#i was thinking they might be in another city

[sceletaflores]

well, all right i’m bad, but then you’re no prize either…

pair: joel miller x fem!reader

wc: 8.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no ellie, general violence (only referenced), age gap (56/26), swearing, so many spacers lmao, not quite friends to lovers and not quite enemies to lovers but a weird other thing, kinda mean!joel for a good sec, dressing wounds, joel miller TUMMY, loss of virginity (reader is a virgin but she's not completely oblivious and weirdly infantile about it lmao), fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex whoops, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, porn with a tiny plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: well, i finally caved y’all. baby’s first tlou fic! this literally took me forever to write and even longer to post cause i was so terrified LMAO so please give me some grace if it’s shit and he’s ooc and timelines are a little fuzzy cause i barely know what i’m doing. thank you chickens love you mwah mwah mwah. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

joel found a lodge house…

You don’t know what you did to make Joel Miller hate you so much.

He's never outright said it, but you know it’s there—in every sharp glance, every clipped word, every deliberate avoidance.

Besides, his silence is worse than anything he could say. A quiet condemnation that settles in your chest like stone.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he thinks, but the truth is harder to swallow.

You do care—more than you want to admit. His approval, his respect, hell, even a sliver of kindness from him feels like an impossible prize you’ll never win.

And you hate yourself for wanting it. For needing it.

It's not just the weight of his disdain that eats at you, it's the not knowing why. God, do you wish you could ask him why.

What did you do to make him look at you like you’re some necessary evil he has to tolerate. Why does he hold some unspoken grudge that's manifested itself into something you couldn't dream of ever comprehending.

But the thought of confronting Joel feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a void that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do what you've always done. You keep your distance, try to match his indifference with your own, and tell yourself it’s better this way.

You were young when the outbreak hit, six years old.

You’re sure that’s part of it. That that’s how Joel sees you, as some bumbling, naive child who’s more of a hassle than anything else.

Another mouth to feed, another back to watch, baggage.

You've been with him for almost seven months now, traveling side by side when you may have well been miles apart. Trekking through abandoned cities, overgrown highways, and every godforsaken patch of wilderness in between.

In the beginning, you did everything you could to prove him wrong.

You pushed yourself past your limits, hunted, scavenged, fought, kept up. You did everything that needed to be done without hesitation.

All to show that you were more than what he made you out to be. It never seemed to matter much.

After you lost your parents in the early days of the outbreak, it was just you and your sister. She taught you everything you know, taught you how to survive.

It's because of her that you know how to shoot a rifle, how to skin a rabbit, how to start a fire with nothing but sticks and dried moss, how to snap bones and locate which vital arteries bleed out the quickest.

It's because of her that you've been able to hone some sick skill in the maiming of clickers.

A skill you never thought you'd need to use on her.

You were supposed to be safe in the QZ. You weren't supposed to be fifteen years old, aiming a gun at the one person you had left.

Your own flesh and blood wasn't supposed to be the very first in a long list of red tallies under your belt.

It’s been years and you’ve still never forgotten that day. December 19th, 2012, the date burned into your brain like someone took a branding iron to the tissue.

You can’t count the amount of times you’ve been ripped from your sleep drenched in a cold sweat with the tail end of a scream tearing at the skin of your throat.

The image of what was left of your sister, slumped on the ground lifeless as her blood painted the wall behind her flashing behind your closed eyelids. The sound of her last labored breath ringing in your ears louder than any shotgun blast.

You ran that same night, with the weight of her death on your shoulders.

Your entire world spinning out around you as you clawed through barbed wire fencing, not caring where you were going or what would happen to you—just needing to escape.

There was nothing left for you to do after that but survive. And that’s what you did, for years, scraping by in a world that had already chewed you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

You learned how to be ruthless because of it.

How to harden yourself against the loss, the pain, the brutality. But there were cracks, too. Cracks you hid well, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and distance.

The endless days blurred into each other. Empty houses, hollow streets. A life reduced to scavenging, hiding, and the occasional, fleeting moment of human connection that inevitably ended in loss. 

And then you found yourself with Joel.

You hadn’t exactly found him, though. More like crashed into his orbit by accident.

A few desperate days spent scavenging through the ruins of a small town, a chance encounter that left you both wary and unwilling to turn your backs.

But, inexplicably, you somehow became part of his traveling routine.

He wasn’t like any of the others you’d met before. At first, you thought he might be different. A man who seemed broken, but different nonetheless.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you began to see the truth. Joel Miller wasn’t concerned with you. He didn’t need you. And, more than that, he didn’t want you around. 

You didn’t know what to do with that.

It’s a bitter kind of irony. You’ve survived all this time completely on your own, fought tooth and nail to stay alive, but with him, you might just crumble.

Joel found a lodge house. It's a small, weathered place tucked away in the dense trees of the wood surrounding it.

He only deemed it suitable after an extensive perimeter check and a thorough sweep of the interior.

It's not much—just another run-down place in the middle of nowhere—but for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s a roof over your head for the night.

The walls are sturdy, though the windows are cracked and half of the floorboards creak like they're about to give out at any moment.

You explored the second floor alone, creeping through the desolate rooms and taking in all that was left behind.

Old family photographs covered in thick layers of dust, worn clothes riddled with holes still hung in the few closets you stumble across.

The oddest of all was an old jewelry box tucked away in a dresser draw, tarnished silver dull and muddy.

The sound of familiar footsteps comes from somewhere behind you. The door creaks open slowly.

Joel. Of course.

He clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the house.  

“Fire’s low,” he says, voice rough from its lack of use today.

You don’t turn around, not yet. You take the box in your gloved hand, running your fingers across the intricate design of the lid, touch trailing over winding vines and small roses.

“Okay,” you mutter, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. “I’ll grab some more wood later.”

Another beat of silence. Then, “It’s gettin’ cold out, I’ll go.”

Your fingers pause their ministrations, moving to flip the lid open. Empty.

“Suit yourself,” you reply after a moment, your tone just as neutral as his.

Joel doesn’t leave right away. You hear the floorboards groan beneath his weight, his presence lingering in the doorway. 

You wonder what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting at all.

Finally, he speaks. “Don’t touch anything.”

With that he turns and leaves the room, you wait until you can’t hear his footsteps trailing down the stairs anymore to let out the scoff festering in your chest.

You snap the jewelry lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “Asshole.”

Joel's been gone for a while now. Longer than it takes to chop a few logs for firewood.

You came down from the upstairs a few minutes after hearing the tell-tale sound of the heavy door opening and closing. The main room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dwindling fire.

You're perched on an old armchair near the entrance, peering out the dirty window that has the best view of the treeline as you nervously pick the skin around your nails.

You tell yourself not to worry. He’s probably fine, he’s been doing this a lot longer than you. And if Joel is anything, it’s annoyingly competent.

Still, a nagging doubt itches at the back of your mind. It's been at least half an hour, maybe more.

You’re just about to grab your own pack and go looking for him when the front door creaks open.

Joel stumbles inside, the frigid evening air rushing in behind him before he slams the door shut. At first glance, he looks fine—no more haggard than usual. 

But then you notice the way he favors his left side, the way his free hand is pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and staining his torn undershirt.

You’re on your feet in an instant.

“Fuck,” you say, voice sharper than you expected. “What the hell happened?”

“Raiders.” Is the only explanation you get as he tries to brush past you like it’s nothing. The stiff way he moves and the tightens of his jaw betray him. “S’just a scratch.”

“Bullshit,” you snap, stepping in front of him and blocking his path to the fire. “Sit. Now.”

He gives you a look, one of those deep, withering glares you’ve seen him use to intimidate countless others into submission. But you stand your ground, chin raised and jaw set–defiant. 

His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own. 

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he drops onto the couch. “Happy now?”

"Not until you let me take care of that." You motion toward his side, where the blood is still spreading.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, lolling his head back to rest more heavily on the couch.

“Sure you are,” you snap, crossing the room to rifle through your bag. “And I’m the fucking Queen of England.”

"Said I’m fine," he bites through gritted teeth, but you’re already moving, heading back to him with the first aid kit from your pack.

"You want to bleed out on this ugly-ass couch? Be my guest," you shoot back, dropping to your knees in front of him. "Otherwise, shut up and let me help."

Joel surprisingly doesn’t argue any further, just sighs heavily and reluctantly sinks further into the couch cushions.

You push the front of his jacket open to slide it off his shoulders as gently as you can, peeling back the layer of his flannel next.

The smell of blood hits you immediately.

The gash is about five inches long, trailing the span of his ribcage. It’s deep—but not fatal—just an angry red and oozing blood.

Definitely not the simple 'scratch' he made it out to be.

Your stomach churns at the sight, but you push it down. No time for that.

“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for the alcohol in your kit. “You really know how to underplay a situation, huh?”

He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those dark, calculating eyes of his. Always watching, always assessing.

It’s unnerving, but you focus on the task at hand, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it with alcohol.

“This is gonna hurt,” you warn, though there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind the idea of causing him a little discomfort.

A petty, vindictive part that still stings from all the scorn he’s thrown your way.

“Just get it over with,” Joel grits out, his voice low and gravelly.

You don’t give him any more warnings as you wipe the soaked cloth over the wound. He flinches, a harsh curse slipping through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.

You work as quickly as you can, wiping away the blood and dirt with steady hands, your movements as gentle as possible given the situation.

You let out an annoyed huff when the torn fabric of his shirt gets in the way of your hands for a second time.

You lean back on your heels, glancing up at Joel. “You need to take your shirt off.”

Joel raises a brow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That really necessary?”

“Yes, it’s necessary, Joel,” you huff, already losing patience. “Unless you want me to sit here and cut around every thread of this ratty thing while you bleed out, then by all means—”

He sighs heavily, cutting you off as he shifts forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, grunting in pain each time it strains his ribs.

You roll your eyes at how slow he’s moving, and your patience—already worn thin by the day's events—snaps.

“Jesus Christ, let me help,” you huff, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric.

Joel jerks back slightly, his hand shooting up to stop yours mid-motion. “I got it,” he growls, a sharp edge in his voice.

You glare at him, your hand still caught in his grip. His palm is calloused, his hold firm enough to make your pulse jump unexpectedly. 

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, locked in a silent standoff.

Then he releases your hand and pulls the shirt over his head himself, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.

You wait with your arms crossed, trying to ignore the awkward flutter of nerves in your stomach as the fabric peels away to reveal his chest.

Joel’s broad, solid frame isn’t new to you. You’ve seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when bathing in rivers or changing in run down houses between stops.

But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.

You’re staring, and you know it.

The firelight cast shadows over his skin, illuminating old scars, faint lines of muscle, the barely there jut of his stomach over the hem of his jeans.

You had been getting more game kills recently, two hunters are always better than one.

Joel clears his throat, dragging your focus back to the present. “You gonna gawk all night, or can we move this along?”

You snap out of it, scowling to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

You finish cleaning the gash and grab the small needle and thread lying next to you.

“This’ll hurt worse than the alcohol,” you say, threading the needle easily.

Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”

The needle pierces his skin, and this time, you catch the smallest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but his jaw tightens, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

His hands grip the edge of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turn white with it, but he doesn’t tell you to stop or slow down.

He’s too damn proud for that.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his leg as you position yourself to work from a better angle. You feel his eyes on you, that intense, scrutinizing stare that makes your skin prickle.

“You’ve done this before,” Joel says after a moment, his tone less sharp than before. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You shrug, keeping your hands steady. “Of course I have.”

“Who taught you?”

The question catches you off guard, Joel’s never shown much interest in what your life was before you met him. You glance up briefly, catching his gaze. There’s no malice there, no judgment—just curiosity.

You swallow hard, dragging your eyes back to stitches, half way done now. “My sister.”

You don’t elaborate and Joel doesn’t push.

Maybe it’s the sudden tightness in your tone or the look you know must be clouding your face that keeps him quiet.

You finish off the stitching, tearing the thin strand of thread with your hands before you’re leaning away again.

“Good as new,” you say, dabbing some more alcohol on your own hands to disinfect. “Try not to tear these open anytime soon.”

Joel leans back, strong arms spread across the back of the couch, his face unreadable as he peers down at the fresh stitching on his side. 

“Could’ve done it myself,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is gone, replaced with something softer, almost resigned. 

You roll your eyes with a scoff, not even trying to hide your irritation as you rise from the floor. “Sure you could’ve, right before you passed out. You’re welcome by the way.”

You gather your supplies and turn to head back to your bag, but Joel’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“You’re always like this, y’know,” he says, and the words carry that same gravelly drawl, but there’s something new there—something heavier.

You pause, your hands tightening around the kit in your grasp. “Like what?”

“Pushy. Stubborn,” he replies, his tone cutting, though it lacks the usual venom. “Like you’ve got somethin’ to prove all the damn time.”

You whip around, your patience officially gone. “You think I’m stubborn?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “Coming from the guy who would rather bleed out on a fucking couch than admit he needs help?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, and his hands flex against the couch cushions, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not after months of this.

“I’ve been busting my ass since day one to prove that I’m not dead weight to you. I’ve fought for us, for you. And for what? Just to get more of your bullshit attitude?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Joel snaps, pushing himself upright despite the obvious strain it puts on his freshly stitched wound. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“Because you won’t let me!” you fire back, stepping closer, your voice rising. “All you do is look at me like I’m some burden you can’t wait to get rid of.”

Joel’s glare sharpens, his lips parting as if to respond, but you cut him off.

You really can’t stop yourself now that you started, all the anger and frustration reaching a fever pitch hot enough to burst the tight lid you’ve kept on your emotions.

“If I’m such a hassle, why didn’t you just leave me back there, huh? Why didn’t you just walk away like I know you wanted to?”

Joel’s breathing is heavier now,  his broad chest rising and falling as his dark eyes bore into yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands, and the sheer size of him forces you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your glare fixed on his face.

“You think I wanted this, kid?” he growls, his voice low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I wanted to be responsible for someone else? To have someone else’s fuckin’ life on me?”

“Don’t call me kid,” you spit, shoving a finger into his chest, ignoring the way his jaw ticks at the contact. “I’m not a fucking kid.”

He scoffs, casting his eyes to the ceiling disbelievingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fuck you, Joel,” you growl, fists clenching at your side. “If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still here? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off the second you met me?”

“Because I couldn’t!” Joel snaps, booming voice filling the small space.

The confession slips out like it pains him. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, he looks like he might break something.

You’ve never been scared of Joel, even though you’ve seen first hand just how scary he can be.

Now, as he looms in front of you, eyes blazing and jaw working furiously beneath his skin, it’s the closest to scared you’ve felt.

“I’ve seen you out there,” he continues, tone low and dark. “You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish. You’re too damn stubborn to just stop, and I’m not gonna let you go so you can run off and get yourself fuckin’ killed.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, his words hitting far too close to home.

“I’m just trying to survive, Joel,” you snap, your voice shaking. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Survive.”

“Survive,” Joel repeats bitterly, his gaze burning into yours. “That what you call it? Throwin’ yourself into every goddamn fight, gettin’ stabbed and shot right fuckin’ in front of me and expecting me to brush that shit off?”

You let out a humorless laugh, nodding your head exasperatedly. “Yes, yes I do expect you to just brush it off, because that’s what you always do.” 

“Well I can’t,” he grates out, taking a step closer. “I can’t ‘cause despite whatever it is that you may think about me, I don’t hate you. I care about you too damn much and that's my goddamn problem.”

That shuts you up, your mouth snapping closed with a sharp click of your teeth as you stare at him, shocked.

Joel holds your gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. “That what you wanted to hear?”

It’s in that moment that the fire finally fizzles out, the dull hiss of it the only sound left in the room.

You’re quiet for a beat, stunned into silence. The heat of his anger, his frustration, it radiates off him, and you realize suddenly that this isn’t just about you. 

It never was.

“Then show me,” you challenge softly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Show me that you don’t hate me.”

Joel’s eyes darken, his head cocking to the side as he searches your face for a sign. You don’t say anything, you only square your shoulders and raise your chin, your eyes just as hard as his own.

“I want you to prove it.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. 

You shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—happen. Not like this. Not after everything that’s been said.

But when Joel’s lips crash against yours, hot and desperate and urgent, it makes everything blur into nothing. 

It’s not gentle, not soft—this is anger and longing and frustration all wrapped into one. It’s messy, frantic, like a fight that’s been brewing for too long.

He grips your arm, pulling you closer, almost too roughly, but it feels like it’s everything you’ve both been avoiding.

His other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, grounding you as his lips press harder against yours, like he��s trying to pour everything he can’t say into this single moment.

You respond just as fiercely, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you kiss him back with all the pent-up emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface.

The coarse hair of his beard scrapes against the skin of your chin deliciously, the scent of blood and firewood filling your senses as his arm wraps around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer.

Close enough that you can feel the wild beat of his heart booming against your chest.

You pull away for a second, breathless, both of you looking at each other, your eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Goddamn it,” Joel mutters, his voice thick with frustration and something else you can’t place. He presses his forehead to yours, the deep brown of his eyes dark than before. “What the hell are we doing?”

You don’t have an answer. You’re not sure if you even want one.

You reach for him again, arms looping around his neck to drag his mouth back to yours.

This kiss is nothing like the first, it isn’t a clash of frustration–it’s filthier, rawer. A near feral thing, all teeth and tongue, a surge of hunger and need that borders on violence. 

Joel groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.

He takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to slide against yours with wet, messy desperation, like he’s trying to claim every inch of you.

The taste of him—salt and iron and something distinctly Joel—makes your head spin. 

Your fingers knot into the chocolaty curls at the nape of his neck, surprisingly soft to the touch. His own hands roam the soft curves of your body, rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

“Joel—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he answers with a deep, guttural noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His tongue follows the path of his teeth, soothing the bites with lazy, deliberate strokes that make your knees weak.

You’re moving before you even realize it. Joel dragging you across the room and down onto the couch with him, using the strength he’s built up after all these years to manhandle you until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his lap.

“Joel,” you gasp again, rearing back enough to break the kiss. “Your stitches–”

He cuts you off with a sharp nip to the sensitive spot behind your ear, tearing a high whine from your throat. “Can hardly feel ‘em.”

You make a displeased sound, but it’s undermined by the way you tilt your head to give his wandering lips more room. His hands find a home on your hips, one slipping beneath your shirt to press against the soft skin of your stomach. 

His fingers splay wide across your skin, his palm callused and rough. His pinky just barely brushes the underside of your breast, and you’re suddenly rearing back. 

“Wait,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s hands immediately loosen their grip on your hips, his brows knitting together in concern. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I just...I need to tell you something.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to speak.

You take a beat, chewing at the skin of your bottom lip nervously.

“I’ve never...” You pause, swallowing hard as your cheeks heat up. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone like this.”

Joel pulls back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. For a moment, you think he might pull away completely, but then he exhales a long, slow breath.

“Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re tellin’ me this now?”

“I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “It’s not like I had the luxury of a high school sweetheart to pop my cherry out here.”

Joel’s gaze softens at your tone, and he reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You glance away, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “I just...I wanted you to know. But I want this, Joel. I want you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, and he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he considers your words.

“I don’t...” He pauses, the most hesitant you’ve ever heard him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s the most vulnerable he’s been around you, round eyes shining with something so raw and so earnest it makes your heart ache in your chest. 

“You won’t,” you insist, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I trust you.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing as he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch again.

“At least let me do this right,” he murmurs, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Not here. Not on some goddamn couch.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. “What?”

“Upstairs,” he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the side of your neck. “There’s a bed up there. It ain’t much, but it’s better than this.”

You can’t do anything but nod, your pulse racing beneath your skin fast enough to combat the cold night air seeping through the walls.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Upstairs.”

Joel stands, gently pulling you to feet and taking your hand in his. He leads you upstairs, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The small bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a broken blind. 

The bed isn’t much—an old mattress on a worn frame, covered with a patched-up blanket—but it doesn’t matter.

Joel shuts the door behind you, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a shiver down your spine.

“Last chance,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You say the word, and we stop. No questions asked.”

Your throat tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s giving you an out even though you can see the strain in every line of his body, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.

But you don’t hesitate.

You step closer, placing your hands on his bare chest. You bite back a smile at the goosebumps that break out all along his skin at your touch. 

“Jesus, Miller,” you mumble teasingly, nails lightly scratching through the salt and pepper hair scattered along his chest. “How long are you gonna drag this out before you get it through your thick skull that I want to fuck you?”

"Christ." Joel huffs, shaking his head as the corners of his lips turn up in a small grin. “Like I fuckin’ said,” he starts, big hands kneading the meat of your hips. “Pushy.”

Joel walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp.

He follows you immediately, crawling over you, his body covering yours, his weight a comforting pressure. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”

His fingers are everywhere, unbuttoning your shirt with a practiced ease that has your pulse racing. His lips follow the path of his hands, each touch a branding mark, each kiss leaving you wanting more.

“Pretty girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss right between the valley of your breasts.

You feel his cock stirring against your stomach, and it makes the ache between your legs flare to life, the weight of it, the hardness of it, driving you crazy with need. 

You want him so badly you can barely think straight, but when his lips graze over your collarbone, you can’t stop the quiet whine that escapes your throat.

Joel growls in response, a sound that resonates deep in his chest, and you know then that he’s as far gone as you are. His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs with urgency. 

As your skin is exposed to the cool air, you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You’re fuckin' perfect,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.

Joel's hands find your thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that makes your breath catch in your throat. He positions himself between your legs, his body weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as yours. 

The anticipation is almost unbearable as his fingers trace the line of your panties, the fabric damp with want.

“Jesus, she’s drippin’ for me already,” he mutters, voice rough, as he slides the material to the side, his thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of your clit.

Your body jerks at the contact, a desperate sound escaping your lips, but Joel doesn’t relent.

“You touch yourself down here, baby?” he asks, working tortuously slow circles over your clit.

"Please," you beg, your hands grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

He looks up at you, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Asked you a question, honey.”

You whine, high and loud in your throat as your thighs clench desperately around his wrist. “Yes, I touch myself.”

Joel’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, sliding his thick index finger through the messy wetness to slip inside your clenching hole, making you gasp. Your hands grasp at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

“Good girl,” he breathes, eyes darkening at the broken moan that bursts from your lips. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”

Your brain feels hazy as you search for the answer, pleasure clouding your mind slow and sweet as molasses. “A–a few nights ago.”

Joel hums idly, slipping a second finger alongside the first. The stretch has you whining, his fingers a lot more to take than your own.

Your hands come up to claw at his shoulders, relishing in the way his broad muscle ripples and shifts beneath your greedy palms.

“Joel,” you whine, hips canting down against his hand impatiently.

He just shushes you softly, free hand brushing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thigh. “I know, honey,” he mutters, the pace fingers speeding up. “But I gotta get her nice and ready if you wanna take my cock.”

The gush of your pussy around his fingers is loud in the stillness of the room, a filthy wet noise that burns your ears each time he plunges them into your aching hole.

“I am ready.” Your breath hitches as your body begins to tremble beneath him. “Please, Joel—fuck—please, I need—”

“Need what?” His voice is thick with dark amusement, but there's a hunger in his eyes that has your stomach twisting. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”

“I need you,” you rasp, your nails digging little crescent moons into his skin, your body pleading for release. “I need you inside me.”

Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips in a feverish kiss. 

The pressure of his body on yours, the way his hard cock grinds against your trembling thigh, drives you to the brink of madness. 

Your hands trail down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, finally reaching the bulge straining against the fabric.

Joel groans when you rub him through his pants, feeling his cock twitch in response. He pulls back, breathing heavily, his lips curling into a smirk. 

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice thick with lust. “You want my cock in this pretty pussy? Want me to show you how good it feels to be fucked?”

“God, yes,” you answer, desperation lacing your tone as your hand moves to unbuckle his jeans. “Want it so bad.”

He lets you push his pants down just enough to free his cock, and you gasp, your eyes drawn to the way his length stands, thick and hard, just waiting for you. The tip flushed an angry red, drooling pre-come onto the scratchy sheets.

Joel pulls his fingers from you, using his hands spreading your legs wider, positioning himself between them with such careful precision that you can barely stand it.

The head of his cock drags through the mess between your legs, slipping all the way down till it catches on your soaked entrance.

Joel pauses, looking down at you, waiting for your signal, but the only answer you give is a pleading whimper, your hands pulling at his shoulders, urging him to move.

His mouth captures yours once again as he slowly slides into you, the stretch of his cock filling you steadily, making you gasp into his mouth. 

The slow burn of him carving a place for himself inside of you is almost too much, your body trembling as you adjust to the feeling of him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters against your lips. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me.”

As he sinks deeper into you, his thick cock finally buried to the hilt inside of you, the feeling is overwhelming. You gasp, nails digging into his back as the pain slowly shifts into pleasure.

Joel groans into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as he rocks gently against you. 

The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as if he's savoring every inch of you. Your body quivers beneath him, every inch of your skin tingling with sensation. You clutch at him, your legs tightening around his waist, needing more, wanting more.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Take it, baby."

You screw your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady yourself as he thrusts deeper, harder. The angle shifts just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

Every stroke feels like it’s hitting the deepest part of you, sparking heat in places you never knew could burn so hot.

"Fuck," you gasp, the sensation too overwhelming, too much in the best way. "Joel... please..."

"Please what, sweetheart?" He pulls back slightly, teasing you with a slow roll of his hips before driving back in with a grunt.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him to move faster, harder. "Don’t stop," you breathe, your voice trembling. "I need you to fuck me, Joel. Faster. Harder. Please."

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Joel finally picks up the pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last.

Your back arches off the bed, chest pressing flush to his as your body coils tighter and tighter, already so close to the edge.

Joel reaches up to take your wrist in his, dragging your hand down to press flat against your lower stomach.

“Feel that?” he asks breathlessly, the speed of his hips knocking the dingy bed frame into the wall with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am?”

His own hand blankets yours, pushing down so you can feel the way his cock punches up against your palm on the next thrust.

Your pussy clenches desperately around him at the feeling, your slick lips dropping open on a loud moan.

You can barely hold on. The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling painfully as your free hand scrambles to find purchase on his skin. "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he drives deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice dark and commanding. "Let me feel it."

With a strangled cry, you finally release, your body clenching around him, every nerve igniting in a white-hot explosion of pleasure. 

You’re lost in it, your world spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the sensation of Joel’s body pounding into yours, the way his cock brushes against that sweet spot behind your clit enough to make sparks go off behind your eyelids.

Joel pulls out of your velvety warmth, hand coming up to fist his dripping length until he’s bowing over you tightly and coming with a deep groan of your name.

His release paints your stomach with milky strands of white, rope after rope of warm come claiming you in a way no one has before.

He finally collapses against you with one last shuddering breath, both of you breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftermath.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks, the only sounds are the soft creak of the bed and the quiet hum of your racing hearts. 

Joel rests his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension begin to slip away, the weight of everything that’s happened between you both settling into something new—something different, but still there.

Your hand slips down the sweaty expanse of your stomach, your fingers swiping through the sticky mess of his release curiously.

“Christ, quit that,” Joel groans, tearing his eyes away from the sight to press his forehead against your shoulder.

“Why?” you hum, brow raised in amusement as you drop your hand back to the mattress. “Can you even get it up again?”

Joel pinches your side hard enough to make you squeal, your body flinching away from him as a surprised laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Watch it,” he warns, though there’s no bite to his tone. You only laugh in response.

The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, wrapped in each other as crickets chirp from outside the window.

Then Joel clears his throat, fingers idly tracing different shapes on the skin of your hip as he gathers the courage to speak.

A circle, a square, a diamond, a circle, a heart, a heart, a heart.

“I’m…” he starts, trailing off softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a real fuckin’ prick, and you didn’t deserve it. You never did.”

You turn your own gaze to his chest, hand coming up so you can trail your fingers along the jagged scar decorating his shoulder. Your touch featherlight over the rough patch of skin.

All the anger seeps from your body, a heavy weight gone until you feel so light you could float off the mattress and into the cold night air.

“It’s okay,” you whisper softly, so soft you think it gets lost in the quiet darkness of the room. “I understand now.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both just lay there, tangled in each other, not worrying about the world outside, about the chaos that waits. 

Just you, him, and the soft glow of moonlight.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini nat's note: should i add joel to my taglist...i do kinda want to write more for him in the future but i'm not sure yet...lmk chickens <3 bee tee dubs sorry the ending absolutely sucks i could not for the life of me figure out how to end this LMAO

[recently-reanimated]

Another thing that makes a lot of places in America unsafe to walk is the right on red. For those who don't know in most places in the United States, you can come to a complete stop at a red light and if it's clear you can just turn right before it turns green. The issue is most people who do right on red are looking for cars coming from their left and not people on the sidewalk or in the bike lane.

Most pedestrian accidents happen at intersections. A lot of commercial drivers aren't allowed to turn right on red because it's a huge liability issue for the company they work for (my mom worked for a third party school bus company, they couldn't turn right on red).

Now as much as I'd love them to outlaw the right on red I don't think you could do it in the US because everything becomes a culture war these days. About a year about there was a small discussion about how gas stoves might be bad for children it it turned into "the left wants to take your gas stove away, don't let them!" There isn't a doubt in my mind if they got rid of the right on red in my city people would protest by taking only right turns everywhere.

“America IS walkable, you’re all just lazy” my childhood home was an hour from the nearest hospital (by car)

[inthehexcore]

pages and books

summary: The quiet Enforcer stops by your quiet library. Multiple times.

content: STEB! librarian!reader gets sick, fluff, can't think of much else! probably ooc

wordcount: 2.397

a/n: i love Steb so much... inbox/requests open!

⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The sun in Piltover shone as bright as it always did. It lit up the entire library, and you could not help but hum as you pushed the cart of books around. The warmth of the rays only made the building look more beautiful, something which you were not aware was even possible.

The high ceilings with curved windows and hand-painted images, detailed golden pillars, royal blue seats with dark wooden tables. Not all of your fellow students liked the library. To be fair, there were tons of other stunning places all around Piltover, but yours was here.

You spent so much time surrounded by the books that you just ended up taking a side job as the assistant. It meant pouring coffee and putting back books, but it also meant reading when everything was cleaned and drinking the sweet tea that was technically only meant for the professors.

With the library not being the most popular spot, it also allowed you to brush up on skills and even pick up new things to learn. The history of Piltover, Professor Heimerdinger's autobiography, varieties of plants, but most recently, you found a book about sign language. It was interesting for sure. Every time you put the loaned books back in their spot, another one got added to the stack of other books that you still wanted to read during your breaks.

So, as per usual, you sat at the window near the counter. Even with it being your break, you still liked to be close to your workspace, just in case someone came in.

A steaming cup of tea stood beside your book as you flipped through the pages, admiring the photographs of Piltover's 'ten most beautiful buildings', occasionally stirring the cup of tea and taking a sip out of it. Stuck in your own world, though your gaze moved to outside the window ever so often. From here, you could see the main square - the market, Enforcers, students.

The watch around your wrist kept ticking away, reminding you that your break had already stopped a few minutes ago. A neat bookmark got placed between the pages of the book as you turned around, nearly dropping the hot beverage that you were holding.

Right in front of you stood a tall Enforcer. His face was blank and his hands were clasped behind his back. You were nearly jealous of his posture - you must have looked idiotic with how hunched over you were sitting.

"Oh, Officer! I hope I didn't keep you waiting for too long."

The man slowly shook his head, his eyes set on you as you moved back to the counter, placing the book that you were reading back on its space. He took a step closer, his arms still behind him.

"What can I help you with today?"

He held out his hand, a small note hidden in the grip of his glove. A short list with some of the most specific books you had seen in a while. Even though you did not dare to ask him why he needed all of these, you could not help but try to theorize.

Maybe he was working on a weapon, or what if he went off into the wilderness and build a house out of nothing but sticks and mud?

"Ha, this might take me a moment to find. Would you like some tea, Officer?"

Quietly, he stared at you for a moment before shaking his head. He just had his break - after bringing these books to Commander Kiramman, his day was basically over. Patrol for an hour, and then it was time for him to relax. Finally away from all the loud sounds of the city. But being in the empty library was not unwelcome, either.

"I will be back in a sec!"

It was much longer than a sec.

With every minute, you got more and more anxious. How could you keep an Enforcer waiting for this long? There was no one in the entire library! Your footsteps sounded heavy and you felt like every breath you took was one too loud. But, after fifteen minutes and lots of going up and down ladders, you finally found all the books on his list.

"And... Phew! This should be all," you wiped your hands, "Do you need help bringing it to... your office?"

Silently, the Enforcer shook his head again, reaching for the stack of thick books as he held them in his hands.

"Oh! What name can I put these on? That way I can remember, for next week!"

Next week? Oh, to return the books.

The man looked around him for a moment before his eyes fell on the small notebook next to you. He glanced at it as he looked back at you. You furrowed your eyebrows for a moment before going 'aha!', reaching for your notebook as you opened it on a blank page, handing him your pen. If you could have, you would have chuckled. A strong officer writing in your sparkly notebook with a neon-coloured gel pen.

He put the pen back down, nodding before taking one step back.

"Thank you so much. Till next time, Officer Steb."

Even with the interaction being a little under a week ago, you still had not moved on from it. His intense, blue gaze, his straight and confident posture. His handwriting even - it was immortalized in your notebook.

You found yourself looking for him through the windows, and while walking through the square, you would keep an eye out for his tall figure. 'He still has two days to return the books,' you thought to yourself. Most people even turned their books in late. But he was an Enforcer, so you highly doubted that he would.

Humming again as you placed the books back on the shelves, your cart now empty. Except for a few students in the far corner of the library, you were all on your own. You didn't mind - it left you with some time to finish up the essay that was due for tomorrow. So, with a sigh, you pushed the cart back to the counter.

There, in front of the small spot where you always sat, stood Officer Steb. It seemed to immediately lift your spririts as the cart suddenly felt much lighter.

"Officer Steb!"

His ears slightly moved back a little, not expecting your voice to suddenly pop up, but as he saw you, he gave you a nod.

"And, how did you like the books?"

He only nodded in return, placing the stack of books down on the counter. All of them had been put in alphabetical order - he must be an organized man. You pulled up his page, making sure that you had all the correct books as you nodded, scribbling down all the extra information before handing him the handwritten receipt.

"Could I do anything else for you, Officer?"

Steb was quiet - he was quiet often times. Out of his pocket, he fished another note with a few more books on it. The Undercity's History, a cookbook, 'Haircutting for Dummies!', and some more titles. You glanced up at him, trying hard not to let chuckles escape from you.

"Are these… All for you?"

You spot the tiniest shape of a smile as he shook his head. He tapped his Enforcer badge as you nodded, an 'oooh' as you looked back at the list.

"Be right back!"

This time, you found the books much faster. Not that Steb minded if you took a while - he enjoyed the library. He liked the books, the smells, the sun - you. Maddie offered to bring all the loaned books back to the library, but by the time she could even think about standing up, Steb was already out the door. The rest of the Enforcers shrugged it off as the man just wanting to spend some quiet time on their own. It was what he did.

But you.

How… Happy you always were. Cheery, but not overwhelmingly so. A bright flash of the sun through dark clouds. A stark contrast to his stoic demeanour, fire and water.

"There we go," you hummed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face as you pushed the cart back to the desk, "Can I put it under Officer Steb again?"

Hearing his name coming from you felt new, refreshing. He nodded, reaching over for the stack.

"Well, if you use the haircut book, let me know."

Steb snorted with a smile before clearing his throat, quickly standing back up straight before nodding. He was looking forward to next week.

For months, he came every single Tuesday, always around the same time. It must be during his break, or during his patrol. Only once had someone else shown up, Officer Nolan, as she introduced herself. She was nice and very talkative, so the two of you spent quite some time at the desk, chatting away. The week after that, Steb had written something extra on a note that he had stuck in a book.

'Sorry for Officer Nolan'

It had made you laugh.

Every week, the list of books would be different from the one before. Not only that, but the topics of said books could not be further apart. It was after a month of wondering that Steb answered the burning question that you had in mind. 'They are for the entire squad. They make a list, I get the books.' It made sense. So now, every week, you would try to guess which of the Enforcers would be reading which book. A fun little game, and thankfully Officer Steb would humour you, nodding or shaking his head depending on if your guess was right.

Over time, it felt like a friendship. More details of Steb came to the surface, and he would ask about your day. Favorite foods, hobbies, things you both hated. Officer Steb did not speak much, but he was comforting company. If bringing the book was his last task of the day, then he would stay at the library for a moment, starting the book that was meant for him. The last few times, you also placed a cup of tea next to him when he wasn't looking. It was like a challenge to see if he noticed you sneaking up on him - he did, but he would have never told you.

Today had been a bad day.

You slipped on your way to the library, there was a group of loud kids in the library, your head was pounding and you were not sure if you were feeling hot or cold. With a pack of tissues in your hand, you sniffed, squeezing your eyes shut.

The large windows and bright sun felt like a curse as you wished for nothing more than it to be dark outside. At least the group of rowdy teenagers had finally left.

When you heard the door open again, you nearly groaned in annoyance. If they returned, then you would have had no other choice but to hide in the back, away from the noise.

But after the creaking of the door, there was no other noise. You raised an eyebrow before lifting your head out of your hands, being met with no one other than Officer Steb.

"Oh, Officer Steb," you sniffed, your voice hoarse and odd-sounding due to your blocked nose, "I nearly forgot the date."

While usually dressed in his Enforcer uniform, he now wore something much more casual. You had never seen him outside of the dark blue and gold - the black and dark green suited him. Without his beret or helmet on, you could also see his hair. You wondered if he used the 'Haircutting for Dummies' book for it all those months ago. According to Steb, the book was not for him. His eyebrows creased as he scanned you, squinting his eyes.

"Yeah, not the best day," you shrugged, wiping your hand on your shirt, "But there is no one else to run the library, so… Me it is."

He quietly stared at you for another moment before gesturing to your notepad again. The sparkly cover held many pages of his handwriting - so many that it might as well have been his. You silently hand it over, your head aching with every move you make.

'Stay here, be right back'.

Steb turned on his heels, walking right down the hall and out the door. You only raised an eyebrow before looking over the stack of books and writing down all the information you needed. After what felt like an eternity, you finally sat back down in your chair, your fingers rubbing at your temples.

The Enforcer came back not long after, a small bag in his left hand. He placed it on the counter - as quietly as he could - which made you look back up.

"You're free."

Steb's voice was so different from what you imagined.

"I-" you frowned, "Excuse me, Officer Steb? I'm not sure what you mean."

"Just Steb is fine," he looked away, "Commander Kiramman has contacted the owner of the library, your boss, and you have permission to leave now."

How had he done that?

Your bag was still packed, resting against the side of the counter, almost jumping in excitement that you got to go home.

"You are sick, yes?"

"I mean… Sadly so, I'm guessing."

He nodded, slowly reaching out to you before slightly raising an eyebrow. You breathed in, nodding as his hand made contact with your forehead. Cold, so cold. Your eyes almost closed at the sensation, the feeling of his cool fingers nice against your burning face.

Sadly, the moment ended all too soon as Steb reached into the small bag, pulling out an assortment of different painkillers and medicine.

"Once a day," he held up one of the packets, "Maximum of three a day, six hours inbetween."

He had gone out to get you medicine? You nearly wanted to start crying, your tired eyes and heavy limbs glad that they would almost be able to rest. Not to mention the bursting and pounding of your heart. Despite feeling horrible, a smile still formed on your face.

"I… Steb, thank you. I can't believe this."

He took your bag off the ground, waiting for you to lock everything up before exiting the library, side by side.

"Thank you again," you said, though it came out not nearly as loud as you thought it would have.

"Have to take care of my favourite librarian," his comment nearly made you fall over, though he would not have let that happen, "I bring you home, you take the medicine, and I see you next week?"

[rafeskai]

Starstruck | Drew Starkey

Chapter One

Summary: In the bustling crowd of a premiere event for Outer Banks, you find yourself caught up in a chaotic moment, lost in the sea of fans. Desperate for a way out, you stumble into an alley where fate leads you to an unexpected—and painful—encounter with Drew Starkey. What starts as a simple misstep soon spirals into something far more complicated, and your life takes an unexpected turn.

Pairings: Drew Starkey x Reader

Warnings: N/A

Author's Note: This will be another short fic!!

The city of Los Angeles had always seemed like a dream—one that was just out of reach, filled with palm trees, bright lights, and endless possibilities. You’d seen it in the movies, heard the stories, and scrolled through enough Instagram posts to feel like you knew the place by heart. But none of that had prepared you for the reality of it all—the hum of the traffic, the overwhelming buzz of constant movement, and the sheer size of everything.

It was your first trip to LA, and you had planned to move there. To experience a new beginning, a contrast from your life back in a small town in South Carolina. Your cousin, Ava had begged you to move in with her. She moved out here a few months ago to follow her dreams, chasing her career in fashion and the hustle of the city. And as much as you’d heard about her exciting life, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit nervous. She was always the one to take the leap, to dive headfirst into new opportunities while you watched from the sidelines.

You stood at the gate of LAX, your suitcase rolling behind you, looking around at the sea of strangers and travelers. It felt like the city itself had swallowed you up already, even though you were still waiting for Ava to come pick you up. The air smelled like a mix of saltwater, car exhaust, and faint hints of perfume. Everything seemed bigger, louder, and brighter than anything you were used to.

Ava had promised to take you to some cool places—maybe even a celebrity sighting or two, if you were lucky. She’d been raving about how “amazing” LA was, how everyone was so “laid-back” but also so “serious about making things happen.” You weren’t sure what that meant exactly, but you were excited to see what her new life was all about.

Finally, your phone buzzed with a text. It was Ava.

Ava: “I’m here, babe! I’ll be by in a sec. Get ready for an adventure!”

You smiled to yourself, tucking your phone back in your pocket. Your cousin always had a way of making everything sound like it was going to be epic.

As you stepped outside the airport, you saw Ava leaning against her car, a mischievous grin on her face and sunglasses perched atop her head. She waved you over enthusiastically, her curly hair bouncing as she jumped up and down.

“There you are!” she said, pulling you into a hug. “Welcome to LA, sweetheart!”

You hugged her back, letting out a small laugh at her over-the-top enthusiasm. Despite the chaos around you, her energy was contagious. It was exactly what you needed to start your adventure in this strange, exciting city. And maybe, just maybe, you’d find yourself falling for LA the way everyone else did.

Ava tossed your suitcase into the trunk and hopped into the driver’s seat, motioning for you to get in. “Alright,” she said, turning the key in the ignition. “Let’s show you what this place is really about.”

As you slid into the passenger seat and buckled up, the city sprawled out in front of you. The buildings, the people, the cars—everything was moving so fast. You couldn’t help but feel like you were on the brink of something big. This trip was going to be more than just a visit; it was going to be an experience that might change everything.

Ava shot you a grin as she pulled onto the highway. “Ready for your first adventure in LA?”

You took a deep breath, a nervous excitement bubbling up inside of you. “I think so.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The ride to Ava’s apartment was a whirlwind of sights and sounds. Palm trees lined the streets, swaying lazily in the breeze, their silhouettes framed against the setting sun. The cars zipped by, each one seemingly flashier than the last, and the billboards advertised everything from the latest blockbuster films to obscure yoga studios. Ava, ever the LA native-in-the-making, narrated the trip like a tour guide, pointing out landmarks and offering unsolicited advice.

“That’s Runyon Canyon,” she said, gesturing to a hill dotted with hikers. “Great for photos, but only go early in the morning. Otherwise, it’s hotter than hell.”

You nodded, your eyes wide as you took everything in. “Noted.”

“Oh, and you’ll definitely need to get used to traffic. Like, it’s not if you’ll sit in it—it’s how many hours of your life you’ll lose to it.”

The apartment complex Ava lived in was nestled in a lively neighborhood just outside of downtown. It wasn’t the most glamorous building, but it had charm, with colorful murals painted along the walls and a small courtyard with string lights hanging from the trees. As you stepped inside, dragging your suitcase behind you, Ava gave you a grand tour of her one-bedroom unit, which she’d converted into a makeshift two-bedroom by sectioning off the living room with a curtain.

“Sorry it’s not huge,” she said, flopping onto her bed as you set your suitcase down near the futon that would serve as your new sleeping spot. “But the location is killer, and it’s LA—no one actually hangs out in their apartment. We’ll be too busy living it up.”

You laughed, appreciating her enthusiasm even if you weren’t entirely sure you’d adjust to this new pace. The space itself was cozy, with mismatched furniture, a tiny kitchen, and windows that let in just enough light to make it feel inviting. Ava’s personality was everywhere—her collection of vintage magazines, her mood board filled with fabric swatches and fashion sketches, and an eclectic mix of candles and trinkets scattered on every surface.

That night, you spent hours unpacking while Ava filled you in on her plans for your first week. From trendy coffee shops to a thrift store crawl, she had your itinerary packed. But what caught your attention most was her excitement over the Outer Banks premiere.

“You have to come with me tonight,” she said, flopping onto your futon dramatically. “It’s going to be amazing. Red carpet, celebrities, the works.”

You hesitated, folding a sweater and setting it aside. “I don’t know, Ava. I just got here. Don’t you think I need a little time to settle in?”

She shook her head emphatically. “Nope. The best way to settle in is to jump in headfirst. Trust me, babe. You’ll love it. Plus, who knows? Maybe you’ll meet someone famous.”

You raised an eyebrow at her, but her grin was infectious. Despite your nerves, you couldn’t help but feel a little intrigued. The idea of attending a real Hollywood event was daunting, but also undeniably exciting. This was LA, after all—the city of endless possibilities.

“Okay,” you said finally, earning a squeal of delight from Ava. “But you owe me coffee for a week if this goes horribly wrong.”

“Deal,” she said, leaping to her feet. “Now, let’s find you something fabulous to wear.”

As Ava rummaged through her closet, tossing dresses and accessories your way, you couldn’t help but smile. Moving to LA was already proving to be as overwhelming as you’d feared, but with Ava by your side, you were starting to believe that maybe you could handle it.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You’d never been one for crowds, but when Ava forced convinced you to go the Outer Banks premiere in LA, you couldn’t turn it down. You weren’t a huge fan of the show, but you’d heard enough buzz to know it was a big deal. Plus, Ava had a knack for dragging you into her wild adventures, and when she’d said "Hollywood glamour," you couldn't help but get caught up in the excitement.

The red carpet was everything you imagined and more. Flashbulbs from cameras stung your eyes as celebrities in perfectly tailored suits and dresses posed for photos. You tried to focus on the stars walking by, but it felt like the entire city was crammed into this one street, and the noise—oh, the noise—was almost too much to bear. Ava had already spotted a few friends and pulled you along, her chatter almost drowned out by the sound of hundreds of voices and music blaring from speakers.

"I need to get a selfie with Drew Starkey!" Ava shouted over the noise, practically bouncing on her feet.

You blinked. Drew Starkey? The guy who played Rafe Cameron on Outer Banks?

"Wait, wait, wait," you protested, pulling back on her arm. "I’m not ready for that—"

But she was already off, threading her way through the crowd, her phone in hand, her eyes focused on the star she was aiming for. You sighed and tried to follow, but the crowd was thickening, and before you knew it, you were separated from Ava.

You glanced around, feeling your pulse quicken as the realization hit—you were lost. People were pushing past you, and the overwhelming mass of bodies made it hard to even catch your breath. Frantically, you glanced around for some way to escape the chaos, a backdoor, a quiet corner—anything.

That’s when you spotted a narrow alleyway just off the red carpet, tucked behind a line of sleek black cars. It was quiet. It was a chance to breathe.

You weaved through the crowd, trying to stay unnoticed, hoping to find an escape route or at least somewhere to collect yourself. But as you stepped into the alley, you felt a bit of relief—until a loud bang echoed from behind you.

Before you could react, the door to a building swung open, and you stumbled backward as the metal edge caught you square in the face.

The world tilted sideways.

Everything went black for a moment, and you stumbled backward into the wall of the alley, your hands instinctively reaching up to touch your face, feeling a sharp pain shoot across your forehead. What the hell just happened?

A voice—gruff and slightly panicked—came from the direction of the door. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry!”

You groaned, blinking your eyes open, your vision swimming. Standing in front of you, looking at you with wide, apologetic eyes, was none other than Drew Starkey himself.

You didn’t recognize him at first. Your head was swimming, and your pulse was racing. But then his face registered, and you froze. Drew Starkey?

“I didn’t see you there,” he said, reaching out as if to help you, but then pulling back as though unsure. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t mean to… hit you. I’m really sorry.”

You couldn’t find words right away. Your vision swam, and you felt lightheaded, your hand instinctively rising to your forehead to feel the throbbing pain.

“Do you need help? I can get someone…” His voice trailed off, a soft edge of concern in it now. “Please say you’re okay.”

Somehow, you found your voice, though it came out more like a pained whisper. “I think... I think I’m okay. Just... I need a second.”

His eyes were full of worry, but he took a step back, glancing around as if searching for someone to help. The alley was dimly lit, and you weren’t sure if anyone had even noticed the accident with how chaotic the premiere still was just beyond the alley.

“Look, um, I don’t know how to make this better. But can I help you?” Drew asked, his voice quieter now, as if he wasn’t sure how to approach you.

You stared at him, trying to focus. This was Drew Starkey. The actor you’d just been thinking about. And you’d gotten hit in the face by a door he opened. You blinked again, still struggling with the fog in your head.

“I’m really not sure you can fix this,” you managed to say, but there was a hint of humor in your voice. The ridiculousness of the situation, how absurd it felt, wasn’t lost on you. Here you were, standing in a back alley with Drew Starkey, and you were definitely not looking your best.

Drew chuckled, though there was still concern in his eyes. “Okay, fair enough,” he said, running a hand through his hair, making it even messier than usual. “But seriously, let me at least get you a drink or something. I feel awful.”

You hesitated, blinking away the dizziness. There was no denying you felt a little bit starstruck, standing face-to-face with him. But there was something else in his eyes now—something soft and genuine. He wasn’t acting like the celebrity you’d imagined, with all the flashy confidence. Instead, he seemed... human. Worried. And kind.

"Alright," you said slowly, trying to steady yourself.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

 You hadn’t realized how badly you were shaking until Drew gently guided you toward a nearby door. It looked like a back entrance to the venue, a simple wooden door with a security keypad next to it. He motioned for you to go first, his hand on the small of your back as though to steady you, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart rate spike for reasons entirely unrelated to the pain in your head.

“Okay, okay,” Drew said, pushing open the door with a soft creak. “We’re going inside where it’s a little quieter. We can sit for a second while you get your bearings. Deal?”

You nodded, your brain still struggling to catch up. This was really happening—you were with Drew Starkey right now. The man Ava has been obsessing over. But now, here he was, acting more like a guy who’d accidentally banged someone’s face with a door than some famous heartthrob.

Once inside, you realized it wasn’t some ritzy celebrity lounge or hidden VIP area, but rather a backstage hallway with a few chairs scattered around and crew members rushing by, deep in conversation or adjusting equipment. The lights were dim here too, but it was at least a bit more peaceful compared to the madness outside.

Drew led you to one of the chairs by the wall and sat down across from you, though not too far. He was careful not to invade your personal space, which you appreciated. He looked genuinely concerned, his brow furrowed as he examined your face.

“Does it hurt? I mean, does it feel like it’s swelling or anything? I’m no doctor, but...” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

You winced, touching the side of your forehead again. It was definitely sore, a dull ache, but nothing that felt too serious. Yet.

“No, I think it’s just a bump. It’ll be fine,” you said, hoping you weren’t downplaying it too much. “It’s not the first time I’ve walked into a door, you know?”

Drew raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s a new one for me. Usually, people walk into doors because they’re distracted or something, but... this feels a little more like a... targeted door.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound shaky at first but more genuine as it left your mouth. “Well, if I’d known the door was going to open right into my face, I would've steered clear.”

He chuckled along with you, but his eyes still carried a hint of concern.

“Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I was just trying to get out of there before the paparazzi went wild. It’s been a long night.”

You could tell he was being sincere. There was no hint of ego in his voice, nothing that would make you feel like he was brushing it off because he was a celebrity—which, honestly, you might have expected in a situation like this. But Drew didn’t seem like the type.

“I’m just glad you’re not one of those celebrities who tries to act too cool to care,” you said, then realized how that might sound. “I mean, not that I thought you would be, but you know... it’s nice not to be treated like a random fan.”

He looked at you, tilting his head slightly, his expression softening. “I get it. I mean, I don’t think we’re all that different, you know? I’m just a guy with a weird job.”

“A weird job?” You raised an eyebrow, surprised by his humble tone.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I mean, I get paid to pretend to be someone I’m not for a living. How weird is that?”

You smiled. “Well, you’re pretty good at it. Everyone seems to love Rafe Cameron.”

Drew laughed, but it sounded a little forced. “Thanks, I guess. I don’t know if ‘love’ is the right word though, considering the character I play...”

You nodded in understanding. It was clear he wasn’t as fond of Rafe as most fans were. “True, true,” you said. “I mean, Rafe’s not exactly the most... well, likeable guy. But he’s interesting. He’s got layers, you know? I feel like he’s the kind of character you love to hate.”

Drew’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Yeah. It’s definitely a challenge. But I’ll take it. It’s more fun playing a character who’s got that edge.”

The conversation lingered in an unexpected place of comfort, with the two of you talking like you had known each other far longer than just a few minutes. As you talked, you started to feel the fogginess in your head subside a little, your thoughts a bit clearer. You shifted in your chair, feeling a bit more steady.

"So, uh," Drew spoke up again, breaking the comfortable silence. "I feel like we should properly introduce ourselves now. I’m Drew, obviously." He grinned, though there was a hint of awkwardness in his eyes.

You smiled, feeling a little silly that you hadn’t introduced yourself earlier, but you were still kind of in shock. “I’m Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N, I’m really sorry again for hitting you in the face,” he said, still a little sheepish. "Maybe I can make it up to you somehow? Like, take you out for a drink or... I don’t know... find a way to help?"

It took you a moment to register the question, your mind racing. Was he asking you out? Or just trying to be nice?

Before you could overthink it, Drew added quickly, “Not in a weird way! Just... you know... trying to make it right.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I get it. I mean, a drink sounds nice—just... no more doors, okay?”

Drew's grin widened, clearly relieved by your response. “Deal. No more doors. And I’ll make sure to keep it to something a little more... calm.”

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[m-jelly]

His shirts

Mafia dad Levi x fem reader

It'd been a long few days for Levi and being away from his family was something he hated, but sometimes he had to go away with Erwin and a few others to do business in another country. Normally, Levi would take you and his daughter along with him to enjoy a foreign country, but it was too dangerous this time. So, you, his goddess of a wife and precious little baby girl were left at home with his mum helping out.

With arms full of presents and a smile on his face, Levi strolled from his car to his home on the hill with glorious views of the city and sea with mountains behind. It made him smile that as a couple you'd gone from a tiny apartment to this large house. The two of you had worked so hard together.

He pushed open the front door and slipped his shoes and coat off. He slowly made his way into the large living room to see the sunken sofa and sitting area in front of the TV was occupied by you and his three-year-old daughter.

Levi's heart skipped a beat when he heard you giggle at your daughter. He blushed at seeing you and his daughter in shirts of his. He moved closer until he was close to the steps down to the sofa area. Levi's feelings and emotions kept changing. He was aroused by you being in just his shirt and thigh-high socks with your thick thighs he loved biting on show. He felt like he could just melt into a gooey mess at seeing his daughter in his shirt that was too big for her.

Daisy stomped her little feet up to her bear and picked it up into the air. "Sleep with the fishy!" She then threw the bear down to the ground. "Bye-bye." She huffed before looking up and noticing Levi. Daisy's face lit up in pure delight. "DADDY!"

You flinched and turned your head to see Levi. "Hey, grumpy kitty. Welcome home."

Daisy ran over to him with her arms open. "Daddy!"

Levi placed the gifts down before scooping his daughter up into his arms. "Hello, my cute little flower. Have you been good for your mummy?"

She nodded. "Yes! We played, we cuddled and mummy told me so many stories."

"Sounds like a lot of fun." He walked down the steps and sat on the sofa next to you, you were clearly buzzing with excitement at seeing him but you were happily waiting. "I'm glad."

"I slept in Daddy's bed."

"You did? Were you keeping mummy company?"

She nodded. "Yes."

He pocked her cheek. "Thank you." He kissed her puffy cheek. "So, what was this sleeping with the fishy?"

She grinned. "You say it!"

He released a long sigh. "You're right..." He placed her down on her feet. "I have a few presents for you." He leaned over and grabbed the ones for her. "Go sit with your teddy and take your time with them, okay? I have a very beautiful mummy to kiss."

Daisy hugged her gifts as she giggled. "Thank you, daddy. Give mummy lots and lots and lots of kisses!"

He watched her run off before slowly turning to you. He shifted closer as excitement throbbed inside him. "Bunny." He growled your pet name with a deep voice laced with desire. "I missed you." He caressed your cheek. "Come here."

You dove into his arms. "Mm, Levi."

He dragged you onto his lap and inhaled deeply allowing him to enjoy your scent. "Fuck, I missed you so much." He tilted his head and kissed you. The two of you moaned and purred in delight. "Oh, bunny you are a delight and pleasure."

You massaged your fingers in his hair. "So are you." You shifted on his lap. "Promise you're staying a while?"

"Promise. No more going away for days."

"Good, 'cause I might have to lock you up."

He chuckled. "I think I'll like that." He massaged your thighs. "So, my shirt huh?"

You nodded and looked over at Daisy playing with her new toys. "We both missed you. Daisy got very teary-eyed about it so I told her what I do when I miss you, I get one of your shirts. She said we should wear them and we have been for two days now." You looked back at Levi. "That okay?"

"More than okay." He nuzzled his nose against yours. "Wear it later?"

You saw the sparkle in his eyes and knew what he was talking about. "Oh, I will." You nipped his neck. "I'm all yours." You slipped off his lap making him whine. "Now! I think you should help your daughter make her toys sleep with the fishy."

Levi slipped off the sofa and sat on the floor. "Alright, little flower. Who we making sleep today?"

Tag list under the cut

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @nbinairyn @bts-spnlvr12 @darkstarlight82 @emilyyyy-08 @levistealeaf @pelicanpizza @hideandgopeep @notgoodforlife @demonic-bird @searriously @anti-cupid @abiatackerman

[atangledfate]

Lanolin's eyes were locked on the floor as everyone spoke there minds, among them perhaps only Blaze fully understood there situation. For what it was worth there world had rarely relied on the Federation, but it had always been a ruling body. They made the laws, they controlled the military, they had all the capital. If there was one organization that held all the cards in this world it was them. Trying to bully there way to victory felt like a sure fire way to piss them off. Sure they could threaten them with Sol's military, but then what? They come some kind of new military power? Who then do they answer to? As much as she HATED it! and she did, she didn't see a path to victory.

" It doesn't matter if they knew about Clutch or, Surge and Kitsunami, or even Belle and did nothing. The fact is when presented to the public how do you think it would reflect on us? Harboring Criminals who destroyed half a city. Hiding a Badnik within the base, and consorting with a knowing crime boss... GUN doesn't even need to fabricate a story--- They could tell the truth and it would still look bad for us. "

She spoke in a softer tone as she tensed up and seemed to feel the weight of her position for the first time. This was what it meant to be a leader--- saying what no one wanted to hear.

" Having leverage is good, But we can't just throw it in there face either. One miss step, one wrong sentence, and they declare restoration went rogue... cease our assets, cut off our fending, and declare its members criminals... They don't need to attack us today, to win tomorrow, and expecting Sol to step in with military force--- that looks like Blaze is planning an invasion... "

Her eyes went to Belle as she looked tired all of a sudden, like the day was wearing on her. The weight of what they faced had already dawned on her and she could not find a victory condition. No She had a feeling that the Federation had them dead to rights.

" I don't disagree belle but how do you think GUN would spin that? We both know Omega is like a dog to them, they send him in to clean house, and keep him under constant observation. "

Miles had been listening for awhile now without speaking a word to anyone. He just looked to have been thinking long and hard. It was a complicated mess, and Lanolin was right that going at this with a club was going to be messy. Confronting them with what little information they had, was going to backfire and it would make it all worse he figured.

Yet there was another option and Lanolin had already hinted at it.

" If we confront them now we lose, its just that simple. Showing our cards at this juncture... We'd tip our hand to early. As much as i hate to admit it... I think here today we have ot concede... let them have there little investigation really no other course that doesn't lead to conflict between us and the federation... "

" However, what we need is evidence that this was a big plot on there end. If we can prove that then in court we might have a chance... with enough capital and the right lawyers we can argue our case. But trying to argue it with this president here and now? it's like yelling at cop because he's gonna give you a ticket... or worse trying to bribe the cop. "

" that's my play, we let them think they've won and act behind the scenes--- Convert operations. It's our best play...we can use mimic as a bargaining chip to show our good will. Once we know more we can make a plan to counter GUN and the Federation but right now... if we act rashly we end up terrorists on a watch list... that's my idea, and i think our best shot of saving restoration "

Sonic didn't respond as he was staring at the wall grinding his teeth. He didn't get angry often but, this was one of those moments he felt like he was being dicked over. Yea Tails might be right but, he didn't have to like it! He knew the kid was smart, and maybe a conflict would be bad! but letting these guys use shitty political tactics on them sucked!

" So that's it? Just roll over and play dead? I'm still for butt kickin' let them call me a terrorist if they want... they can do it while choking on there teeth--- But what ever the plan i'll do my part. But this kinda stuff ain't my style... "

"I can't say we don't have any options. After all, I'm sure even GUN wouldn't wish to make an enemy of me or the Sol Empire. It may not be much of an advantage given I'm in their world, though it's at least something to push back with." Blaze was never one to use her status for threats or warnings, and today was the first time she's done it so much. Though the feline wouldn't sit by and let her friends be pushed around or threatened.

"Not to mention the fact they never even attempted to reach out to anyone about the fact Clutch is a criminal, or how they also knew Mimic was here in the base. I'm can only guess you guys had Mimic as a high priority of catching, so they should've known too. Easy to send a message if they have a spy in. Gives off the impression they set you guys up to fail. I only wish I had more solid proof on the rumors about the commander." Rowan was sure having solid intel on that guy would make them clear out in an instant.

"We also got Mimic in the Shadow Void to turn over. Can't say I trust GUN with someone like Mimic, if only because I wouldn't put it past them to put him to work, though it's something." Rowan wanted to just throw him in a hole and leave it at that, though he'd never hear the end of it from Tangle.

"If Surge is staying then so am I. They can try to take me, though they'll regret it in the end. All it takes is four to six minutes for someone to drown, and I can speed that up much faster with how smart I am." Kitsunami wasn't going to let anyone take Surge, or let anyone take him away from Surge. If GUN wanted to see how dangerous the fennec was then that was the fastest way to do it.

"It's okay Kitsunami. I doubt they'll try anything that'll tick you and Surge off." Belle wasn't surprised Kitsunami would go through such lengths, though gears and starters she didn't need to see him start racking up a body count of GUN soldiers. The tinkerer herself was thinking about what she should do. Tails and Lanolin had a point, yet so did Vector. Not to mention she was sure they'd only be interested in dismantling her. She was sure they could consider her as safe eggtech to copy.

"I won't go with GUN because I don't trust them. And if they want to take me just because of who my creator is then I'd be more than happy to bring up how they let Omega work for them." Belle knew Eggman created Omega, though as far as she knew they never tried to punish or arrest him. Hopefully that'd be of help to get them to leave her alone.

"So, we got Blaze backing us up, the fact they withheld the fact Clutch was a criminal, also not telling use Mimic was here, my unconfirmed dirt on the commander, and the fact they let Omega work for them. I guess we could also count them coming off as overly hostile." Rowan found all this excessive, at least without any warning.

"Is this a bad time to mention I also stole Clean Sweep's money? Maybe we should had that over, since I'm sure a lot of it must have been earned illegally." Belle could easily find out what was Restoration donations and what was Clean Sweep profit.

[sunderwight]

Thinking some more about why Old Man Viktor would want hextech to be invented, or to specifically be invented by Jayce, such that his meddling involves giving Jayce the rune that he uses to kickstart his innovations, when a simpler way to prevent catastrophe in any given timeline would but to just... not invent hextech at all?

And I've got another theory!

I think Old Man Viktor is actually looking for a way to unfuck his own timeline.

If it was just about saving others, that doesn't seem like it would be all that complicated, and, unless he's failed every prior time (possible) it should probably have a set routine by now. Also, why would there need to be so many attempts? Is he doing this for every single timeline, or is he deliberately creating new timelines and experimenting with the results?

I think it's the latter, given that we see him provide young Jayce with different runes, and that he's presumably used different methods of persuasion and involved other different factors in the process. Again, it's possible -- given Ekko and the reversal rune -- that this is the first time it's worked at all, but I think that Viktor's comment that in all timelines, only Jayce can show him the futility of his actions would in fact imply otherwise. There have been other timelines where Jayce has successfully compelled Viktor out of his plan, or else I think Old Man Viktor would have phrased it more like "only you might show me this in some version of events" rather than "in all timelines, only you can show me this".

So, probably, there have been other timelines where the world is saved by Jayce's intervention.

Which is great, and Old Man Viktor takes it as a win, but I think why he keeps on doing it and what he's ultimately after is the right formula for a means to sort of unbake his cake, if you will. Old Man Viktor's own timeline has already been doomed. He's the only one left, trapped in his "perfect" outcome that has become a prison of (in his own words) dreamless solitude. He can't escape what he's done and he can't rest, and outside of his scant interactions with the Jayces of other timelines, he's alone. His Jayce is gone, everyone is gone. Like the ingredients baked into a cake, the people that he bound together into his ascension cannot be alchemized back into the individuals that they once were.

Or can they?

After all, this is magic we're dealing with. Magic, technology, and the same genius that created the problems in the first place. If there's a way to undo it, who else could figure it out? I think the main cast of the show comprises the people who might and the people who are most likely to influence and inspire them -- Jayce and Viktor, who started the problem. Mel, an incredibly powerful mage. Singed, who taught Viktor and helped engineer his transcendence. Jinx and Ekko, two of the only other people in either city to actually figure out hextech on their own. Heimderdinger, Jayce's teacher. Even Ambessa brings along the Black Rose, who might feasibly contribute something to the undoing of Viktor's calamity.

Viktor is very stubborn, and he doesn't abandon his causes easily. I think that once he realized the folly of what he'd done, and accepted the reality that he had destroyed the world instead of saving it, his next course of action would be to either finally die or else fix it. If he can't die (probable) then that just leaves fixing it. Fixing it for other timelines is great, but ultimately, knowing Viktor and what he's like, I don't think he would be satisfied with that. He'd accept it as a consolation prize and ultimately if that's his limit, he'll find out one day. But if he has infinite space time to play around in, why not aim big? Why not try for the ideal outcome?

So that's what I think he is really waiting for. A lead into the method to truly undo what he did, and restore everyone to themselves. Not just in other timelines but in his own too.

[championofthefade]

Thinking about Veilguard sometimes really makes me start picking it apart.

Yes, I did like it for what it is. But as someone who played the three games for the first time this year, I found it disheartening at times.

Long story short for those who rather not read my rambling: I liked Veilguard, but there are parts that just don't feel right and that everything we've done in Thedas the last three games were all for naught. (I'm yapping about my complaints, might make a more positive post later)

It's a mixed bag, really.

While I liked the gameplay, there are things that just don't rub me the right way.

The first immediate example is how the (only, in my opinion) major choice we are presented with is choosing Treviso and Minrathous. We have the choice to harden the other companions in spirit, but the only ones that actually are affected are Lucanis and Neve.

While I have done both paths, I can't say that one is a better choice over the other. Shadow Dragons are decimated if you choose Treviso, Treviso is blighted if you choose Minrathous. I think that it's fair that Lucanis doesn't want to romance Rook if you choose Minrathous, because he wants to save his city from dying. He trusted you to follow through, while Neve expects that you won't since she's a cynic. Which makes sense why she's willing to still romance you if you choose to save Treviso, although it'll be a bit more challenging to, because you were presented with an impossible choice. I don't mind that he ends up with Neve, even if the romance for all the companions kinda fall flat if you think about it too much.

Another thing is Taash. Their identity is important to their story, but having Rook (us the player) choose how to deal with their cultural crisis doesn't make sense and makes me not want to repeat those quests. Why is there no option to embrace both the Qun and being Rivani? Why am I the one choosing how Taash chooses to express themselves? Relating back to the city choices, Lucanis and Neve both choose their hardened options with Illario (getting jail) and Aelia (being given to the Threads). With Taash, the choices are a little less clear to me. I think we shouldn't be able to dictate one's cultural choices.

One of the worst choices that we have to make as Rook is Harding vs Davrin. Thinking about the amount of people who are saving Davrin just for Assan is actually crazy to me. I love Davrin, but he's reminding me of what happened to Wyll in BG3, and it's not a fun time. (I can barely pick up BG3 for various reasons and this is one of them.) I'm glad Bioware doesn't pander to the fans that are loud, because I don't have to worry about everyone's favorite white boy getting more content than the only black companion (saying this as a white person myself). I will always save Davrin because he is a compelling character even without Assan. I love the feather-brain but I feel like I want to know Davrin more than his mythical son.

I hate that we only got three world state choices, two of which don't really matter since it's more flavor text. It doesn't matter if we disbanded or merged into the Chantry, we don't see the consequences of those actions. It doesn't matter if your Inquisitor wants to Stop Solas at All Costs, because apparently they feel responsible for Solas being... Well, Solas. And our romances, outside of Solavellan, were reduced to a codex entry and sidelined.

Yes, Solas is important, and yes, I expected his romance to be given more light. I'm in the camp of people who feared that was going to be the case. And it was.

Yes, I agree that him getting a Good Ending with his vhenan is one of the better endings, but his friendship one and facing his fear of dying alone is also important. I liked playing a Rook that tricked him, I liked playing a Rook that chose to fight him as well. I'm glad we have at least those aspects that we can control.

As someone who has romanced Lucanis and Neve so far, I wish there were more little cutscenes, and not just for Lucanis. I'm just okay with how things are, even if they're a bit empty in comparison to what we could've had. That being said, I think that there's always room for improvement to have a more fulfilling resolution to the romance in the game the devs claimed was the most romantic. I wish there was more, I wish that there had been more to support that claim. I want to feel closer to these companions, and I am sure that I will as time goes on. But as it stands, for now after sitting with the game for nearly a month (11/29), I wish we had gotten more.

I would like to say that it really doesn't feel like the most romantic compared to the other three games. (Blackwall's "heart laid bare", Dorian's "you're dreadfully dull and I hate you", Josephine's letter of "let me make a promise to you here. I dream you will say yes", Zevran's "I'll storm the Black City for you, never doubt it", Anders' "ten years, a hundred years from now, someone like me will love someone like you, and there will be no templars to tear them apart", just to name the few that feel more romantic than what we're sitting with for Veilguard romances. And one of them is a codex entry.)

I hate that we have to learn through missives that the South is gone, save for Skyhold. I hate that we had no power to help the South, and that the last three games were all for naught. It's upsetting to know that Ferelden is gone. RIP Orlais, you slayed too close to the sun. Kirkwall being empty is a scary thought, but it's gone too.

It makes me wonder where HOF is. Did they ever find a cure? Are they even alive? What about a Hawke that didn't get left in the Fade? You mean to tell me that they wouldn't be out there in the frontlines doing something? You mean to tell me that they're sitting on their asses?

Varric dying is something else entirely, but it's just gut wrenching that we don't even get to mourn him. A second playthrough was mindbogglingly eye-opening. Harding was mourning when you check on her in her little room. Neve reminisces about how Varric brought her onto the job and she wishes that she didn't take it. They were mourning while Rook probably looked like they were in the denial stage of grief. What killed me inside was the fact I caught it the first time when Bellara name dropped Varric like she didn't know he was there. That's when I started thinking maybe he was gone, but I didn't want to believe it. I had to step away from my computer when the reveal happened because I was devastated.

We don't get to see just how the team made the fake lyrium dagger, or how they even managed to find Rook in the first place. We don't get to see the love interest's reaction, only the aftermath where they are still registering that Rook is there. We don't even get an explanation on how those things were possible. To create a perfect lyrium replica and locate someone in the Fade? Knowing that we could've had a mission to save whoever was left in the Fade hurts. RIP to those left in the Fade.

The secret ending is just... Bewildering to say the least. What do you mean that there's an even bigger force that has been controlling the narrative from Across the Sea? What do you mean these incredibly well written villains had no agency in their choices and were being used to orchestrate whatever the hell the Executors wanted?

Again, what do you mean that all that we've been through in Thedas just doesn't matter anymore?

[potchi-fics]

zaun (part three of attention)

i | ii | iii

      rays of sunshine creep through the tiny cracks of your blinds, waking you up from your deep slumber. the moment you open your eyes, you let out a groan of annoyance. what’s worse is it hurts when you swallow, you feel a slight throbbing in your head, and you feel sluggish. you think that you might be sick. just in time, your alarm clock screams. a slam of your hand shuts it up: shut up, im already up. you force yourself out of bed and opt for a quick shower– grabbing your towel and necessities, you walk to your bathroom. thanks to your shampoo and soap, you manage to smell like lavender and vanilla; a scent youve always adored.

stripping your clothes, you step under the showerhead and turn it on– letting the cold water hit your somehow hot body. im gonna run a fever, arent i. you grumble in irritation, but you focus on the water hitting you, pondering about your interaction with sevika. now that you think about it, its been a couple of days since her last visit. a single question runs into your mind: maybe i should go to zaun again, it is my day-off. 

youve made up your mind, you’ll explore the city. 

laying out clothes on your bed, picking your choice of outfit; black cargo pants paired with black shirt, layered with a coat, and black boots– cant forget your trusty dagger. you check your watch and you figure you’d be there in a couple of minutes. with one final look at yourself in the mirror, you head out.

the bustling city fills all your senses, i probably wont get used to this. this time, you fully take in zaun– kids playing on the streets, drunkards already drinking, elders talking to each other, everyone seems lively today you thought. putting your hands in your pockets, you turn into an alleyway. markus was right, curiosity will get you killed. while walking, you see a child crying in his grandmother's arms and of course, you being a nosy woman, listened to them.

“but grandma,” he wails out, “i really love that radio. why’d they have to destroy it?”

his grandma rubs his head comfortingly, “hush now, ill buy you a new one.”

      you know that look in her eyes, that guilt and regret swimming in her eyes: she wont be able to buy one. look, you werent always a piltie, but that story can be told another time. absentmindedly, your feet bring you to them. you were only snapped back to reality when you hear her ask.

“what do you want? we dont have anything anymore.” the elder hisses out.

you raise your arms, “im not here to take anything, im here to see if i can fix your radio.”

what?

“what?”

this is what i get for being nosy, “i know a few things about ‘em.”

      but the twinkle in the boy’s eyes, his sniffles quieting down, and hugging his grandma tighter? you had to do something. 

“r-really?” he’s a timid little kid.

you slowly kneel beside them, “yeah, kid. ill try to fix it, cant promise you though.”

      you take a look around their house– its small and messy, considering theyre living in an alley, you cant judge. tools that you can use are tucked away in a box in the corner, thinking theyre good enough. seeing that youre eyeing them, the kid hurriedly brings you the box. thanking him, you carefully grab the radio; its old, and run-down, but it works. using a flathead, you disassemble it.

“its not broken, luckily.” you take a glance at the two, “the screws are loose, so you just have to tighten them again.”

      you turn it on once you assemble it back to its original form, a small smile creeps into your face as you hear static before hearing voices.

the grandma brings out her waller, “how much do i need to pa–”

“dont mind,” you stand up to interrupt her, “its my day off.”

her face shows gratitude but her eyes show seriousness, “dont give kindness here easily, kid.”

      your eyebrows furrow, confused by her comment. you could only offer them a nod before making your way deeper into the alleyway, relieved you could fix the radio. before turning, you hear the kid yell a thank you which makes you chuckle. but your victory is cut short when you hear a fight going on. your instincts turning on, you put your back against the wall and take a peek behind it.

its sevika. and shes not looking good. her arm isnt working, she’s outnumbered: she looks like she’s about to pass out. debating whether you should help, you watch for a few seconds. one man was about to punch her but you quickly jumped in to block it. her eyes met yours almost immediately, however, you ignored her and put yourself between her and them.

“you shouldnt be here, pretty little thing.” the middle guy snarled. 

you only stare at them, “i really dont give a fuck. like, at all.”

      guess that pissed him off because he quickly charges at you but you trip him and stepped aside to give him to sevika, seeing the vulnerable man heading her way, she quickly uses her right hand to punch him in the face. on the other side, you were dealing with two guys. one rushes to throw a fist but you evade by ducking and giving the other man a punch in the liver: a body shot, he crumbles down to his knees– giving you the chance to deal with the other. 

“lousy,” you comment, jabbing him and hitting his nose, “weak, unfocused, poor execution.”

      with every insult, you land hit after hit. he bares his yellow teeth at you while holding his bloody nose and mouth. you feel arms around your torso– throwing your lower body in the air and forcibly throwing yourself down, you make the clingy man stumble forward– hitting his buddy. your gaze goes back to sevika and you see her getting pinned to the wall. quickly grabbing your dagger, you make your way to them and slash the back of his knees, making him let go of her. sevika pants but lands a hit to his jaw– knocking him out cold.

you turn to look at the other two, only to see their back turned against you, already running away. cowards. hearing her groans and labored breathing, you turn around and help her up– putting her arm around your shoulder and trying to support her weight.

“i didnt need your help,” sevika grunts out.

you sneer back, “sure, sure. you look like you were winning actually.”

      she tries to escape your hold but right now, you are much stronger than her. you scold her and force her to hold onto you. 

“dont play with me right now, sevika. my head is already hurting,” you warn her.

sevika huffs out, “just this once. i have a safe house somewhere around here, its not far.”

      scared that she was gonna bleed out, you briskly walk, but still gently handling her. after a few minutes, you reach an abandoned building. she leads this time. this place is a goddamn maze, the smell of wood and cigarette brings you back to reality, the door to her safe house opening. 

you take in the sight, you snort at the messy place. she limps to sit on her couch, letting you close and lock the door. you rush to her to assess her injuries: bruises, cuts, and a wound that would probably need stitches.

“you got a kit?” you ask but youre already rummaging through her things.

she snorts, “bathroom, lower cabinet.”

      making a beeline for it, you hurriedly walk to her bathroom. seeing the kit, you let out a breath of relief and grab yourself a few ointments and a wet cloth. you go back to her and she looks like she’s really about to pass out. your voice wakes her up, making her stare at you.

“this is gonna sting,” you prepare the stitch to start.

she dismisses your comment with a wave of her bloody hand, “this is nothing.”

      only breaths and occasional groans from her fill the quiet room, giving your entire focus to finishing her stitch. snipping the thread, you move on to clean her wounds with the wet cloth you grabbed earlier– dabbing and rubbing the blood away, sevika lets the calming action take over her. too tired and worn out to complain. roughly twenty minutes pass and you finally reach her face; taking a moment to stare at her, your eyes roam from her eyebrows, down to her nose, and travel down to stare at her lips. 

“you done starin’ at me?” though her eyes are still closed, you figure she mightve felt your gaze.

warm cloth meets her skin, “wasnt staring at you, i was starin’ at your wounds, asshat.”

      she suddenly grabs you by the waist to pull you to her, your hands landing on her chest to steady yourself. 

“what are you doing.” red paints your ears.

she chuckles lowly, a sound that makes you want to rub your thighs together, “im only making it easier for you.”

“actually, this is harder for me,” you manage to blur out, “stupid.”

      you attempt to pull away but her hold only tightens around you. sevika finally opens her eyes to look at you and you realize: blood loss. 

she looks intently at you, slowly leaning in and putting her nose into your throat– inhaling your scent. you flush at this, the redness covering your entire face now. sevika drags her nose up to the side of your neck, finding your pulse; youre scared she’s gonna feel how fast its pulsing. your hand grips her bicep, feeling the muscle and how solid her body is. your eyes shut as her nose travels up your jaw, her lips just grazing your skin. 

“you shouldnt have come back here,” she whispers out.

      you didnt know it was possible to be closer to her but she grounded you on her crotch– making you straddle her. she pushed you down into her, emitting a throaty groan from her. you, on the other hand, are breathless, you cant think properly, your ears are ringing, and your hands are shaking. she kisses your jaw, resulting in you opening your eyes.

your hand that’s holding the cloth squeezes between the two of you and positions itself on her forehead to push her away. her head lolls back as she finally sleeps. Ignoring the fire in your abdomen, one thought crosses your mind: fuck, that did things to you. 

note: finally building tension

[valkyriex]

ARCANE SEASON 2 SPOILERS

Alright, we need to talk about how 4 principles of Noxus that Ambessa taught Caitlyn were used against her later:

Vision, might, guile and sacrifice

I'd like to talk about the last one today. I observed that we can interpret it in at least two ways:

Personally, I interpret that Caitlyn's sacrifice occurs when she loses her eye. This happens at the moment when she manages to untie that knot with magic stones around Ambessa's arm. By doing so, she weakens Ambessa, making her vulnerable to Mel’s attacks. But also loses her eye. This sacrifice is more than just a physical loss; it’s a deeply emotional and strategic choice. Caitlyn willingly sacrifices her sight in order to create an opening that could turn the tide of the war. Her decision is pivotal, as it shifts the balance and gives their side a real chance of victory. This moment highlights Caitlyn’s commitment to the cause, her willingness to give everything for the greater good, and her understanding of the risks involved in ensuring their survival.

But we can also interpret Caitlyn's sacrifice in another scene, one that also falls under the theme of guile. This moment occurs when Caitlyn betrays Ambessa in order to save Vander. For Vi. By doing so, Caitlyn risks everything: her position, her reputation, and her future. She knew that if Ambessa found out, she would likely retaliate in fury, and Caitlyn’s actions could have devastating consequences. This sacrifice is not only about protecting those she loves but also about risking her own path ahead. Caitlyn is fully aware that this decision could cost her everything, including the stability of the city and her career, but she makes it anyway, demonstrating the depth of her loyalty and the complexity of her character.

Personally, I prefer the first version. What do you think?

[marisoil]

𝑪𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒

summary: ꪆৎ (1920s au) a cop with a badge too heavy for his shoulders, a socialite too bright for anyone's sanity, they’re both absolutely doomed.

an: i was ovulating during the writing of whatever this is (you can tell). i feel like itʼs lowk giving booktok,, feedback on this would be much appreciated!! (◞‸ ◟) might do some more depending on how this one goes [blink]

trigger warnings: power imbalance, jealousy, emotional turmoil, risky relationships, tobacco use, manipulation (if you squint), emotional vulnerability

genre: mostly fluff

word count: 3.5k

bertholdt hoover was a man made to endure, a man made for carrying things, for bearing heaps of what others could not. the kind of fella who kept his head down and his hands busy, broad-backed and quiet, shoulders like stone slabs meant for bearing things no one else could handle. the city of paradis didn’t have much patience for soft men; in the gilded chaos of the roaring twenties, the streets were thick with jazz, smoke, and dirty politics. amidst flappers with rouged knees, dapper men tipping their straw boaters, he did what he was supposed to; put on the uniform, took the oath, and kept his nose clean. a lawman through and through, his uniform was neat enough to draw eyes but never hold them.

but you were no burden. you were conflagration in satin stockings, burning through every oath he’d ever sworn to uphold. a socialite draped in silk and scandal, with the kind of laugh that turned heads and left men (him, most of all) wondering if mortal ears were ever meant to hear music so sweet. your name was always on the lips of cigar-chewing barkeeps and parasol-clutching harpies, you were grotesquely lavish, a kitschy cathedral built to indulgence and made purely out of another soulʼs restraint. mornings found you sipping spiked tea on sun-drenched balconies, while afternoons slipped away in the folds of boutique dressing rooms, where clerks bent over backward to find the perfect shade of temptation for you.

in every sense of the word, you were excess. too much money, too much charm, too much of a good thing stretched to itʼs breaking point. a chandelier swaying just before the fall, a glass of merlot filled to overflowing, a secret too loud to be kept.

at some juncture in your life, between the empty noise of their promises and the heavy silence of the mornings after. you began to believe no, that no one could stomach entire spoonfuls of you. perhaps only the undemanding aspects of your existence, the ones they admired from a safe distance, the ones they praised like dilettantes, unsure and shallow in their admiration. men, in their infinite optimism that could easily be mistakes for arrogance—insisted they could handle you; they threw their hats into the ring with all the gall of gamblers who think the house will finally lose. and for a while, they played the part: offering love as if it were currency instead of an unexamined reflex. but inevitably, as night follows day, they faltered, overwhelmed by the intensity of you and your contradictions, your needs, your refusal to be contained. “you don’t have to call me every time something happens.” “you’re something else, doll, but maybe take it down a notch, huh? no need to shout the house down.”“you’re amazing, but i don’t know if i’m the right guy for all of this.”they treated you like a puzzle, or worse—a nuisance. so you began to wonder if the problem lay with you: a creature too large for the paltry cages they called love, too restless to settle for what they called enough.

of course, that was before you met bertholdt.

he first saw you on a call, a routine disturbance at one of those upscale speakeasies masquerading as tea rooms. the kind of place where old money rubbed elbows with new money, and no one dared whisper the wrong names. you’d been sitting at the bar, cigarette holder poised in one gloved hand, with your manicured fingers curled around a coupe of champagne. reiner had nudged him toward you with a knowing smirk, but it was you who made the first move, as was your routine, your lips curved into a smile that could ruin a man. you’d looked at him, not through him, like most people did. something about the way your gaze lingered made his heart stall beneath his ribcage, and from there he knew he was sunk.

he hadn’t meant to take you home. hadn’t meant for your dress to pool on the floor of his apartment or for his hands to learn the heat of your skin. but you unraveled him like you’d been born for it. the morning after, he’d stood at the window, his shirt rumpled and his resolve liquefying as you stretched across his bed like trouble itself had learned to walk upright in silk stockings, a wry smile tugging at your lips when he stammered, “this can’t happen again.”

but then, days later by means of despicable coincidence, there you were, turning his world sideways once more, pulling him into the shadowed alcoves of ballrooms, your gloved hands gripping the lapels of his coat as if you’ll die without him like you insist you would. “you shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, his breath warm against your neck, but his hands betray him, slipping around your waist and pressing you closer like he once had during the night he couldnʼt forget even if he tried. you tilt your head, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you purr, “neither should you, officer.”

you were nothing he was supposed to have. not in this life and especially not in this city. it should have been easy to walk away, to stay away, but you’ve always had a talent for taking what you want and bertholdt, poor fool that he is, didn’t even try to stop you.

you’ve made bertholdt hoover an accomplice to his own undoing. his uniform feels heavier when you’re near, like the badge on his chest knows he’s betraying everything it stands for just by breathing the same air as you. it seemed, and to this day still does seem absolutely proposterous at first—you and him. he was just a flatfoot, after all, pounding pavement while you lived a life of velvet and champagne. you were the kind of woman who could get a man fired, and bertholdt knew it. but you had a way of making him feel like you were meant for him, and worse like he was meant for you. in his eyes, you were a grace-given gift. through some unseen kindness from a life he could not recall, he had been repayed in the form of you, sweetly cocooned in a douceur adorned with ribbons and bows just for him. all for him, every inch of you. only ever for him.

you adored him, he was completely enamored with you, and you don’t apologize for any of it, for the mess you make of him.

you’re a thief, he thinks. you take up all the space in his mind and in his pockets, where the little pieces of you collect. loose pearls from your necklaces, ribbons from your wrists. you leave a trail behind you that only he bothers to follow, like you know he’ll pick it all up. he keeps your earrings in a little dish by his bed, ones you claim to forget every time you’re over. one of them is missing its backing, and you said it doesn’t matter because “it’s just an excuse to come back.” you said it so flippantly, throwing the words over your shoulder as you twirled out the door, but bertholdt thinks about it every night. wonders if it’s true, if you’ll keep leaving pieces of yourself behind like breadcrumbs. wonders if one day, you’ll leave too many, and there’ll be nothing left of you except the trail.

he keeps a picture of you, folded neatly into the soft belly of his jacket, he can feel it even now as he walks behind you, his fingers brushing absently over the hidden pocket. it’s old, creased from being folded and unfolded, touched and caressed when the real you is not around for him to hold. it’s not much, just a snapshot really, but it’s enough.

and you have one of him, too, though yours is much, much larger than his, a little dog-eared from being tucked into your clutch, covered in those maddening lipstick marks of your affection. when he’d asked you about it you said, “well, it’s my favorite picture.” you never hide it. in fact, you brandish it like a trophy, waving it at him in public just to watch him turn pink all the way down to his collarbones and he swears he can feel his ribs bending to make room for you.

your lipstick leaves ghosts everywhere: on crystal rims, on the necks of champagne bottles, on the stark white collar of his shirt you stole one lazy morning. he can still see it there, smudged and pink, a ridiculous, infuriating claim you left behind like a signature.

you like to touch him, your affection spilling over in unmeasured handfuls, and bertholdt takes it all, always unsure how to give it back without breaking it. your foot hooks over his under the table, dragging lazily until he jolts, his knee banging against the wood with a sharp, graceless sound. your hand slides beneath his glove, fingers cool against his warm ones, your thumb pressing into the creases of his palm as if you’re trying to read the lines of his life. a flick at his ear when he’s being too quiet, too bertholdt. sometimes you’ll poke his chest like you’re trying to find the exact location of his heart, grinning when he finally relents and catches your wrist, his thumb circling over the thin bones there. bertholdt isn’t used to being wanted so openly, so carelessly, but you make it feel natural, like this is just how the world works: you touch, and he catches fire.

over time, you make him comfortable enough to reciprocate those affections but you still have progress to make. his hands, so large they feel almost grotesque to him, were built for things like restraint, utility, the cold grip of a gun. but when he touches you it’s like he’s terrified the world might break. you laugh at him for it sometimes, draping yourself across his chest, your perfume threading itself into the fabric of his uniform, and say, “bertholdt, you hold me like i’m a cracked egg.”

it frustrates you to no end. you’ve always been shameless when it comes to bertholdt hoover. maybe it’s the way his shirt strains against his shoulders, seams groaning under the power of him. you notice everything: the dip in his throat when he swallows, the faint press of his veins just under his skin, the way his jaw clenches when he holds an anger thatʼs never directed at you. he smells like smoke, sharp and bitter, but when you kiss him, his mouth is sweet, tinged with a faint metallic tang. but he holds back. doesnʼt give you all of which you want, which is all of him. so you push harder—pulling at his tie, sliding your fingers into his hair, nipping at his neck just to hear the low, shuddering breath he can’t quite suppress. he’s maddening, the kind of man you want to press against until he forgets himself completely, and you’re determined to make him forget.

you love him so, so much. you love him for the way he never makes you feel small, for the way he lets you be yourself without apology. and you’ll be damned if you ever let him go. bertholdt hoover belongs to you now, and you’ll fight the whole damn city if it means keeping him.

he lets you win every argument. always. even when you’re wrong, which you rarely are. your words are sharp, but they always soften when it’s him. instead, you tease and provoke, and he lets himself be provoked because he loves the way you grin when you think you’ve gotten the better of him. and you have entirely. there’s no part of him you don’t own, no corner of his mind you haven’t occupied.

he’s jealous, though he’d never admit it outright. he thinks you’re too radiant to belong to anyone, and yet he burns at the sight of other men circling you like moths to a flame. their hands hover too close to your backside. he tells himself it’s not his place, that he has no claim on you, but then you glance at him from across the room, your eyes daring him to say something, to do something. you’re playing a dangerous game, and bertholdt’s never been one for risks. until you.

“you’re angry,” you say one night, he’s standing too close, his jaw tight, his hands shoved into his pockets to keep from dragging you away from the room full of prying eyes. “you let him touch you,” he murmurs, the words barely audible, and your smile stretches, wicked and knowing. “oh, bertholdt,” you coo, your fingers trailing along his sleeve. “are you jealous?”

“stop it,” he snaps, and it’s so unlike him that you pause, blinking up at him with something almost resembling surprise. then, quietly, he adds, “please.”

bertholdt knows this can’t last, knows you’re everything he’s not, bold where he’s reserved, reckless where he’s cautious. he knows it’s wrong, knows he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be sneaking into your estate under the cover of darkness, but he can’t stop. not when you greet him at the door in something entirely inappropriate, your smile bright and mischievous as you drag him inside. “i missed you,” you say, your voice soft, and it undoes him. every single time.

you kiss him like you’re trying to devour him, and he lets you. his hands are trembling as they slide over the silk of your dress, his breath ragged as you tug him closer. “what would your captain say,” you tease, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw, “if he knew where you were right now? what you’re doing?”

“donʼt,” he breathes, his hands tightening on your waist, but you don’t stop. you never do.

the city has no place for love stories like yours. it chews men like him to the bone and spits them out without ceremony, while women like you slip between its teeth, too clever to be caught. bertholdt knows this. he knows the weight of a badge, the weight of duty, the crushing inevitability of a city like paradis. but for you, he’d bear it all a hundred times over. all he knows is that for as long as you keep leaving pieces of yourself behind, he will pick them up and hold them close, even if it means losing himself entirely.

bertholdt hoover is a man made for carrying things, for bearing what others cannot. but for you, he has learned to let himself be carried, too.

you are the only thing that feels real. and bertholdt, for once in his life, is not strong enough to let go.

[steppingonyourshadow]

Complete translations of song concept blurbs for Xiao Zhan's album Wo Men

These are provided by Xiao Zhan Studio with each track and sourced from QQ Music.

We (track 2)

With the continued development of civilised society, we keep advancing as a species. Everyone appears to live within constraints of common morality, following the herd, hoping they're upholding kindness, trying to live a life of virtue. But no matter what stage we're at, no one can avoid personally experiencing every facet of humanity. How can we maintain a strong and stubborn passion for life and become an invincible "good person"?

All Alike (track 3)

Life is like a street path on which we are all tourists, passing each other by in a rush. Most of life's troubles, perhaps our past anxiety, loneliness, lack of direction, every person paralysed for a moment by indecision, all the difficulty and happiness, it's "all alike". Once we're able to take it all in, we still have to keep going, having explored and reflected on all our possibilities. A quick pause doesn't mean we stop moving forward.

Recover (track 4)

We often put on an immaculate shell, armour ourselves and hide our weak spots. Those masks all cover the marks of being knocked around and honed into shape. Those who are trapped by the past hide their scars and become used to saying one thing and thinking another. Face our true inner feelings, don't run from them, learn to accept ourselves. Return "me" to me, to become a better "me".

Firefly (track 5)

The faint glimmer of a firefly at night might be weak, but it's still a reliable source of light, just like the mass of humanity. Through every lit-up screen, these "fireflies" with their faint glow gather strength and emerge into public view, lighting up their own world. Interacting with the world, providing balance to my pride, knowledge when I'm unaware, encouragement when I'm at a loss.

The song makes use of elements such as pedal, the sound of breathing, strings, and piano with a strong "woody" undertone, evoking flickers of embers from burning firewood. Just like the meaning it wishes to express - even the faintest bioluminescence can illuminate the dark and become an indispensable light.

Drifting (track 6)

After experiencing an unknown past, "I" woke in unfamiliar surroundings, marvelous and strange. My wandering journey began here. A stranger in a strange land, should I fear being infiltrated in return or bravely venture forth? In the unknown, there are wonders, dangers, eye-opening sights. It's dazzling, beautiful, tempting, but how do I keep myself from being swallowed up by it and becoming a puppet? By remembering where I came from, and doing my utmost to reach the destination I wish to reach. At the intersection where it's difficult to tell dreamscape from reality, how do I keep from following the herd?

Lighthouse (track 7)

Alone in the middle of the ocean, the lighthouse, the only beacon among the crashing waves, reminds us that on life's path there will always be ups and downs. As a small ship venturing forward, we never know when we might encounter stormy weather. Go into the headwind, unafraid of the wind and the rain, with only the lighthouse in your heart to provide illumination and point the way to our destination.

The swirl of the guitar in the song's arrangement is like the sea, never ceasing, the piano is the glow of the lighthouse in the middle of the ocean, and the vocal is the ship. Whether we're faced with glorious sunlight or a sudden downpour, wishing for us the courage to keep pushing forward.

Soliloquy of the Night Time Wanderer (track 8)

After a busy day of work, do you ever feel lonely while making your own way home? Having moved our social lives online, swiping from one small screen to the next, refreshing and clicking like endlessly, consuming bite-sized content, experiencing a little buzz of companionship through your fingertips. All those lit up screens brighten up our nighttime life in the city. When we rely on the simulated communication of online life, it's as if we're stepping into a wider world. Sometimes walking at night isn't a choice. Perhaps feelings that cannot be hidden like fear and cowardice surround and trap everyone who have no choice but to walk through the night. When the seductive bustle of the night cools and dissipates and the world goes quiet, wishing that every night-time wanderer can find a place to lay their emotional burdens to rest.

Return to Zero (track 9)

Both the wind howling past and the fog gathering on your brow and obscuring your vision are unique encounters on your journey. Looking back, those previously obscured traces gradually appear and become clearer. The song's arrangement creates a quiet but warm atmosphere, the chilly synth paired with strings push the listener toward a time travelling wormhole, returning it all to the beginning, back to the very start. Would you still be as staunch? The path here through glory, obstacles and rejection, all those things make up the you of today. You can look forward to the future, wave goodbye to the past freely. Wishing for you always the courage to return to zero and start from the beginning.

Don't Look Back (track 10)

This song is "my" personal narrative, but it's not only mine. "Don't Look Back" is addressed to me and for every listener. The path ahead might feature aspirations, companionship, bright eyes watching. Carefully, we attempt battle with the world, with highs and lows, scrapes and bruises, unavoidable hesitation and disappointment. But please don't look back, if you move forward, you can scale mountains, cross oceans and see endless beautiful scenery, or pause to enjoy the spice of life. Having arrived here, wherever you go in the future, you will have all your accumulated experiences to call on.

The song's arrangement wants to express through its layered progression the narrator's immovable core. What's ahead may not be an open plain, but it will be an endless path. Just go forward, don't look back.

Good Night (track 11)

On a sleepless night, go out for a midnight snack with company, have some noodles and a bowl of soup. Through the wafting steam, listen quietly to your companion make excited or chill small talk. In this concrete jungle of a city, solitude is our default state, and the ability to process our own sorrows and joys a hard-earned freedom.

As the end point of all the disparate emotions that make up the record, the seemingly melancholy backdrop is filled in with warmth and caring, and understanding of the way humans relate to each other. Learning, growing, hurrying through life for decades on end, no matter what we're after, wishing that on the path forward you have food that suits your palate, warm greetings, and precious understanding and companionship to fill the gaps in each of our hearts. After a busy day, wish yourself and the family or friends by your side a good night.

[twenty-one-froggy-pilots]

Some Clancy letters:

A lifeless light surrounds us each night. Never could I imagine that something so luminous could feel so dark. It’s this glow that reminds us of the dreamless existence we’ve been sentenced to. But what I call a sentence, others accept as normalcy.

How did they so efficiently eradicate the dreams within us? When the bishops instituted Vialism as mandate, they effectively reversed the hope that many arrived with. Am I the only one who realizes that we’ve been lied to? Am I the only one not afraid of the notion that the nine have hijacked our trust, and extinguished the hope that once motivated our existence?

We used to close our eyes and picture a better life, now this city is full of dry eyes caught in a trance of obedience, devoid of any trace of an identity. The only significant light I’ve seen has been in the eyes of those smeared - such a curious sight, to see bright eyes strangled by the darkness of bishop hands. As their penance fades, so dims their memory of something more.

My hope of something more is all I have in this rigid tomb, and I will not let it die.

- Clancy

Second Clancy Letter

They are asleep. They’re so sure that they know the truth, and carry on throughout their day with the same meaningless tasks. They’ve forgotten to look up, and to look outward, to understand that this isn’t about ‘in there.'

This is about ‘out here.’

The lyrics from polarize

I wanted to be a better brother, better son Wanted to be a better adversary to the evil I have doneI have none to show to the one I love But deny, deny, denial

Help me polarize, help me polarize, help me down Those stairs is where I'll be hiding all my problems Help me polarize, help me polarize, help me out My friends and I, we've got a lot of problems Polarize is taking your disguises Separating 'em, splitting 'em up from wrong and right It's deciding where to die and deciding where to fight Deny, deny, denial

March to the sea

And as we near the end of land And our ocean graves are just beyond the sand I ask myself the question Why I fall in line Then out of the corner of my eye I see a spaceship in the sky And hear a voice inside my head

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me

Then the wages of war will start Inside my head with my counterpart And the emotionless marchers will chant the phrase "This line's the only way" And then I start down the sand My eyes are focused on the end of land But again, the voice inside my head says

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Take me up, seal the door I don't want to march here anymore I realize that this line is dead So I'll follow you instead So then you put me back in my place So I might start another day And once again, I will be in a march to the sea

Kitchen sink

Nobody thinks what I think Nobody dreams when they blink Think things on the brink of blasphemy I'm my own shrink Think things are after me, my catastrophe At my kitchen sink You don't know what that means Because a kitchen sink to you Is not a kitchen sink to me, OK friend? Are you searching for purpose? Then write something, yeah it might be worthless Then paint something then, it might be wordless Pointless curses, nonsense verses You'll see purpose start to surface No one else is dealing with your demons Meaning maybe defeating them Could be the beginning of your meaning, friend

Heavydirtysoul

Nah, I didn't understand a thing you said If I didn't know better I'd guess you're all already dead Mindless zombies walking around with a limp and a hunch Saying stuff like, "You only live once" You've got one time to figure it out One time to twist, and one time to shout One time to think and I say we start now Sing it with me if you know what I'm talking about

The pantaloon

Now, it's your turn to be alone Find a wife and build yourself a home You have learned way too soon That your dad is now the Pantaloon

Isle of flightless birds

All we are is an isle of flightless birds We find our worth in giving birth and stuff We're lining our homes against winding roads And we think the going is tough We pick songs to sing, remind us of things that nobody cares about And honestly we're probably more suicidal than ever now

So why am I bringing these all up?

Tyler has always struggled with ‘worth’ and where people place their attention ‘why are you focused on worthless things when there’s something so much greater in front of you!! Why are you focused on how good of a family man (masculine expectations) (how to build a chair and love your wife), but it also mixes with how alone he feels (march to the sea, heavy dirty soul)

He feels lost and alone and like the burden of expectations placed on him have no meaning (as the mindless people chant the phrase this line is the only way, mindless zombies walking around with a limp and a hunch saying you only live one)

And so what does he do? He’s directly calling out this mindlessness, but he’s also offering a solution to it, STOP FOLLOWING MINDLESSLY TO WHAT OTHER PEOPLE SAY

he asks you to listen to what your soul is thinking, he asks a higher power to help him

He knows he’s not good enough by himself, he wants to be a better brother and a better son, the expectations he places on himself are too high, but he’s following the expectations of PEOPLE

Instead, where his soul finds peace is when he’s asked to step outside of societies expectations for him (Follow me instead, can you save my heavy dirty soul)

In march To The Sea the answer is to follow God (or the voice) instead of The Line (what you’ve been told)

In heavy dirty soul this is again reaching out towards God and asking him to save you

An Isle of Flightless birds concludes with the lyrics of: How frustrating, and so degrading His time, we're wasting As time will fly by and the sky will cry as light is fading And He is waiting, oh, so patiently While we repeat the same routine as we will please comfortability And please think about why you can't sleep in the evening And please don't be afraid of what your soul is really thinking Your soul knows good and evil, your soul knows both sides And it's time you pick your battle, and I promise you this is mine (I promise you, this is mine)

You know what’s right and wrong, it’s your time to listen to yourself and make the right choice

Holding onto you: I'm taking over my body, back in control, no more shotty I bet a lot of me was lost, "T"'s uncrossed and "I"'s undotted I fought it a lot and it seems a lot like flesh is all I got Not anymore, flesh out the door, swat I must've forgot, you can't trust me I'm open a moment and close when you show it Before you know it I'm lost at sea And now that I write and think about it And the story unfolds You should take my life, you should take my soul

Tyler struggled a lot with doubt and keeping his eyes on God, he wants to do good, he wants to keep himself on the right path, but he’s always struggling to do so, but all of us do, it’s hard to keep your eyes on God when sometimes we get so caught up in the flesh world, and in it, lose sight of what really matters, allowing doubt and fear to take over

But when we’re at that point, at our lowest, at our angriest and most downtrodden we aren’t abandoned, when we feel our most shameful we aren’t ignored, when we struggle with doubts we aren’t cast aside

We slink our way back thinking we will be chastised, but just like the prodigal son we are welcomed back with open arms, God doesn’t seek perfection from us, he just seeks us, it’s not about following expectations (as is pressured on us by the world) but instead in having a whole relationship with him (making life meaningful and worthwhile) and through that relationship we are made whole and perfect, Jesus changes our hearts, we can’t do it on our own

““I’m telling you these things while I’m still living with you. The Friend, the Holy Spirit whom the Father will send at my request, will make everything plain to you. He will remind you of all the things I have told you. I’m leaving you well and whole. That’s my parting gift to you. Peace. I don’t leave you the way you’re used to being left—feeling abandoned, bereft. So don’t be upset. Don’t be distraught.”

‭‭John‬ ‭14‬:‭25‬-‭27‬ ‭MSG‬‬

We tend to over complicate things in our head so much we forget the peace we’ve been granted through the holy spirt

I think a lot of us are in our Drown era a lot more than we’d like to admit

I don’t know about anyone else, but I often think I can do it all by myself and get proven wrong everytime, I’m only human, and that doesn’t get you very far most days

So. I think The Line is part of the Clancy Saga. And more specifically, it takes place right in the last part of Paladin Strait. Also for the purposes of this post, I'm throwing out all the Arcane imagery and solely focusing on Clancy. Sorry show fans.

Here's my take.

First we've got the setting. A mystical, dark place, full of stars. And everything in there seems very blurry and unfocused. Even when the camera is focused in on Tyler's face, its never clear, it seems like there's some sort of distortion or filter over it, not enough to fully point out exactly what's wrong, but enough that you can tell something's wrong.

I think it's describing Tyler's headspace. Or, more specifically, Clancy's, as he's in his own head, Nico smearing his throat. It's unfocused and dark and he's questioning everything that has lead up to this moment, struck with fear.

Next we've got the mysterious person, who's in Clancy's mind with him. Listening as Clancy speaks. And comforting him.

We don't get a clear picture of who it is. But I am convinced its the Torchbearer. Even if the silhouette isn't his. Because the lyrics are ever so clearly a cry for help. And what has Torchbearer done this entire time for Clancy? Helped him.

Then we've got this moment right here. The figure is walking away from Clancy, and I think they're almost beckoning Clancy to follow. When they go behind, Clancy's head is jerked unnaturally to the side, before it comes right back up into its normal position.

I think Clancy is fighting with himself here. He's asking for help, while also telling the person to stay away from him and his brokenness. Which would perfectly match up with these lyrics being a cry of help to the Torchbearer.

Now we have this.

Tell me it does not look exactly like seizing. I don't care if it's matching up with what is going on with the characters in Arcane, this is Tyler Joseph we are talking about here. Everything in this video was 100% intentional.

This could be representative of how Nico is in the middle of smearing Clancy. But I'm leaning towards how it could be how the Torchbearer is now saving Clancy from himself, by getting into Clancy's mind even more than just being in his headspace with him. He's got to pour his spirit into Clancy to save him. (Sound like the Holy Spirit anyone?)

The next sequence is interesting. Along with his eyes going white, his hair does as well. Which I think strengthens my theory that the Torchbearer is going inside of Clancy to help him. Then he rises up into the air, along with all the other figures of light.

I think the strongest case is that they're the Glorious Gone who the Bishops were using to fight the Banditos moments before. And who Clancy was perhaps about to join, with Nico smearing him again. This is it- it is finally over. He was going to die, or be trapped in the cycle forever. Again we've got the analogy of light, and him holding up his hand to block it from his face.

But then while all the other people are becoming more and more light and ascending, he rather returns to his normal self and comes back to the ground, and looks up. Contemplates. And then disappears.

The Torchbearer saved him from himself. And then Clancy leaves that bad mental headspace- and opens his eyes to face Nico, where the Torchbearer is ready to now physically save what he just spiritually saved.

[xfindingtrouble]

finish up the bottle , then we’ll go. ( for vilkas ! )

" You don't have to tell me twice, " He's already standing up, the aforementioned bottle in hand. The bottle is emptied in a few swift gulps, as he had been nursing it for a while now. Vilkas knew they were going to be leaving the city soon & he could not deny his impending restlessness.

He hardly liked staying in Whiterun, let alone any of Skyrim's other cities. there was always too much going on, too much traffic, too many people. It was a given that their line of work would lead them to discomfort, he could take it... but he didn't have to like it. Vilkas would grit his teeth & push through, but he was eager for them to get back on the road, away from the stench of this place.

He was eager to get back to the wild, away from the expectations & complications of society. It would do wonders for his sour attitude. Vilkas had done a poor job in hiding his misgivings, but there was little reason to hide them from the other. He stretches his shoulders, leaning back to try & wring the stiffness from his spine.A few coins are placed on the table as he tucks his chair back under the table. He'd already paid for his food & drink, but the innkeeper had been accommodating & had managed to put up with Vilkas' impending mood. it wasn't like he was going to miss a few extra coins.

" The sooner we're out of here, the better. " the first smile he's been able to muster in days graces his features. It's a subtle expression of excitement, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards. He's already looking to the door, " We'd best get on our way then. "

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Dog Meshi.

[azulhood]

Jazz is wandering Gotham with Danny after their parents visited the city for a convention but left them behind in the excitement of one of their ghost traps going off on the other side of the country.

The hotel they were staying at kicked them out not caring if they had a place to stay or not, only caring that the source of money had left.

Jazz couldn't show how scared she actually was, not when Danny was looking at her with complete faith that she could somehow fix this.

How he managed to keep that faith after a day of jumping at shadows like they held enemies and vending machine food for lunch was a mystery.

She's tired, she's stressed, and she needs an adult.

Like an actual adult and not her much loved but very scatterbrained parents, Vlad did not count either.

Nightwing: *falls from great heights into nearby dumpster* ...ow.

Jazz: ...You'll do.