his avoidance, his distance, she knows he's ruining himself by just giving her this much. Nothing, and yet—

Everything to him. 

An impasse, then. Uncrossable when he's already two feet out the door. 

"Joel—"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, low. Rucked gravel. Falling rocks. It jars him how easily he responds to her. She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough. "I know." 

The wound on her side pulls taut when she moves. It draws his eye like a beacon. Makes him grind his teeth together until it sparks pain down his jaw, the enamel sawed to the raw nerve. 

His hand slides over her molten flesh, trailing over the soft curve of her waist, until his thumb brushes the seam that keeps her insides from spilling out. The swollen, bruised skin is warmer than the rest of her body. Glossy where it tugs against the black threads keeping her whole. 

Joel didn't go with her on this particular trade. She went with some new kid they'd picked up, all varsity grins and clean hands. He seemed so damned eager to get her attention in the pub. Her age, too. 

Made a pretty couple, Ron said. Fucking loud mouth Ron. 

He was supposed to go, but when the kid caught him in the corner, nursing a beer that sat in his guts like a stomach ache, and said, hey, man, can I take your spot? he didn't know how he was supposed to say no and still cling to the degrees of separation he wedged between himself and the world. 

So, he raised his mug to his mouth, and forced himself to drink, to nod. 

Knock yourself out. 

The flash of sadness that flickered over her face meant nothing at all—nothing—but he felt something churn inside of his rotted guts. Atrophy, he thinks. He isn't meant for this. Doesn't want it. Need it. 

She's a bigger liability the closer she gets. A slow-moving black hole consuming all of the counterscarps he dug until nothing is left but crossable rubble. 

It's better, then, to cut it at the root before it infects the rest. 

So, he does. 

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop. 

Force himself to do the same. 

But she doesn't 

It's a quiet acquiesce; a little more than a nod, and a grim line of her pretty mouth. Okay, it says. If that's what you want. 

And that's what she always says, isn't it? If that's what you want, Joel. Whatever you say, Joel. Sure, Joel. Okay, Joel. 

A spitfire in ochre. A bright lighthouse in the middle of the grey sea. 

(The only person she dims for is him.)

Joel doesn't see her off. Doesn't say be careful or come back safe because words like those don't fit between his teeth. They aren't meant for the nothing between them. The chasm of everything she can't pry from his gnarled fingers. 

She leaves with him. 

He drinks alone. 

Despite whatever nonsense Tommy says, spouted over rationed potatoes and deer meat stew, he isn't sulking. 

"Let your girl go out alone? Unlike you, brother."

The way the words sat in his chest felt like an anvil. 

"Ain't my girl," he muttered. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was numbness. "Ain't my anything."

It's Maria who gets under his skin when she scoffs.

"Joel Miller, you're the biggest dumbass I ever met, save for your damned brother. Gonna push a good thing away and die alone." 

"No one asked you." 

Maria tries to fill in the blanks of something that doesn't exist. 

It peels back the gossamer from his eyes, and he sees, then, the way they skirt around him and her like it's something. As if his name is permanently attached to hers. 

He pretends he doesn't feel the burn in Maria's glare when he doesn't see her off at the gate.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't. 

He isn't there when she comes back, and hates, even more, that he feels something prickle inside his chest when Maria catches him near the stables, and says, I expected more from you, Joel.

It doesn't feel good when he bites back, that's your problem, Maria. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. 

Joel lives in his vindication, in his pettily forced indifference. She hasn't come to see him, anyway, and he's sure that she and Varsity jacket are meeting at the pub for that date he'll never give her. 

Doesn't matter, he thinks. And then, if only to burn himself in the flames, he adds: better this way. 

She'll know when he's not there. She's smart like that. Know him in ways he doesn't think anyone else ever could. Ever wanted to. 

(He hates it, and her, sometimes, for it.)

She'll understand. She might corner him one day with that dry ire dripping from the corners of her mouth, patronising and grim, and she'll do what she does best when she strips him bare and leaves him to rot. 

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom. 

But she won't push. 

It'll simmer out when she blinks, knowing that this is it, and she'll say: okay, Joel. 

Okay. 

He braces for it—hates that has to because that means something, something he isn't ready to acknowledge—and—

And it's all moot. 

She never shows up at the gate. 

It punctures something in his lungs when Tommy looks up at him, face ashen and worried, and says: "she didn't come back. They didn't come back."

It takes an hour to find her, left for dead and beaten within an inch of her life by the side of the road. A wound in her side—a gaping hole he swears he can see through. Milky bones poke through, drenched in red, and—

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Something curls out from the moon-white line of her rib. 

A bud, he thinks. Distant. Warbled. A saprophyte. 

He has the image of her in his head. The same one he sees when he closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep. 

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

"She's—"

Tommy's hand reaches down, fingers curling around the sprout. 

Don't— not Tommy, too—

He pulls back, and Joel catches the tremble in his joints, the whites of his knuckles, when he spreads his fingers. 

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf. 

A leaf. 

The bark that leaves his chest tears right through the clot in his throat. Rips him open from the inside out. 

"A fucking leaf—"

He carries her back, and doesn't let go until the doctor is there, urging him out of the room. 

"You'll get in the way." 

He sees the looks they give him when he passes, but Joel never cared what people think. 

Doesn't plan on starting now, either. 

He's on the wrong side of fifty, and has more blood on his hands than the looted bars of soap could ever scour clean. He knows who he is, and maybe, maybe, knows what he wants, and Ron's loud mouth never meant much to him, anyway. 

Joel gets a name when she's sleeping after surgery—lucky, he overhears, got there in the knick of time, any later and—and brings nothing with him when he leaves. He won't need it. Doesn't want it.

He finds them chatting over an open fire, and beats them to death with nothing but his bare hands. 

He doesn't burn them. Doesn't bury them. 

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot. 

They say nothing about the blood on his shirt, or the broken, mangled fingers of his hand. He's content to leave them. To feel the agony as his broken bones split through cracked skin.

(He thinks of her—broken, blue—and clenches his hands so tight, the pain makes him blackout.)

He only lets Maria patch him up when she hisses about infection, and blood poisoning. 

Says nothing at all about what he'd done, where he'd gone. 

She doesn't ask. 

When she's finished, she says: "woke up yesterday."

He knows. Still: "that right?" 

"Gonna go see her?"

"Don't need me crowding around her bed."

"Maybe she, for some reason, wants to see your ugly mug."

"She tell you that?" 

"Didn't ask about you, if that's what you're asking." She snorts. Shakes her head. "Both a'you are really perfect for each other, you know?"

"We ain't." 

Her brow raises. Something prickles across her expression. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head with a small smirk. "Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all." 

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her. 

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him. 

She says nothing about the bandages on his black and blue hands. Nothing about the way he can't make a fist through all the swelling. Her hands are soft, and warm, when they wrap around his. Small, delicate. A baby deer cupping the paws of a grizzly bear. 

His eyes flash with something that tastes of the same rotten satisfaction he felt gnarled inside of his chest when the man who left her for dead on the side of a road wheezed as Joel broke his nose, and then battered the broken bulb into a messy, mushy pulp. 

He didn't stop until grey matter leaked through the holes. 

She knows what he did. He feels it in the way she stares at the black, swollen mess of his fingers. Bones broke on teeth, on a fractured skull. 

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't even think he enjoyed it much, really. 

It had to be done. Had to. 

They took a life. Varsity Jack, she tells him. Stabbed in the heart when he tried to defend her with the same ice pick that ripped through her flesh. 

Her tone is flat. Empty. 

He sees bruises on her knuckles, those little fists were her only defence against them, and the red welt on the man's face makes sense now. 

He feels proud. 

She's not broken—battered, beaten, torn to pieces—but she still stands, whole, intact. Resilient. Strong. 

(A survivalist. The only time she ever alluded to more was to tell him that he was worrying for nothing. That, above all, she would survive. Outlive him, even.

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.)

It doesn't surprise him to see her eyes cloud with anger, arsenic white, when she brings his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Anyone else might have asked why. Said thank you, even. 

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered." 

Saccharine sweet. 

Rotten to the core. 

He saw the same shade of calamity in her eyes when she wandered in, grim and distant, as the one that stared back at him in the mirror. Her complicity in this doesn't surprise him. If anything, he wonders if she's angry he left nothing behind for her. 

The thought makes his lips quirk in a needle of something he hasn't felt in a long time. 

"They did."

The words are uttered like a promise. His busted pinky twitches, and it makes her smile. A bloom of petal pink flowering across her face. Soft and tender. The swell of a sea mark burgeoning out in the gloom of grey. 

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still. 

(Too close, maybe, because now he doesn't know how he'll sleep without her by his side)

His thumb slips over the tumid skin poking out from tight, black sutures. The threads are the only thing keeping her together. 

Beneath it is a bruise. Black. The tip of his thumb presses against the cresting peak. Knuckle to skin, it's a perfect fit. 

(In all the same ways he and she aren't.)

"I'm okay, Joel," she whispers, and the thick, dulcified tone of her voice shakes him from the labyrinth of his mind. 

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry. 

"Yeah," he intones, and he isn't sure if he's speaking to her, himself, or a god he hasn't spoken to since he was eighteen and Sarah got sick for the first time. Maybe everyone, all of them, all at once.

It makes her huff. "Am I losing you already, old man?"

"Ain't that old," he bites back, hips lifting when she slides down. It makes him nudge something that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping, slack. Her nails catch skin when they rake over his chest. 

Sex has always been an outlet. A comfort. It blankets that part of his head that never quiets—failures, failings—and offers a respite from it all. Her weight on his hips, chest, thighs doesn't dull it all but buffers it. 

White noise in his ears when her nails rake over his skin. The scent of her clings in the air around them—sex, kerosene, cinder, ash: the scent of a wet forest after a wildfire scorched the earth—and clots out the fetor of decay, of mildew, and moss, the earthy tang that reminds them of death. Of them. 

It's a distraction. Distance in skin, sweat, and heat. 

It's just sex, just—

"God, Joel," she gasps loud, sharp, when he pitches his hips into her, blunt and unforgiving, and hits deep. Carves out the shape of him in her soft, fluttering flesh, and tries not to get lost in the thick scent of her. 

It dusts over everything until he still smells her even when she isn't here. 

Temporary made permanent. 

It's the very thing he runs from finally catching up. He feels the graze of fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when he looks at her, poised and centred above him. Aphrodite in flesh and bone. Her fingers prickle his skin with their sharp tips, and the indents left behind are soothed over when she gasps his name like it's something special. Meaningful. An orison murmured in the quiet box of a confessional booth. 

The curtain rustles. 

"Yeah," he grunts, low and filthy; the noise sticks in the back of his throat when he feels her tighten up around him. A little apple-sized fist of pleasure. He flexes his thighs, hands grasping her tight, and knows he's going to keep her here again tonight. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

The way she moves is liquid. Mercury. He watches, eagle-eyed and enraptured, as she squares her shoulders, and takes him to the root. The base. 

Her presence in his life atrophied his defences until they lay scattered on the sheets that reek of her. In the folds of his pillow where he rests his head at night. The featherlight wood of his guitar when she leans over his shoulder, and says, play me another one, Joel. 

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance. 

She's the one who keeps feeding him. Lays out a dish just for him, and scratches her nails behind his ears until the curl of his lips subsides. A slow broiled trust. He stops showing her his canines, his claws, when she shows him the vulnerable curve of her neck, and lets him mark her skin with his touch. 

Joel will mourn her the same way he does everyone else—achingly empty, and tearless—but he thinks, now, that he might think of her once, and then never again. He's selfish. Always has been. 

(Can't afford not to be when she looks better bearing his mark. When he sleeps easier with her breath in his ear.)

Just sex. The words are weak in the back of his head, and he feels the shaky resolve begin to crumble, chossy wobbling under unsteady feet, when her head falls back in a mockery of prayer, the utterance of his name heavier than the sins on his shoulders. Just sex. Just—

The grille falls, and shatters into smelted pig iron at their feet.

—it's just her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. Won't. Not now, not ever. He won't give her anything, nothing but the touch of his hands, and the weight of his body, but it's juxtaposed to the worry heavy in his chest, the anger still lacing the broken bones in his fingers when his thumb brushes the curve of her wound. 

It splits in her ardour. The bottom scab tugged too much, lifting from broken flesh. 

Ichor pebbles on the seam. It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red. 

His thumb catches it. It's warm, and sticky. He smears it over her quivering belly, and fights the urge to try and lick it clean. Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe. 

Joel's teeth ache when he grinds them together, tongue lashing across the ivory seal. He's thinking too much—abstracts, concretes; they blur together in a cacophony of want, take, run, hide—

Keep. 

"It's okay," she says again, as if all his secrets laid bare. As if the talons digging into his flesh somehow tapped a vein, an artery, that leads directly to his stem, and she's syphoning the thoughts in his head with the same ease that she steals the breath from his lungs. "It's okay, Joel. It's—"

She doesn't finish. Her words are shorn, bitten at the grain when he reaches up, holding her around the waist, and brutally fucks into her weeping cunt with the finesse of a starving man invited to a feast fit for a King. 

It jostles her. Breasts swaying, head bobbing back and forth as he nearly lifts her off the bed with the force of his thrusts. 

The brutality of it screams one shrill echo of it isn't. None of this is okay. None of it. 

She's chiselling him open until he's a raw wound exposed to the unforgiving air. Until he bleeds and thinks of her. Until the only sound that drowns out the terror raking across his synapses is her voice when she murmurs his name. 

"We're fine, Joel—," it carries the flavour of axiom. Aphorism when she says: "we'll be okay."

She trembles over him, muscles straining to keep up. This isn't her taking; despite being perched above him like a queen astride her throne, she gives. Lowers herself the way he likes. Circles her hips until he sees white behind his eyelids. 

The weight of her feels like an anvil. The heat is enough to liquefy his bones. 

"Keep goin'," he rasps the words out—a strange limbo of being both an encouragement and a demand. It lacks the bite it had before, when he'd bend her over and fuck her until he was satisfied, until the howling in his head, and the ache in his bones was eased with the soporific gossamer only sex could give him. "Just like that, pretty thing—"

It's a slip. An accident. 

Her rhythm stutters. Her ribs expand wide under his palms; ballooning up so much he wonders if she's trying to burst them at the seams or float away. Irrational, of course. Sex makes him stupid. Makes him hungry and needy, and has him feeling like he's almost, almost human, and—

He holds on a little tighter. 

Pretty thing. Her lips form the words in a soundless exhale. Pretty thing. She's used to him calling her all sorts of sobriquets smeared in a palpable stroke of derision. It's not contemptuous, but he makes his mockery of it clear with the flout in his tone. Sarcastic, caustic. 

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous. 

She always wore the same sour twist to her lips, the exaggerated eye roll. The heavy huff. 

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary. 

This—pretty thing—is the softest he'd ever regarded her. 

He watches her throat bob when she swallows, eyes tracing the nervous flutter as she struggles to grasp the concurrency of his words, the way he said them. Their meaning. It flickers through those depths that threaten consumption whenever they dust over the length of him. Thinking. Thinking. 

They were always abstract, but his words are concrete, and she isn't sure how to carry the heavy cinder he drops on her. Her fingers are used to the ephemeral weight of his scorn; the delineation of distance—unspoken but unignorable. Unequivocal in its separation. 

"Wow," she breathes, tremulous. She grasps at normalcy but he can see how much those two words have rattled her. She swallows again. Eyes narrowing. Viper pits. "Getting soft in your old age, huh?"

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce. 

He pitches his hips up, letting her feel the solid length of him—blunt, burning iron—and feels his chest flutter when she whines, head dropping back as he bludgeons into her core. 

"Fuck, Joel—"

He isn't soft. Isn't malleable. He's made of carbonised grief, anguish, despair. Reinforced with volcanic clinkers running rivets of apoplectic fury. 

He isn't soft. Isn't what she deserves, or needs, or should even want—

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing. 

Cinder. Soot. Ash. 

He spent so much time holding firm against the walls to keep her out, he never bothered to filter the air he breathed. She clots in his lungs. The scent of her builds. A mass forms. Metastasises inside of him. 

Her hands fall there, palms drawn to the steady thump of his beating heart. It drums under her skin, a stuttering rhythm that makes her own chest swell with her shaky inhale. 

His slide, rough skin scraping over her soft flesh. She burns hotter than the acorn stove in the corner of the room, and he feels the heat simmering in his veins. Scents the sulphur and volcanic ash in the air when she leans down, bending at the elbows to press her lips against his. It's chaste, as far as their usual kisses go. Biting and vitriolic. As if being sweet, tender, was forbidden. 

Maybe it was. He doesn't know what he'd have done if she kissed him like this back then. Honeyed rich, and molasses slow. It tastes like smoke but reminds him of the rock candy he'd make at home with Tommy when he was young. 

She moans into his mouth when his hands slip around her waist, her thigh. He holds her steady, and rocks up into her to the same tremulous beat as her clumsy, fragile kisses. The vibrations buzz on his bruised lips, and the tingle of her voice washing over him makes his cock twitch inside of her. 

The press of him, unyielding and firm, against her soft, soft walls makes him grunt. Another noise pulled into the cacophony of them. It's lower than anything he's ever made before. New. Novice. 

Fucking her now feels marginally different than it had only yesterday. It's raw. Vulnerable. 

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick. 

Wonders, then, if she feels it, too. This rawness that sits in his thundering chest; a scraped-out, hollow feeling that draws in more and more of her until the crater is filled with the essence of her sweat, the heavy breaths she tries to stifle in her throat to keep kissing him like she'll never get the chance to again. 

And that must be it. 

This isn't what he normally gives her—bruises and bites, beard burns over the delicate softness of her flesh; he leaves her kiss-bruised and drunk off of the taste of him, malt-heavy and whisky sour. 

Intimacy is saved for moments when she cums around him, tightening up like a strung bow in his archer's hold; when she squeezes herself into the nook of his shoulder, whimpering as he fucks her through her high, and chases his release in the spasming clutch of her willing body. When he cums, painting her stomach, her thighs, her ass, with the stain of his spend, the only physical proof he'd been inside of her, and smears the wet mixture of them on her heated flesh, still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasmic haze. 

It's reserved for the microcosm carved from their shared release, drenched in the glow of the chemical slurry that saturates their brains, releasing endorphins until they feel nothing but the buzz of each other. Skin to sweaty skin. Each breath a gasp. 

He lets her linger in these soft moments. This singular dissonance sits incongruously with everything else between them. But then she shifts. The microcosm that filmed around them bursts. 

She slips away after he does, slowly leaning over to pull on her discarded clothes, and wipe the stain of him from her body. 

His fingers itch for a cigarette when he watches her through lidded eyes as she stumbles around on fawn legs. 

She always hesitates for a moment. Joel often wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to stay. 

He never does. She leaves. 

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

"Easy, now," he murmurs, tongue slipping through the gap of her teeth to chase her taste. "Don't rush this, sweetheart."

Everything about this is unlike him, and she moans her disquietude into the scant space between them, brow knotting together when her stitches pull, and he leaves a bloodied trail across her waist, knuckles split and bleeding anew. 

They're both bloodied, he finds. Drenched in each other's sweat, spittle, and blood. 

It makes dizzy. Makes his fingers dig into her flesh, holding her closer to his heaving chest as he takes. His hips raise off the bed—a clumsy slant into her welcoming sex, and he feels her shudder when he hits deep, cock nudging that soft place inside of her that always makes her forehead crease. 

He can't see it when she leans down, peppering wet kisses across his grey beard, and painting hard through her nose when he presses the flat of his palm against the base of her spine and fucks into her with sharp, unrhythmical thrusts. 

"That's it, take it just like that—," he grinds the words off, and tastes the condescension in his tone. 

In response, she bites down on his pulse point. 

Another break in the routine. The rules lay scattered around them, smouldering embers of this incipient beginning to something neither of them is ready for. 

Her hands wiggle out from between their chests, bringing them closer together than before, and when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls behind his ears, he swears he can feel her heartbeat echoing through his ribs. 

He spears himself into her faster, seeking that place he knows will make her melt—

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

—and once found, he cruelly angles the head of his cock into it, rasping out words of patronisation into her ear. 

Good girl, he says, and groans when her cunt tightens around him like a nautical bow. Taking me so good. Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum around my cock—

He can feel his release brimming up like a fever in his veins. White-hot and arctic cold. It sets his nerves on fire, and the pressure of her around him makes him see pure white. 

He thinks of church on Sundays when she chants his name like a hymnal—Joel, Joel, Joel—and finds nirvana when she sinks her teeth deeper into his flesh, unmarked and unclaimed until now. He'll have the perfect impression of her teeth embedded in his skin, and thought alone makes that gnarled spool inside of him loosen. 

Joel is taken by surprise when she cums—voice a shaky, shrill howl of his name, and the sound of it, the blood that stains his beard when she turns, baring her teeth and pressing them flat to his jaw, makes him grunt. It's raw. An oozing wound.

She flutters around him like the beat that echoes through his bones, and feels a hunger inside of him grow. 

The uncoiled knot inside of him rears, once dormant and dead to the world, now gnashing its jowls at the hands that prodded it from its slumber. Rapacious. A black hole when it yawns. 

The town knows she's his. Has since she sidled up to him, all soft smiles and viper eyes, and asked him to dance, for a drink, and what's a handsome man like you doing in a place like this? Got anyone I should worry about, Joel? Wanna dance? Wanna fuck—

And they know, now, that he's hers when he carries her in his arms, and knocked his forearm into the necks of anyone who tried to pry her from his clutch. 

They know. They know, but it's not enough. 

He wants to mark her, stain her. Leave her with the permanent smear of him on her pretty skin. 

Fuck—

This wasn't supposed to happen, but the keen awareness comes much too late. 

He fucks the frustration into the tight clutch of her willing, forgiving, body, and tries not to come apart at the seams when she mewls his name like he's just as much of a burden to her as she is to him. Bankrupt. Bereft of the walls and the rationale that kept him lightyears away from everyone else around him (until Ellie, the hospital—this place that reeks of stagnancy and burrowed into his marrow), he crumbles in her hold once more. 

His release hits him like a sucker punch to his gut, and the force of it makes him ache.

He doesn't pull out like he always, always, does despite the contraceptive she has, and spilling inside of her spasming cunt feels too much like heaven for him not to come apart at the seams. For him not to shatter into pieces when she pulls him closer, and murmurs, that's it, Joel. That's it—cum for me. Just let go, I got you—

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

It's an awkward assemblage of limbs that don't fit together, bodies that are too incompatible, but he tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, and makes it work. She rests the flat of her palm over his sweat-slicked chest, nails raking through the dusted grey smatter of hair on his chest. The inside of her thigh is wet with him, with her, them, when she slides it over his hip. 

Her head rests on soft tissue where his arm and shoulder meet, ear nestled into his armpit. His arm around her back, fingers resting on the curve of her elbow. It's then, when he finds his thumb brushing small circles into her dewy skin, that he realises what this is. 

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

It was never a burning release, the aftermath of that intoxicating chemical bath of endorphins, oxytocin, and then a quick until next time. 

Being trade partners for most of the scheduled shifts—his brutality, and her knowledge of survival made them a perfect match outside of this clumsy moment of intimacy—meant that she often stayed for a few hours afterwards discussing plans, and who to barter with next or the places they haven't yet scavenged. Lying naked beside each other, shoulders sometimes brushing as they spoke—that was the extent of their post-sex ritual. 

This, he knows, is new. Different. 

It has the same cadence as last night when his massive hand swallowed her wrist in his palm, and he said, just sleep here, but it's a syncopation. Lighter, somehow, than the gruff way he demanded her company, the brutal divot between his brow. 

She moves, slow and languid, and for a moment he thinks about letting her leave. Repairing the chasm that crumbled between them into heaps of broken ruination and anguish, her hand brushes his when she pulls away, and he knows he won't. 

For such a massive presence, she's surprisingly small in his grasp. The bump of her wrist bone fits snug against the broken, swollen knuckle of his middle finger when he folds his hand around hers. 

The hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse beating against his too rough, too worn palm are the only measure of her hesitation, her confusion. 

They're not themselves in this moment. 

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms. 

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

The words won't form on his lips. His throat is bereft of what he feels in his marrow, unable to utter them aloud, to make them real. As if speaking his burgeoning desires is somehow worse than a death sentence. 

Wanting in this world is dangerous, and ruinous, but when Joel sees the dawning realisation buoying to the surface in those unfathomable black holes, he knows there's nothing more worrisome, more deadly, to him than her insatiable appetite. Her desire for more. 

More—

And just him. 

Something in her gaze splinters. Cracks. Her shoulder slump in something that tastes of the same defeat that taints the pinch in his brow. 

"You are getting softer, Joel Miller," she takes a stab at a joke but her hands shake too much for it to land properly. "Who'd have thought all it would take is old age and mortality—"

"Shut up," he grumbles, and fights the thrum of satisfaction that spumes in his veins when she lays back down beside him. "Didn't hear you complainin' this much five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well—" her hands settle on his chest, fingers carting through the damp, matted hair. "There's a reason I'm always on top, you know. Worried you might throw your back out." 

"You say that like I haven't already." 

Her chin scraps over the soft flesh where his bicep meets the curve of his shoulder, eyes bright in the morning sun that smears rays of ochre across the bridge of her nose.

She's pretty, he thinks, and feels that same gnawing in his guts, that same hunger, when she dips, and presses a kiss to his skin. 

"Poor baby," she coos, brows drawing together in mock sympathy. "I can't believe a little missionary ruined you so badly. Guess I should take better care of the elderly."

"Wasn't the missionary," he huffs. Her skin is soft, tacky, when he runs his fingers over her shoulder. "It was carrying your heavy ass home."

"Did my heavy ass snap your hips, too—"

"Christ," he bites out, but it lacks any heat. "You just never shut up, do you?" 

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows. 

"Guess you'll just have to shut me up, won't you, old—"

He presses his lips to hers, and steals the goading words from her quivering mouth. 

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

The condescending tone is thick, but where he expects her indignation over the same words spoken to her by everyone else when she said she wanted to go with him on runs—stay here where it's safe, little girl—it instead makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. He feels the vacuum of it against his lips, and blinks up at her. 

"Did you like that—"

"No," she snaps, and drops her head to his chest. "God, Joel, you really know how to ruin a moment."

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

"Yes," she volleys back. "You don't think it was?"

He swallows down the tang of panic that salts his tongue, and presses his lips to her crown instead. 

"Ain't much of one, was it?"

"We'll make a better one," she murmurs, the lilt of a promise heavy in her words. 

When she settles in his fold, cheek laying flat against his chest—hiding her embarrassment he tones with a particular thrum of fondness so sweet it makes his teeth ache—he folds his arm over her shoulder, keeping her tucked into the bracket of his body. 

She's too small for him to ever be a perfect fit. Too hard inside that pretty little head for him to ever wiggle through. Too soft for him not to ruin her completely when he holds her too tight in his hands that overlap in a way that sometimes makes him dizzy, feverish with want, with fear. 

She doesn't click in the same way Tess does—did. 

A silent agreement of unspoken distance. Never ask for more, it hissed because you'll be brutally disappointed. Never hunger because you won't ever be satiated. Don't yearn. Don't want. Don't, don't, don't—

No, she doesn't click. She doesn't fit. Not with him. Not at all. 

(Tess left him whole. 

She devours.)

Consumes. 

Her eyes are black holes, and ever since she looked at him through the fanned ring of her lashes, and said: you won't break me that easily, he's been standing on the edge of her event horizon waiting for that perfect singularity to swallow him whole. 

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous. 

But she's been ripping him apart the entire time; morsel after morsel until all that remains is raw nerve. Scraps.)

A slow descent into comfort, kinship. 

She's on the same plane of existence as Tommy, Ellie. Maria, too, he supposes, a touch begrudgingly. His circle widens, expands. The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest. 

I'll outlive you, old man. 

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

For the first time since the walls reared, since the gunshot that still echoes in his ears like a reminder of his sins, his failures, Joel thinks of tomorrow. And the one after that. And after that. 

He thinks of her, and them, this, in the afternoon. Over old stew. Tommy's laughter. Maria's knowing glances. Ellie's anger. Her scorn. Distrust. 

Wasting the night away in the bar that's always several octaves too loud not to make him tense, antsy. Watching her dance around the room, ballerina nimble with a sprinter's pace. Listen to her joke and laugh with the men who look at her a touch too long, and a shade too intense, and—

Bringing her home after. Back here in this small house where he rots. Where he plays his guitar as if the chords of Hurt would ever be enough to drown out the bullets and the bloodshed. The clicks, the groans. The scent of moss, and fungus. 

Taking her to bed in the sheets that hasn't stopped smelling like her since he fucked her three times over Christmas until she sobbed into his pillow, and begged him for respite. When she brushed the grey hair from his temple with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling despite the ease in her grin, and the polynya in her eyes as she regarded him with more than just desire. More than just sex and sweat and the comfort that comes with losing yourself to the chemical high of another body tucked into the crevasse of your own. 

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong. 

But fuck—

He knows he's gone when he can't imagine her anywhere else. 

"Sure," he says, and wonders when she let herself into his life, into the gnarled remanants of his chest. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

[mysicklove]

CW: Aged up character, sub! Yuuji Itadori, dom! gn! reader, mentions of cock rings/cock cages, heavy orgasm control, reader likes to mess with poor yuuji, dacryphilia, fingers in mouth

WC: 1.2k

A/N: i made this to (hopefully) get out of my writers slump. idk. it was fun to write tho LOL. i neeeeed to work on my WIPs tho.

"Oh Yuuji, I'm disappointed."

His eyes widen at the tone of your voice, soft and defeated, like you truly were upset with him. The idea makes his mouth go dry, and he bites his lip to hold back his tears.

"I-It was an accident, I swear!" he stammers, clinging onto your arm to hopefully convey how panicked he seemed to be. Even an ounce of disapproval from you made him want to sing apologies, and the way you were frowning at him made him sick to his stomach.

You brush his cheek, and he tries to nuzzle into it, but you pull it away before he can, earning a pitiful whimper from the pink-haired boy. He tries to chase your hand, but you give him a warning glare, and he backs down immediately. “You weren’t supposed to cum. I told you no.”

“Imsorryimsorryimsorry!” Yuuji yelps, gripping at his boxers as tears begin to threaten to fall. “I got too excited. It felt too good. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to disappoint you!”

You shake your head at him, pulling away from him. “I don’t like playing with boys who don’t listen.”

The noise that falls from his mouth is pitiful, and even you flinch at the sound. His only goal was to please you, and hearing your words made his heart throb. “No, no, no,” he pleads, “I-I’ll be good again! I’ll listen this time!”

You were sadistic, and he knew you were, so when he saw you smile, more tears cascaded down his face. Alas, you wipe them away and say, "I don't believe you. Do I need to put your ring on again?"

Yuuji hates his cock ring. It was his second least favorite toy you have bought for him. Not being able to cum was one of the most frustrating feelings, especially when he always had so much of it to give.

"No. No I-I dont need my ring," he begs, pawing at your arm. His body was caving over himself, and at this point he was borderline clinging to you, shoving his face into your neck. It was an act to look smaller, more pathetic, and if hopes that he looks meek enough you may take pity on him. "I'll do good this time."

It works, surprisingly enough - you rub the back of his hair and trace his back muscles. He slumps in your hold, knowing well what the affectionate touches meant. Slowly, you move away the arm on his back to his groin, where his cock is already half-hard again.

"You won't cum until I allow you to, yes?"

"Yes," he breathes, relief washing over him at the fact that he isn't going to be punished. "I won't. I promise I won't this time."

Your tongue drags over his neck, and he shivers, eyes shutting and letting out a small gasp. Then, you begin your movements on his cock, sliding your nearly closed palm up and down. His previous cum acts as makeshift lube, and almost instantaneously he grows hard again. It makes you grin at him. "You are quite eager, aren't you, Yuuji?"

"S-Sorry. I just...like it. A lot..." he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut as his mouth drops open.

You lean forward to kiss the scar beneath his right eye, and he lets out a small breathless moan at the soft touch of your lips. "What do you like a lot?"

Yuuji, in return, gulps, flushing a shade of red. He looks at the hand pumping his cock, watching the way your thumb rubs at his plush tip as if daring him to cum again. But still, he manages to respond. "Um-When you touch my...c-cock."

The word was always so embarrassing to him, so lewd sounding. But it was the way you wanted him to refer to it, so he abided by the term that made him feel like he was straight out of a porno.

"That's it," you praise, tilting his head to plant another soft kiss on his mouth. "Will you cum then?"

Yuuji knows better by now, and so he rapidly shakes his head. "No. Not until you allow me to."

He was speaking in between kisses, eyes closed and leaning as close to you as possible.

"And what if you are to wait a week to cum? Make you get out your cage as punishment."

The man's entire body goes rigid, and he quickly pulls away from your mouth, eyes owlish. The hand moves away from the spot between his legs, and he clenches his fists to restrain the urge to force it back.

He seems to be at a loss for words, biting the inside of his cheek and furrowing his eyebrows. A fresh new set of tears slides down his face, but he is quick to wipe them off with the back of his hand.

Although the cockring was torture in the moment, chastity was by far the hardest thing for Yuuji to do. He had a high sex drive, and even going a week without cumming sounded torturous. The longest he has gone is four days without an orgasm, and he was practically pawing at your feet like some sort of attention-starved puppy to get you to touch him.

To trick him into thinking he was going to get another orgasm was cruel, and he was incredibly frustrated. His cock was so hard it was borderline painful, and knowing that he was not going to be granted a release made him unreasonably upset.

But he did disobey you, and you were known to be cruel to him. He looks at your knees and bites his lip. The words come out in a low whisper as if he were almost afraid of them. "I'll go grab m-my cage."

Yuuji begins to pull away from you, heading to the closet to where the devilish toy is located, when suddenly a hand grips the back of his hair and pulls him back to you. His lips forcefully lock onto yours, and immediately your tongue slides into his mouth. He gets so distracted by the suddenness of it all that when he feels the hand back on his cock he lets out a guttural moan that is swallowed by your mouth.

And then you pull away from him, leaving him hazy-eyed and breathless as you lick at the saliva coating your lips. Your other hand thumbs at his lips, and you grin at him, leaning forward. "You're such a good boy, Yuuji. Makes me want to tease you till you run out of tears."

Your thumb has made its way into his mouth, and it presses onto his tongue. The only noise he can make is a low whine, not liking that idea at all but not daring to try to speak with your finger pressed inside his mouth.

But then, much to the boys suprise, you lean forward till you are inches away from his ear and mutter, "You have my permission to cum whenever you like."

And just like a kid in a candy store, Yuuji's eyes lighten.

[iwanttofuckereh69]

now reading 2ha vol 2

ch 55 - 71

… but the careless thought would fly through his mind and soon be lost, like the drizzle of rain falling into a deep pond.

Mo Ran’s entire existence put into words perfectly

1. now im sad 😭

Ahhh the way Shi Mei’s death is described is gut wrenching. I was so sad reading that. But yeah, at least there are more details to what happened. It seems like Chu Wanning couldn’t do anything to save him that day. Or rather, he had to choose. I feel like if he tried saving Shi Mei, he wouldn’t hold the barrier. So he chose, faithful to his principles. It ties to Chu Xun’s sacrifice that seems to be supposed to show how hard of a decision it must have been both on Chu Xun and Chu Wanning. My guess is Mo Ran either didn’t realize at the time that CWN had to choose one over the other or he couldn’t understand why he would sacrifice his disciple to protect all those people he himself doesn’t care about. 

But damn that description hurt. Mo Ran’s heart was truly aching. And that comparison to a snowflake, equally beautiful and equally unimportant. Ehh

@thegreymoon if this is "moderate and usual amount of suffering" then i dont know if i want to continue!!!!

(jk, i like when it hurts 🙂)

2. Chu Wanning is even more awkward than i was in high school which should be considered an achievement

Tbh I like moments of Mo Ran’s longing for Chu Wanning. And how he reacts when he sees Chu Wanning finally after all this time CWN spend “in seclusion”. Its lovely, but also hes so dumb for not realizing. This whole whatever was going on between them during New Years Eve celebration was just lovely but also so awkward. Chu Wanning deliberately giving him a copper coin dumpling? Absolutely cute. But also so awkward and just 😬 Instead of finding thousands of weird ways to flirt maybe just tell him? Idk its an outrageous idea, but idk give it a try maybe?? And omg that awkward moment when he wanted to invite mo ran to watch fireworks but… yeah. I felt it in my bones. 

3. Breaking news, Mo Ran, despite being 32 yo in 16 yo body mentally somehow ended up being 5

Sometimes it feels to me as if mo ran desired CWN not as a person but as an object. And he is even comparing him to an ugly box that nobody wanted with perfectly fine food inside. An ugly box only he himself dared to open to discover the treasure inside. And he is so childishly jealous when now that box is on display for everyone to look at. Its almost silly. But also yeah, its another time he treats CWN more like a thing he owns. And nobody else should see any worth in that thing, because its only his to consume. There is a fine expression in my native language for a person like that, and funny enough, its also dog related. But I couldn't find any translation that would convey all the nuisance. It’s for a person that won’t let anyone else enjoy a thing even if they themselves have no intention of enjoying that thing either. It reminded me of this quote:

Eventually, like a beast, he had known only one thing: that Chu Wanning was his. Even if he didn’t care for Chu Wanning, he was still his to sunder and to ruin. 

And like… Right now, Mo Ran seems to me like an annoying jealous kid that wants CWN for himself out of pure spite. Because CWN never gave MR attention he thought he was owed or that he deserved. I want to punch him just a bit.

4. Shi Mei is totally Chu Wanning’s wingman

Like he always tries to show Mo Ran that CWN isnt all that bad XD And I won’t believe he didn’t realize after all those completely awkward confessions and random hand holdings that Mo Ran has feelings for him. Like I won’t believe he wouldn’t see right through him especially on that boat. And I think he is smarter than MR and saw that CWN isn’t indifferent to Mo Ran after all. I want to say he would be happy if they’d get together but BASED ON COMMUNITY’S REACTIONS i feel like i will look like a clown lol. But oh well thats my very biased impression of Shi Mei. 

@rosemary-screams

Never back down never what? NEVER GIVE UP!

Also it dawned on me while reading that you’re totally right @02cm, Mo Ran totally is wasting his chances with Shi Mei. I mean it happened before but that boat scene striked me as so annoyingly obvious. Like, he knows Shi Mei dies after he gets back from that “summer camp” in peach blossom springs. Its not gonna be long till that day and he can’t be sure it won’t happen again. And he is waiting around, unable to express his feelings that he was supposed to be so sure of. Is it… perhaps… a live showcase of Mo Ran’s only two brain cells almost connecting? Almost! Not quite there yet, but we’re on the right path. 

5. This book makes me feel disdain towards the characters and then feel bad for them in the matter of chapters njnjgviuvnjuigi im not well

I'm so heartbroken with the story of how Mo Ran was punished when he tried to steal the haitang flower for Chu Wanning because he had a crush on him. And CWN never let him speak and explain himself and punished him instead. I mean it’s kinda understandable but it makes me sad knowing that MR had such pure intentions... Also, that bedtime story about ox… Mo Ran sees himself in that boy? Because it seems like he always took the beatings no matter if he deserved it and nobody was kind enough to actually listen? And it seems like it will happen again now that he's being framed for murder.

6. Me when MR gave Xia Sini butterfly hair clip and made his hair:

THIS HAS NO REASON TO BE SO CUTE. Also i'm actually enjoying that smol Chu Wanning arc despite being weirded out at first. It gave CWN opportunity to be more relaxed around MR and the rest. And just like he can enjoy sweets as much as he wants without having to worry about losing his face, he can also just chill a bit because oh boy, my guy needed it so much

7. Someone really dislikes Mo Ran and is actively plotting his demise (which im not even surprised with). It’s either someone he already managed to wrong after reincarnating or someone of those many, many people he offended in his past life that somehow also got reincarnated into the past. What are the odds?!

Also, if Chu Wanning and Chu Xun are related (rather closely given how they look alike) and Chu Xun died and Chu Lan died and it seemed like there wasn’t anyone left out of their bloodline… how. Also what’s the self sacrifice gene because it clearly runs in this family. 

[cosmobrain00]

embarrassingly genuine of me to have this on main but. u ever care for someone so much it’d somehow feel odd to ever put any label or word on it. care or like or love or even adoration doesnt really do bc they never tell the whole story yk? same with anything else really, saying u feel a deep fondness for someone or trying to convey the specific type of warmth u get from them just leaves u sorta gesturing aimlessly n pretty frustrated bc what do u Mean i cant get others to understand that ache in my chest when i think of them thats not even really an ache n. again, u get stuck trying to say this or that n it never cuts it, even if ur the most well spoken person on the planet if u dont find urself suddenly becoming an ineloquent mess ovr trying to describe someone u hold dear in ur heart, r u really doing it right? anyways long ass winded way to say im immensely enjoying my wonderful day out on this v special occasion w my one n only husband rex (“well arent u only engaged?” shove a sock in it u dont get it🙄). gen feeling like the luckiest person on this forsaken rock bc HOW did i get someone as amazing n genuine n perfect as this, aka three words that don't even begin to describe who he actually is because the dictionary is sorely lacking when it comes to this. honestly just someone tht gets me wanting to desperately live out tht fantasy of opening up ur fave person n crawling inside n living right next to their bloody beating heart bc even when ur right beside them its Still not enough. its tht feeling u get when u meet someone n when u get to know them one day ur suddenly hit with the realization of "wow. this was my missing piece all along!!" because i truly feel evryone is born w a person shaped hole in them n life is just one long journey of finding them n finally being able to feel whole at the end of the day. am i being corny w the whole "u complete me" bit? maybe but i think im beyond caring abt that now LMAO. truly something else tht i was able to find my person this early on n im just over here always wondering what the hell i did to deserve someone as lovely n charming as this. watch me pull out a whole list of his good qualities n the paper just keeps unraveling n fills up the entire room im in. n i could do this embarrassing schtick all day baby. i love u when ur gone i love u when ur here i see u in everything no matter what, n truly evry day of misery was worth it bf this since it meant it was all just leading up to meeting u, etc etc. n still none of this rlly even covers it, ive been a writer for years n this whole thing is me realizing u are the one thing that stumps me, someone who ill never be able to put into words properly<3

happy bday ml🫶

[mollyrolls]

if you ever listen to me, let it be this time ‼️‼️‼️ please read rot and give it the love it deserves. truly one of the best pieces of writing on this site

rot: h. iwaizumi

chapter five -> the move

(masterlist ; written content)

word count: 3.8k

now playing: school shooter by wych elm

warnings: this chapter is heavy with discussions of abuse, violence, other themes already discussed in this story, divided this last chapter in two parts and this is going to be the angst before the happy ending. when i say angst i mean angst. rest assured happy ending is coming tho

Her well-organized list of problems has been upended. A bright, shiny new problem has outshone all of her other ones, dimming them, displacing them, reducing their need for attention.

Problem #1: Iwaizumi Hajime, neighbor, definite arms-dealer, maybe boyfriend, has been arrested.

It’s hard to get people to listen to you in a police station. Cops sit at their little desks and they look at you like they’re pretending to pay attention to what you’re saying but really, all they can think about is how much better than you they think they are, and how little they care about your problems.

Matsukawa has a hand over her shoulder, not firm but not lose, like he’s ready to pull her back down to her feet if she leans too far over the front counter. She’s trying to appeal to the lady behind the front desk, (as if there’s anything she could actually do), voice raw and shaky, knuckles going white as she grips at the edge of the counter.

“Please,” she begs, her unhidden desperation feeling out of place in the clean station, where the smell of hand sanitizer and pine floor cleaner is heavy in the air. It’s far too bureaucratic for her to be like this; reduced to a pile of tears and snot, begging and pleading and being ignored like a small child throwing a fit. “He didn’t do anything to me. This is fucking insane, lady.”

“Honey,” she says, voice slathered in condescension, like she knows. Like she knows Iwaizumi’s been treating her like shit this whole time and she’s just been too stupid to realize it. Like she knows what’s best for her just because she sits behind the front desk at a police station for eight hours five days a week for semi-not shit pay and a pension. “If you want to help your boyfriend, the best thing you can do is get him a lawyer, okay? Yelling at me isn’t going to help. They can hold him for forty-eight hours, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

God, she wants to reach over this fucking desk and sink her nails into this lady’s face. Dig under her skin and gather evidence so they know it was her that did it. That desk lady’s sickly-sweet tone and fake pity had driven her to madness. A long-buried thirst for violence that makes her feel like a grade-school girl boils in her blood and it’s like Matsukawa can sense it because it’s then that his hand goes tight around her shoulder, and he pulls her back. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says, relaxed politeness sounding natural on him. “We appreciate your help.”

She doesn’t appreciate her help. She doesn’t appreciate shit. She wants to jump over the counter and make that known, but Matsukawa grabs at her arms and tugs, using a bit more force to get her away from that desk. But she makes a point to turn her head and shoot that lady one more rage-filled sneer.

Matsukawa doesn’t let her go until he’s pulled her out the front door, into the sidewalk of a busy city street. But he has no qualms about stopping her there, a dam in the middle of the sidewalk, foot traffic splitting and flowing around them. He grabs her by both of her shoulders. “Okay, you need to calm down. Like right now. Alright?”

Her teeth grind together. “I want to pop her fucking eyes out,” she spits out, like an unrepentant child, unashamed of her outburst.

“Well, that’s not going to do anything to help, so don’t fucking do that,” Matsukawa says, a bit of a bit in his voice and slightly shaking her shoulders. The air surrounding them is suffocating, hot and humid and beads of sweat are popping up on the back of her neck already. “And she’s right. There’s nothing we can do but get him a lawyer.”

She doesn’t look at Matsukawa. She hates him right now, because he’s right, and there’s nothing her blind rage and outburst can do to make it better. She focuses her stare just past him, watching the stream of tourists and college students and burdened employees that drifts down the sidewalk, past both of them. She gnaws on the inside of her cheek. “Whatever.”

He releases her then, and her gaze falls to her shoes as Matsukawa steps back from her. A hand reaches up to push stray strands of hair away from his forehead. “Oikawa’s calling his guy. He should be down here soon. We’ve gone through this before, we know what to do. Iwa’s not an idiot, he can handle himself in there.”

The combination of rage and embarrassment tastes sour in the back of her throat. “He didn’t do it,” she asserts, for no one else other than herself.

“Course he didn’t fucking do it,” Matsukawa scoffs. “Iwa has lines. Hitting his girl is way past them.���

Her mouth furls. It’s getting hotter and hotter every second there on that sidewalk. Every emotion feels too big for her body; it paralyzes her. She hates this. She fucking hates this. Iwaizumi being locked in some holding cell with the drunken disorderly conduct leftovers from the night before. Him being in there because of her.

Matsukawa sees her standing there, stiff and clenched up, and sighs. “Look,” he starts off, more sympathetic than before, and the pity makes her twitch, “why don’t you just come back to mine and Makki’s place for now? You don’t have to go-“

And then, the call of her name. Loud enough to get the attention of everyone on that sidewalk. Commanding enough that people look, just to make sure, just to double check that it’s not their name, that they didn’t make a mistake, somehow. She looks over Matsukawa’s shoulder and sees her father. Out in the open, on the sidewalk.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says as he approaches, broad smile sending a new rush of rage down her spine. Matsukawa raises an eyebrow at her, but she doesn’t dare to tear her eyes away from her father, looking clean in his freshly pressed uniform. Like this is some kind of special occasion for him. “I was worried help wouldn’t get to you in time.”

She blinks. There’s no room for fear in her body. “Help?” she echoes back, voice hoarse.

He moves to reach for her. She steps back, Matsukawa places himself in front of her. “When I saw how that boyfriend of yours was treatin’ you, I had to call in a favor. I got a friend that works in this district, y’know. I got lots of friends, Bug.”

Really, she shouldn’t be surprised. She feels stupid for not thinking of it earlier.

But she didn’t think of it. She wasn’t expecting it. She was completely caught off guard by her god-awful, piece of shit father.

So she can’t be blamed for her reaction.

She reaches into her pocket and fishes out her keys. A few for the sports store. Three for her apartment building (one for the front door, one for her place, and one for Iwa’s), and one to her old home she shared with her brother. She places them each between her fingers, and without very much hesitation, she punches the end of those keys into her father’s face, with as much force is left inside of her.

Pretty immediately, there’s a reaction from the stream of people. Screams, she thinks. Matsukawa’s quick to act, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her away from her now-bleeding father. But everything around her is white noise. She's numb to it. She looks at her father and she hopes the gashes will scar. “You piece of shit!” she screams at him. “I’ll fucking kill you! You fucker! You’re fucking dead!”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Her list is fucked now. She doesn’t know where rage issues fall in the new order. But probably higher than before, she would have to guess, because she’s sitting in an interrogation room.

Kageyama Tobio sits across from her, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and arms crossed over his chest. He’s leaned back in his seat, and she has this feeling she’s about to be scolded. “Assaulting a police officer is pretty serious.”

She feels dirty, humid air making her skin sweaty and salty, her hair fizzy and tangled. A bit of blood splattered on the skin of her forearm. They wouldn’t let her wash it off. “He’s not a police officer to me,” she says, words coming stubbornly out of the corner of her mouth. “He’s just my piece of shit father.”

Kageyama leans forward, bare forearms pressed against the cool metal of the table between them. “Can I ask you something?” He does not wait for the answer. “Is Iwaizumi worth all of this? Look at where you are, do you think this is worth it?”

“Can I ask you something instead?” She waits for confirmation from him. He gives her a slight nod. “Did you like PCD?”

He sighs, fingers tapping against the table. She wants to break them. “We can drop the charges on you, y’know. If you have something more valuable to give us, we’d be happy to do something for you in return.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Valuable?”

Kageyama leans back again. He adjusts a lot, she’s noticed. Moving and shifting and repositioning. She has stayed still in her seat. “Listen, I’ve known Iwaizumi for a while. All of them. I know what they’re like. I know how they can make you feel. You get caught up in it. Good people like you and me find themselves in shit situations without realizing it. But let me tell you this,” he says, severe, and a finger pointed in her direction, “Iwaizumi’s not going to give this up for anything. And you’re not an exception. As much as you think he cares about you, he cares about his job more.”

She can see her mother so clearly, then. For the first time in years. She can see her features, the details of her face. The ones she has in common with her brother. The ones she has in common with her. She can see the anger twisted into her brow like a permanent fixture. She can hear her voice, as if it’s in her ear now.

“Men like your father, they only care about one thing. And it’s not you and it’s not me.”

She lifts her head to meet Kageyama’s stare. His eyes are so sharp and so blue. “Kageyama?”

He leans forward. “Yeah?”

“Suck my dick.”

The sigh of defeat is, at the very least, satisfying. His shoulders slump and she watches the last bit of hope he was holding onto fade out of him. And at least she has that. “Well, in that case, you’re free to go. Your father’s not pressing charges.”

She stands at once, not immediately being hit the with realization that he had tried to trick her into snitching. “Fucking finally,” she spits out, her limbs feeling stiff and disjointed.

She’s halfway out the door when Kageyama says, “Yeah, well, see you later, I’m sure.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Iwaizumi is released before the forty-eight hours is up. She does not find out until four days after.

Most of those four days are spent numbly sitting through her shifts, face weathered and her limbs hanging from her body like heavy, led weights. She lies in her bed. She hardly eats. She checks her phone every five to ten minutes and she calls Oikawa and Matsukawa and Makki and gets their voicemails and she hears nothing.

And then, as she’s hanging out the window, smoking her second cigarette in a row, she sees him. Walking down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets and his chin up. She watches, in disbelief for a moment, waiting to see if he’s going to turn into their apartment building and run straight up the stairs and into her arms and kiss her and apologize and swear that he would exact vengeance on her father. For the both of them.

But Iwaizumi just walks. He goes straight until he is out of her view.

With shaking hands, she texts him:

so when were u planning on telling me u got out?

He does not respond.

★⋆. ࿐࿔

It’s a month before he speaks to her again.

A month after no texts and no calls and no early morning coffee visits and nothing but the creaks of his floorboards from above. It’s torture. It scratches at her throat and it puts nails in her bloodstream and she spends more than one evening laid out on her bathroom floor, sobs wrecking through her frame, clawing at nothing, trying to grab onto something.

The feeling of abandonment is not entirely unfamiliar. It tastes the same as anger, and it never comes without it. And the combination can make her irrational.

“-and my friend Tanaka has a truck,” Kiyoko says into her, her voice fuzzy from the poor connection. She has her phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder, haphazardly throwing whatever belongings she can find into the cardboard box she stole from work. “He offered to help move your stuff out if you want.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, drifting through her apartment, stopping as she settles in front of her CD player, sitting in the middle of her kitchen table. The one Iwaizumi gifted her. She makes no move to grab it. She’s sure that Kiyoko has one already. “Maybe he could come by tomorrow. I could be done packing by then. That cool?”

“Yeah, that should work. I’ll ask when he’s free.”

She hums in response, and kicks at one of the legs of her coffee table. A lot of her sidewalk trash furniture is going to right back to where it came from. “Are you sure this is okay with you?”

“Of course!” is Kiyoko’s enthusiastic confirmation. “It’s been a little lonely since my last roommate moved out. And to be honest it’ll be nice to split the rent again.”

God, rent splitting. It sounds like a dream to her. Expenses divided in half-she almost drools at the thought of it. She chuckles. “Alright, fair enough. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then. Should probably finish packing now.”

“Alright. See you then.”

She snaps her phone shuts and pockets it.

Even as she empties it of her belongings, the apartment is a mess. Littered with forgotten belongings and things she never had the motivation to get rid of. Things she doesn’t know what to do with. Things that she doesn’t need and can’t justify keeping but she can’t bring herself to trash. The Ponkadu mug. Her pink, fuzzy journals filled with love struck passages. A dried, dead dandelion Iwaizumi ripped from the ground and placed in her hand.

Her head throbs. She looks up at the ceiling above her, like she’s waiting for something. A creak or a slam or something. A sign that he’s still there. That he’s not as far away from her as he feels. But it’s silent, and there’s nothing. And it’s like he was never even there in the first place.

She swallows the lump in throat and returns her attention to the scattered objects in front of her. She forces herself to harden and drops the Ponkadu mug in the trash. Then the journal. Then the dandelion. And she thinks to herself, bitterly, like she’s in an argument with herself, that it’s not like he was never even here in the first place. The evidence of his existence is all over her. It lingers in her lungs, in her chest, it spreads through her bloodstream. Iwaizumi’s there, causing every ache and every sting and every throb. He’s there.

Something possesses her. Everything can go in the trash, suddenly, it doesn’t matter what it is. Plates and freezer-burnt ice cream and a half-empty first aid kit. Anything with the lingering presence of Iwaizumi is getting dumped. Trashed. Left rot and fester in some landfill. And after an hour passes, her apartment is covered with bursting, heavy black trash bags of her wasted belongings.

She sits on the floor, shoulders slumped, legs crossed. She already threw out her couch. Her mattress is sitting on the floor of Kiyoko’s apartment, in the bedroom that will be hers by tomorrow. So for now, all she has is the rotted hardwood floor, where Iwaizumi told her he’d marry her.

Her throat tightens. She cannot get out of here fast enough.

Sweat droplets form on the back of her neck as she stands, ready to start hauling bag after bag out to the presumably already overflowing dumpster behind her apartment building. Her knees knock together as she stands, and she moves towards her door, ready to prop it open with one of the trash bags.

She undoes her deadbolt. Then her chain lock. Then she opens the door, and Iwaizumi is there, hand raised to knock.

At the sight of him, her throat tightens up, and she is immediately, torn split between her rage and her desperation. As much as she wants him to hold her, to make her promises and give her the comfort she’s been craving so desperately for the past month, she wants to bite his head off just as much. To make him hurt the way he hurt her. To tear him up from the inside.

Instead, she stares, blankly, somewhat horrified. Her heart beats heavy in her throat and her ears get fuzzy. He looks the same. That makes her angry. She wishes there was some change, some difference. But the Iwaizumi that said that he loved her in her kitchen and that he’d marry her on her floor is the same one that left her to rot on her own.

He steps into her apartment, right past her, like he still has the right to, and looks at the state of it. Everything packed up. Everything scattered. He looks at her like he still has the right to. “What’s going on?”

She flinches, and her anger is starting to win. “I’m moving.”

Iwaizumi pulls that face. That same one. Always looking like he’s slightly dissatisfied with something. “Why?”

Why. It’s such a stupid question. She tries to take a breath to calm herself but it makes her shudder and lock up. “I’m sure if you think about it, you can figure it out.”

She watches the air enter and exit his lungs through the rising and falling of his shoulders. He looks at her, right through her. “Don’t leave.”

In an odd way, she likes the control. She likes the feeling that, for once in her life, she’s not the one begging. “Don’t tell me what to do. Not after you left me.”

He exhales sharply. Iwaizumi takes a step towards her, and she takes a step back. “C’mon, that’s not fair. I didn’t leave you. I just needed to put some distance between us for the time being. Your dad, he’s fucked, alright? It was a liability to-“

“A liability?” she cuts him off, hands clenched into fists by her side. The heat in her blood rises. “I’m a liability?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head and reaches towards her. She jerks away from him. “No, not that you’re a liability, it was just a risk to be around you while-“

“So, what, you couldn’t get one of your little errand boys to tell me about it?” she says, and it comes out like a bark. “You had to leave me in the dark for a month while you dicked off doing god knows what? Too risky to send a text? After I lied to the cops for you and risked getting arrested for you and became a fucking on-call nurse for you, you couldn’t send me a fucking text?”

Her breath is ragged. Iwaizumi stares down at her like he’s seeing for the first time. “I thought you wouldn’t care. I thought you don’t care about anything.”

And it’s too much for her. It’s too big for her body. It’s too much for her to carry and she can’t hold onto it anymore. “I care about everything! I care about everything so fucking much it makes me sick!” she erupts, tears in her voice and rolling down her face. Her skin feels hot. The air feels hot. “Is that what you liked about me so much? You thought I was some kind of apathic ragdoll you could toss around and do whatever you want with?”

“I thought you would understand!” he eventually bites back at her, his own voice rising. “I thought you knew what kind of life I live and what that meant! God, you fucking act like nothing bothers you and you pretend to not see the world around you and you just expect me to read your mind?”

“What fucking person would be okay with being abandoned for a month?” she screams. “You knocked on my door and asked me for a favor and you hovered around me and you said you loved me and said you’d marry me and then you just fucking disappeared! That’s so fucked, Iwa. That’s so fucking cruel.”

He steps towards her, and before she can say anything his arms are around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. Like one simple embrace will end it all. Like he can just take her in his arms and suddenly she’ll stay, suddenly it’ll fix everything. She wants it to. She wants it to so badly. But she places her palms on her chest and pushes him away. She stumbles back and looks at him with wet eyes. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“I do love you,” he tells her, voice lower now. “I meant what I said and I still do. You’re my girl. You’re everything to me.”

She shakes her head, trembling. She can’t let it be true. “No, I’m not,” she asserts, backing up into her kitchen table. Her hands go around the edge of it. “I don’t mean anything to you. You wouldn’t have left me if I did.”

“I had a reason-“

“I don’t fucking care what your reason was! I don’t fucking care, Iwa! I don’t care about your stupid job or your stupid fucking guns or whatever! I care that you were here, and then you weren’t! You left me like my mom did and you left me like my brother did and then you come back here and you have the fucking audacity to not even be sorry about it. I fucking hate you!”

She knows that she doesn’t mean it, when she says it. Iwaizumi probably knows too. He probably knows she doesn’t mean it when she swipes the CD player he got her off the kitchen table and it goes flying. Soaring across the room until it slams into the opposite wall, breaking and crumpling against the pressure. Bits of it snap off.

Iwaizumi looks at it, and then he looks at her. She’s shaking. She wants to get on her knees and do everything she can to fix it the second it breaks. But it’s on the floor, broken and shattered. Iwaizumi nods, and then he leaves. He turns around and walks out the door and slams it shut behind him.

an: huge huge huge huge thank u to wyr and ness and honee and molly and dodger who all had to suffer thru me trying to get this chapter out u guys are the best

taglist: @wyrcan @thechaosoflonging @bedeater @deluluforcarlos55 @localgaytrainwreck @cherrypieyourface @eclecticeggknightpsychic @httpakkeiji @does-directions @needtoloveoutloud @causenessus @kawaii-angelanne @thatonecroc @v1oletfury @lonesomedrive @nnnyxie @pinkiscool @michivrse @cannibalsrider @kmwife @k8nicole @oikasenpai @fennecnco @riousluvs @bellamsby @rinheartshyunlix @bae-ashlynn @ephemeralninon @fangsbb @plumarbre @v-e-r-t21 @snail-squasher @seroh @mfcherry @canthavetoomuchchaos @ange1icarch1ve @applepi25 @wqnsho @19calicos @girlkissersco @Lisoozi @bailey-reeds @kitskasoboring @iluvaquaphor @lllaw @kinsies-blog @1lovestrawberrymilk

[kemafili]

hi, i've been studying some of your sketches and i was wondering if you had any advice for drawing facial features? :> i know that's extremely broad but what i mean is, in a lot of your drawings, especially those where you're referencing actors (such as your drawings of ds9 characters and the iasip cast) you manage to stylize and exaggerate their features in a way that makes each individual look unique while still remaining extremely recognizable. especially for your drawings of mac, frank and dee, you've broken them down into simple shapes while perfectly maintaining their identities

do you have a process for that? i've been trying to push faces more and i've been referencing actors myself, but i have a hard time translating the shapes of the face and eyes into my own art, as well as reproducing it at different angles... thanks for your time

Hi! Thank you for such lovely words! My answer would seem very unprofessional since, if im being honest if im being raw and real right now i truly dont know exactly how i take the elements to make each of them unique, if i say what really REALLY helps me get them is knowing the character very well, once i know their personality its easier to choose one of the 3 mains shapes i enjoy which i always rely to when designing, circle, square and triangle, depending on which shape i choose for the character i will try and base nearly every shape possible surrounding that, this is mainly to keep in mind that i also dont design one character at the time, other thing that really helps me is comparing! If i design a bunch of characters like i did with sunny and ds9, i always make sure to go back to the other designs to see that i am not repeating a feature too many times, it ends up making me have to use different ways to convey a characters soul through it that really differs from other charas. I would say the 3 shapes is what helps me the most, knowing the character personality and other thing is just simply breaking down their features in comparison to others, but to be comepelty naked with you rn, sometimes i dont even look at references because if i have to REAAAAALLY simplify a character, i will go purely by vibe (example was the Damar and Kira drawings, i didnt used any references at all because i thought id over do it finding every single detail they have to implement), if a characters specifics stick with you purely by memory, then it totally means that it identifies them! Also just to appear more visual i will add the 3 examples you offered and how i visually see them different from each other when i drew them

Frank - circle

Dee - triangle

Mac - square

Overall, id say have fun with it! Dont stick too much on ALL their features, sometimes choosing main characteristics makes them pop instead of trying to imitate all their facial structure, i always put too much detail on their eyes, mouth and wrinkles, but what i truly enjoy the most that makes me feel that makes every face different is their nose! So just stretch them as much as you can until you go “hey , these people are different!”

[yevnevlyrics]

Odorouze/Let's dance - Yorushika - Translyrics!

💃 yippee yippee yippee

Ahh, with my clear as transparent heart

Cant help but laugh, i cant believe the world we lived that life in

Ahh, what did i ever choose music for

i'm laughing, i just cant believe the person i was then

And all i wish to convey

This song, and these words i'm trying so hard to say

Fizzling out, flying high, taken by the wind, one with the sky

So, gone with these sentimentalities, useless, but i guess its no fault of mine

If you even still can hear, and if you still at all wanna know

Hey, at least youve got nothing to hide

Even if just one more time, let's dance all night

Ahh, living here, human, i'm done

Its alright, you humans are so dumb, and ive just had enough

Ahh, like when i flaunted that dumb new guitar

I guess I wish i could still laugh at me from back then

All i still wish to convey

winter nights, summer cries, our words that broke all to say

Burning out, floating up high, ashes of our feelings in the sky

I want these feelings i thought we'd lost long ago, to give up on ever finding mine

If you wish we'd never met, or if you would just rather forget

Hey, dont make yourself wait any longer

Because these memories can't last, till dawn let's dance

Ahh, you know its the end when im giving up on music

My memory, even fading it's gotta describe you perfectly

Then im sure theres nothing else left that i needed to do

Thats all i wanted to do

Since the days i knew you passed, nothing that matters is gonna last

you seem to be running away too fast, hey, let me set this to a melody

You're out of excuses for me,

your memory's all i can see

forget it, dance with me one last time!

Fizzling out, flying high, with all you have take to the sky

Our feelings we could never word, together we didnt need words anyway

Please think of me as a friend if you also wish this wouldn't end

Hey, you've got nothing else left to hide

So before we're truly free

I'll ask once more if you will dance with me?

　　　

[irlnikeiyomiuri]

🍓, 🧸, and☁️ for the fanfic writer questions? - annie

how did you get into writing fanfiction?

HM... its funny i really wrote my college admissions essay abt this but don't know what to say. i remember being really socially unawares as a kid? uhhm. i think i got into writing because it served as a means of expression, and thus, communication and connection.. i couldn't otherwise convey my thoughts ! and then that naturally turned to fanfiction both because people dont tend to look at original content online, and because all works are fanfiction in that the things you create will never exist in a vortex, they'll always be pulling from smthn else in some way or form. establishing a clear bond between the stories i come up w + characters/universes that people are already interested in = higher odds of people looking into the stories.

what's the fastest way to become your mutual?

oooh.. this is Hard because i truly just post beta and im also p particular abt who i follow (bc im at 69 people. so..) so?.. idk i tend to consider people my mutuals even if im not following them if we've dmed/they've otherwise said words to me? ig its just abt having a friendly relationship :3.. annie is not mutual annie is a critter i feed egg shells to sometimes. like calcifer !!!! (annie is obviously mutual in every sense of the term). but!! idk. a while ago it wouldve been to post sdra and/or interact w my stuff but main isn't about sdra for the forseeable future, main is about raising awareness. so ya know. beta time if anyone wants to become mutuals it seems

what made you choose your username?

is nikei. is yomiuri. are you a jokester? hmm. idk i really feel like most my usernames that r known this corner of tumblr r pretty clearly tied to my ~brand.. ofc my og sdra blog was irlyomiurinikei, bc canon urls were taken- AND this wouldve been 2019, so being irlcharacter was a p common format!!! then i got deleted and remade as irlnikeiyomiuri AND THEN I GOT GIFTED A CANON URL <3333 which was so kind it legitimately still makes me :'3. and then i took the other canon url. and now i dont sdra post. sometimes i wonder if i had any negative impact on nikeis rep in the fandom but... sighs. ah well

[sabotsen]

Hi there! First of all, your perception of Roland is absolutely impeccable. I don't generally read fics as they tend to spoil/contradict my image of a char, but your Roland? Pure canon. In a single paragraph you are able to convey such complex images, wow. I even find myself with same longing described in a text, and it lingers. Also your signature tripple "burn"s. At this point I can recognize your work without captions. Hope you are having a good feedback! I also did not find any request closed/open status or rules so please forgive me if you don't do requests.

With that, may I take the liberty and ask for a Roland fic where we hug him? Because Re-reading Knight's longing for 3rd time and ugggh I just wanna squish him with a hug. I also thought the idea of "if you need anything — ask for it" "but no everything has to be 95 steps long and complex" is fun, but what if he does actually ask for something, and we give it to him, and it works, and he's shoked? Kinda?? Since he usually doesn't speak plain and honest, and things usually dont actually go his way. But hey he did this time and that single shot got through! It's a little bit like teaching a child to say "pass the salt please", except it's a grown man and we try to tell him not everything has to be attained through suffering and hinting, he can just ask. Or, on a different note, maybe he does not actually say it out loud but we still guess, since after so much time we know him well enough? Regardless of whatever he builds of himself, he still has some patterns he follows unknowingly in any of his instances, and those could be learned and read. I just wanted for Roland to be comforted a lil'. ;< maybe not a lil'. Maybe actually very much.

Even if this req is not to your liking, I still wish you the best with your art, thank you for your hard work! Bye have a great time 👋

I’ve had to walk laps around the room several times before I could even fathom a response to this message so forgive me if I’m incoherent in spots.

But firstly — thank you??? ( ; - ;) this is such a kind message I’m honestly really fucking humbled and at a loss for words, especially for speaking so kindly of my interpretation of him. ;;;; thank you truly for taking the time to send this, it means a lot to me. ( & I can’t help the burns repetition with him lol, the irony when your in game element is fire but you’ve long since forgotten the warmth of human kindness and contact so even the gentlest of brushes feels like scorching heat. The man is a clown)

I’ve never actually gotten a request before lol so you’re the first, hun. I’m open to ‘em, especially since they can be a way to talk to people about different hc and interpretations; I find it really fun. And I really like the view of him I see in your message. Roland blue screening is always a highlight to me tbh

it’s actually a bit ironic Knight’s Longing is the one you’re most fond of. The second part is in the works, told from Chrome’s POV about your closeness with Roland, and there is a short scene that plays off Roland’s affection line where you fall asleep against him. It’s mostly a fun experiment bc they’re just such fascinating foils. (There’s also a nutcracker inspired fic with Roland that has been in the works for a shamefully long time….)

But yes! You’re welcome to suggest ideas hun! And yours actually gave me a brain worm so consider that wip added to the fic list. I just… I either churn out 3 fics in a month or 1 fic every three months — there is no inbetween I’m so sorry….

I did draft a few lines tho based off the images I got from your message tho, so I don’t forget the emotion I want to go for (the despair of waiting for the other shoe to drop bc he can’t trust your kindness as something that isn’t attached to strings or the guillotine). I can’t promise it’ll make it to the final draft but here’s a little snip for now if that’s ok?? I gotta chew on how I want to shape the scene but I’ll toss the snip beneath a read more break. please know I’m tucking four leaf clovers in your pocket in hopes you have nothing but wonder days ahead!! ♥︎ thank you again for taking the time to talk to me ♡

[...]

It's the weightlessness – the moment of bated breath when the stage crumbles beneath his feet and the scaffolding overhead groans as it collapses. It's the loaded silence – the millisecond between the trigger pull and the expected result in roulette. It is the corpse of every script, every scene, every line that always, always, always ends with the flourish of the guillotine. 

He feels it, scorching and molten – the seeping, slow spread of warmth like molten glass. There's a sharpness to it, biting in the way it cuts through the cold metal of him until it sinks into his wires. It burns. It burns. It burns.

The weight of your arm around his shoulder, your foolish flesh and bone hand on the small of his back, the faint brush of your breath against his temple – you're close, too close and it burns. He feels the subtle rise of your chest with each slow breath, and it's the casual defenselessness of it all that turns the heat into something boiling. It churns with all the jagged, rusted blades that have burrowed into tender places he thought lost beneath the metal. You're completely open and every single vital point flashes through his mind in an instant. How easy would it be to press a little here or cut deep enough there to bring you to your knees in blooming crimson glory? 

His hands move – too late and too early all at once – and you don't even flinch when the cold metal of his fingers wraps around the back of your neck.

[kenonade]

stella maris reading log #1

its about damn time i start noting down how i feel when i read what i read. hell yeah. hopefully this makes me a better writer.

spoilers not really about the plot (bc honestly is there even a plot in the sense of a plot) but more about the language below the cut woooooo

tldr: book cool. writing insane. wtf. wtf. wtf. head ouchie. 越级打怪的后果就是头晕脑转 (dizziness is the consequence of attempting to read beyond my level). ooga booga man talk abt english

reading stella maris is so interesting because im just sitting here wondering like. how the FUCK did mccarthy accumulate all this knowledge about a variety of very distinct fields. my brain hurts. this is so much information. im learning nothing and learning everything at the same time. how the man managed to learn all this stuff and how he managed to put it together like this puzzle me equally intensely. its one thing to acquire knowledge. its a whole other thing to convey it in language so dense with information but also character. like, not to be that guy, but when osc does his infodumps i think to myself okay old man lets get you to bed. every time alicia opens her mouth i confront my intellectual inferiority and contemplate the meaning of life because it is alicia talking.

not to mention what the FUCK alicia. if only you’d have KNOWN. EUGH. WHAT. WHAT. WHAT.

my head hurts. the reason why im writing instead of reading is because ive already reached my reading breaking point where my eyes glaze over and the words go in one and out the other. its only been two hours. difficult language i can handle fine, verbosity is fine, i inhaled the ender stuff and only took breaks when osc pissed me off, but stella maris is information overload in a way that i’ve never experienced before. im like, texting three separate people all the time. oh i should vet this w my math guy. i need to show this to my psych classmate. this has to go to my orthopedics bestie.

i started this book saw the page number and went oh sure. its half the length of the passenger. the style means that it’ll contain less words overall too. i should be able to finish this on a three hour hsr ride. WRONG. i CANT. it’s TOO DIFFICULT. im running into roadblocks very similar to what i felt when i read the passenger: dont know place/name/context/big word. except im finding stella maris to be even more difficult because unlike some nautical jargon or random place in the midwestern usa that i can just look up, i cant. i think its impossible to even begin to comprehend all this math.

that’s definitely part of the charm of stella maris. the format of audio transcripts creates a much more intimate connection between the characters and the reader. the target demographic of this novel, though niche, is definitely not as niche as to comprise only of genius mathematicians with a burning passion for music and a hatred of psychology. the reader might be a master in one of these fields, but alicia outsmarts them in it along with all others. viewed through this lens, the reader is the doctor. the reader is the one who converses with alicia, trying their best to piece together a mind that is so extraordinarily genius and extraordinarily tormented. it’s a position of emotional significance. the reader sits through these audio recordings because they want to understand alicia. and to understand alicia is to love her. (this is a certified when i truly understand my enemy i love him moment)

all of that sits in stark contrast to western’s narration in the passenger.

i wrote an entire paragraph but tumblr fucking ate it. im pissed. its ok. for love i’ll write it again.

western’s narration is detached. it’s impersonal. mccarthy’s clinical and direct use of language alienates the viewer and prevents the formation of any sincere rapport, allowing only mild sympathy for western’s continued suffering. the reader is merely an observer, piecing together the life of a strange, curious creature through inference and deduction. nor is the reader meant to empathize with him. he’s the one who chose to abandon alicia, the one reckless enough to chose race car driving over his degree, and therefore the one who shoulders alone the responsibility of alicia’s death—or so he thinks. in a sense, because western is comparatively lucid, the detached narration becomes almost a punishment for the guilt he’s assigned to himself. he’s not the one in the mental asylum, afterall.

its interesting to me how mccarthy presents this duo to the audience. i have many Thoughts on alicia’s sexuality and stuff but i should finish the book before i synthesize those thoughts. anyway. thanks for reading 👍

[casuaalheart]

10:03

I'm not good at words, especially when it comes to writing letters and creating poems. It feels like everything I write falls short of truly representing what I mean.

So, let this letter flow as I want it to, without a series of sweet and poetic sentences, or beautiful metaphors that make the heart flutter.

Again, let's start this story with a greeting for you: hello.

Hello, again.

You know? I don't like being hugged or giving hugs; it feels strange and I don't know what to do -hug back or no? i dont know, really.

And also, i really don't like being stared at when I'm talking, because it makes me feel awkward and doesn't allow me to say what I want to say. Maybe it's because I used to be a bit shy and lacking in confidence.

And, I don't even understand how to love others. I don't know how much capacity I have to give love to others because I feel like I don't have that much. And even if I did, I wouldn't know how to express it, which is why I often lose people around me because they feel neglected.

Untill finally, as time goes by as it should, slowly there were many things that I began to understand and feel. Things that I used to find strange or things that I thought I wasn't capable of reciprocating.

Again, I say I don't like being hugged or even giving hugs. I can't do it, especially it’s virtual hugs. I also don't really understand the form of love or the affection that people say is very enjoyable. I don't even know how to convey it.

When I think about it, what kind of human was I back then?

Then, there came a moment that made me feel; oh, turns out I need this much. I was really tired and didn't know where to run, then your notification popped up as if you telling me that I could share with you. I'm not lie when I say that night I cried a lot and ended up told you a super long story. Even though, i know, you wont hear it, but it felt like you did. Especially the last part when you said, "you guys deserve a hug!" I feel relieved.

And finally, I understood that I actually like it when I'm being looked at while talking because it feels like I'm being listened to; like someone still cares about all my pathetic story. I felt that out of all the things I encountered that day, there was still at least one person I could share with; someone who reminding me that i’m loved, too.

Then, I also learned that a hug feels warm to; when you hug me, it feels like I have a different kind of support. Gradually, I got used to hugging and being hugged by others because I also wanted to give them warmth; like what you do for me and many others.

Chan,

I'm still very confused about how to express my love to others, even as I write this letter, I'm still wondering how to let the people around me know that I care and have a lot of love for them. I'm still learning and you are one of the reasons why I'm learning to show it; to become someone who is not stiff about this, to become someone who is not ashamed to show it all. Seeing how you love others in such a simple way, I want to be like that too.

And when I think about it again, for now, I want to be a person like you.

I want to give love to many people; because it's true, it's enjoyable. I understand why you always smile and radiate when you give it, you also feel happy to give your love for many people around you, ya?

I want to hug many people; because you’re right. everyone deserves a hug from anyone on their tiring days.

I want to be like you; the person that always celebrates everything around you without expecting anything in return.

Happy birthday.

Today, everyone is celebrating you just as you always celebrate everyone with your love and kindness.

p.s: I have so much love for you. Shine like the whole universe is yours, my brightest star.

Yours,

Jeliana

[izabesworld]

you dont have to apologise for anything ive been through your account and the anonymous replies i feel are just people who haven't understood what your doing it makes me mad that u feel u have to be sorry and u should never feel that way when showing ur group as good when all posted things in the past r bad please do not apologise and continue showing how developed and misunderstood ur culture is 💛

I think I’ve just shed a tear with this reply — no words can describe how grateful for this post I am. You clearly have a very kind heart.

I understood when posting I would receive backlash, it was what prevented me from doing it for so long, so to see that there are people who understand what message I’m trying to my hardest to convey to potential writers is an unimaginable word.

I never intended for people to feel like I’m directing my posts towards them, or that I’m trying to viscously manipulate people into thinking me and the rest of Roma are some all mighty God’s, however, I completely and truly understand why it may come across that way.

Nevertheless, I want to express my love to all people. The people who think my posts are pointless and the people who enjoy my posts and take them into consideration when writing.

Being a writer is hard, and being an influential one is even harder. I’m so glad that the influential writers are seeing this, and I truly hope that it’s inspired them to research Roma or take notes from my pieces.

All my love, all my blessings (and to those religious, all my prayers). <33

[systems-overloaded]

had a good talk with my mom about how hard speaking actually is for me. how much i force myself for others conveniences. im going to try using an AAC app on my phone more, as well as gestures and some ASL signs that shell learn. i feel really good about the convo and how it went. id never conveyed to her how hard it was. or how often i am truly "stretched thin" and pushing myself out of my window of tolerance. im really happy too, because i could just text her these big long paragraphs and shed texted back as well and that was nice. i can convey things so much better. more accurate, when its not verbal.

what initiated the convo, was id had another meltdown when forcing myself to talk some when she asked questions, and she didnt hear me, it didnt register at all, so she asked the same question multiple times, and it hurt to keep talking. so i kinda flipped out.

she was worried and wanted to understand what happened, so she texted me, and i explained best i could. she responded that she was worried, that she didnt think id had speech loss episodes in a long time.

but i told her i get them everyday, its not related to stress always. i just dont leave my room often, and if i cant talk then i avoid eye contact or put earbuds in, to avoid a situation where she might talk to me.

i explained in more detail how it feels, the struggles physically (its like, my mouth, my tongue, and my jaw are all separate parts im trying to consciously move, and im trying to get them to move through molasses, and they have a lag in response, if i can even get them to create the shapes i want), as well as the pain it can cause (its like, knives/nails scrapping/slicing all the nerves/veins in my body). that when i am able to force words out, i do, because i want to communicate and connect, and thats what i thought would be the only accepted form.

afaik, all the parts i am connected to and have communication with, have some level of difficulty with speech. others much more than some, some cannot make any mouth sounds, and some parts have decreased lanaguge comprehension as well. they cannot type or articulate things like i am, their thoughts are more "simple" and some dont think in words, they think in emotions and vibes and sensations.

there is a trend between parts with different amounts of speech abilities, which i want to make a post about later.

but right now im just grateful for my mom, and excited for communicating in easier ways with her! i have a strong desire for connection, communication, but i struggle so much with forming and creating speech, as well as translating my thoughts into words when speaking. so im excited to have a method of communication, connection! and a method where i can more easily and accurately make my thoughts accessible. and although my mom and i have our issues, im really grateful that shes always willing to learn, and to listen. she just wants me to be happy, and she said even if i never spoke outloud again, that she loves me and well find ways to communicate, shell learn how to listen.

[iluvaspartame]

i had a terrible day yesterday working 9+ hours while my beloved little dog was sick and near death at the vet and i was a panicking nervous wreck waiting to hear any news about her. i feel so stupid because i fear that everyone thinks im overreacting for feeling this way about a dog. whatever. cant help how i feel. shes one of the only sources of happiness in my life.

my boyfriend is weird when it comes to me being upset in any way. i facetimed him after work to vent to him about my day, you know the terrible day i was just talking about. he was on a game and his responses just felt very cold. he’s like this any time im in distress. hes like a robot. his tone is so flat. he fake laughs too much, he does it at everything. he doesnt comfort me at all sometimes. i cant articulate what im trying to say at fucking all. hes in his own world or something. i think trying to comfort people makes him uncomfortable. i understand that, but im your longterm girlfriend… have a little empathy? not just a focused gaze on your computer game and half assed replies to everything i say? you know what, everything has to be a joke with him. if we’re not joking around, he doesn’t know how to act. everything gets turned into a funny joke. so when there’s something serious, he doesnt know what to do. im not a fan of that. in fact, its been bothering me for a really long time. ive complained to him that we feel like friends and that we banter way too much and i hate it. i just want to feel like i have a loving, romantic, significant other. i hate my fucking life.

and for the record, i love him to death. im just confused and frustrated.

i just dont know how to feel anymore, i dont think i can keep doing this, and i dont want to. i feel like im talking to a brick wall every second of my life. like, i have no one who is truly fully there for me. everyone is so distant. this world is so weird. no one cares about anyone else. i feel completely alone. everyone is fake. no one is real. no one cares. everyone is completely self absorbed and self serving. and im so frustrated that im too stupid to actually word what im trying to say. i cant convey my true feelings. am i even using the right words??? never develop anorexia unless you want permanent brain fog and to feel fucking stupid for the rest of your life. i wish i still had the ability to express myself.

i used to be a really good writer.

[rigelmejo]

Modu chapter 8. A little example of guessing as you read? (But also, feel free to ignore this lol. Its to record my thought process if I ever wish to look back later at how i was doing in july 2024. There may be errors lol).

郎乔拎着把折叠伞，三步并两步地冲进市局办公大楼，留下一长串湿哒哒的脚印。

Lang Qiao (a character we know) 拎 (i didn't know this word but it reminded me of another hand radical hanzi that means carry/hold i guessed it means holding - upon looking this up its lin1 "carry"), the next part has fold (which showed up in a prior chapter when fei du was folding the a paper boat) then umbrella. So: Lang Qiao holds(carries) a fold up umbrella, a few steps (3 steps 2 steps) enters the City Bureau office main floor, leaving a long trail of wet (i guessed wet because 湿 is in the word moist) footprints (i guessed footprints because foot+trace).

I didn't know the words: carry, fold up umbrella, few steps, trail of wet, footprints. So I guessed these.

After running it through an mtl, it gives: Lang Qiao rushed into the municipal bureau office building in two steps, carrying a folding umbrella, leaving a long trail of wet footprints. (So 3steps2steps probably truly means "cover 3 steps distance in 2 steps, and enter was "rushing in.")

(Also something to note here: mtl - at least some I have used like Google Translate and DeepL - have a tendency to simplify descriptive phrases sometimes. Its not a big issue in this example, but if you can understand most of a passage and notice the mtl cut out several words? It probably simplified a descriptive phrase into 1 rough synonym word, or did some other general simplification - i would guess maybe because less meaning is lost if a "stiff as a coffin" is translated to "stiff" than if the mtl mistranslates one of the individual words and spits out "hard as a coffin." At least i suspect thats why mtl tends to do this, but i dont know for sure. To avoid this problem, if you look up individual words instead of passages, mtl is more likely to give you fuller translations. Even sentences or parts of sentences, will teanslate with more details kept than full paragraphs depending on the mtl used. And of course, individually looking up words in a chinese specific translation tool like Pleco may give you full specific translations for 4 character phrases. Looking up individual words will give the fullest translation, detail wise. Which yall probably already know ToT)

Back to the example above. I guessed some meanings wrong. But the overall guess of words was roughly similar in meaning. At least enough to grasp what Lang Qiao did, and the general description (but not enough to translate well enough to convey the precise meaning). I understood enough with guessing, to keep reading without looking things up. To learn those words "roughly" by guessing and clarify the meaning in my head more if I see those words again in the future.

[aggravatedanarchy]

Hey there been a while, use this ask to rant abt a random thing on your mind you wanna share

gods, i sure love being so fucking head empty the second i look at this /s

seriously sitting here having to struggle to think of things right now... like i know some stuff that's generally on my mind but I either don't want to talk about it/talk about it publicly (not necessarily an invitation to ask about those things, no offense intended; just an acknowledgement) or do not have the words to convey my thoughts on things beyond a Growl.

I'm trying to think of something I won't go Too Unhinged about for this blog,,, truly a struggle. perhaps a line of thinking to abandon, for this.

ugh. it was kind of simmering for a minute but i dont think i have the energy for a coherent rant on my hatred for capitalism/the way our society functions at the moment. but know that that is generally a big thing that is always brewing and it makes my teeth Ache.

time for a complete tonal shift: here's my fucking gordon ramsey frozen dinner reviews (for ones I've tried so far)

mushroom risotto: sucked major ass, literally could not even swallow the first and only bite I took. it is possible I just do not enjoy mushroom risotto or risotto itself! or that I fucked it up somehow, though that feels less likely? idk. 0/5

mac and cheese (four cheese? i forget what this one is actually called): literally do not even remember anything about it so it must have been pretty mid. stouffers (stoufers?) is king in this field, so far as I've tried in terms of- again- FROZEN- mac n cheese dinners. 2/5 (it get a 2 and not a 3 because it's disappointing and possibly a sign that I don't even remember it)

fish & chips: i actually really liked this one ngl. chips desperately need to be seasoned though. idk if they're just not supposed to be or something but I'm sorry, potatoes and seasoning are In Love and you Will Not Separate Them. I just add some myself after the fact; I can eat the fish without a sauce and be content, although I like to try and whip up something to go with it. 4.6/5 (possibly a touch high of a rating considering the initial disappointment those chips presented, but it's whatever man. sometimes there's a piece that's really small and gets nice and crispy,,, that's totally what raises it back up for me)

slow braised beef in a red wine reduction sauce: gonna be real, since this one was microwave only I was extremely anxious about it for some reason. but it was actually really good! wish there was more carrots? but it was seriously, surprisingly tasty. 4.7/5 (there were some bits that were a little more.. crisp I guess? not quite the word I'm looking for, maybe. but it seriously wasn't an issue- my refusal to give it a full 5 is based solely on feeling like it needed more carrots and mushrooms to balance with the potatoes. This one might be my favorite, despite what ratings may indicate.)

chicken pot pie: literally just had this one today! (was anxious abt trying it) honestly really good imo! I made it in the oven, for full disclosure. 4.8/5- would be 5, but I have had Really Good chicken pot pie that a friend makes, so if I consider that a 5 I want to push this back a touch.

and those should be the only ones I've tried

I got this lemon chicken ? one to try sometime, and I think the only other one remaining otherwise would be lasagna- but I don't really enjoy the way it feels to eat any sort of tomato/red sauce with little bits of meat in it, so I think I'll probably refrain. (if he ever puts out a cheese lasagna or something though...)