#my intuition tell me that that isn't right

[all-i-loved-i-loved-alone-123]

When you have this weird feeling without any particular reason about someone your dear friend is very close to but you don't know how to explain it to your friend without having the prospect of upsetting them. 🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️

[some-teeth-in-a-trench-coat]

How to get through a class in something you love when the structure is stupid and the content is too easy and a huge chunk of your self worth rests on your being genuinely good at the subject so you're going to make up all the excuses for any mistake you make and avoid things you fear will burst your bubble despite all your accomplishments in the subject and you don't have any motivation to do at all well to speak of to begin with and also you're autistic with ADHD and depression and haven't been in the education system since you dropped out of high school nearly a decade ago because of how horribly burnt out you got from it

[desertskiespodcast]

I tried to write a novel. Not once. Not twice. But about 12 times. Here's how that would play out: 1. I sit down and knock out 10 pages 2. I share it with someone 3. They say "It's goooood" like it's not good 4. I ask for critical feedback 5. They say, "Well....the plot just moves so quickly. So much happens in the first few pages it doesn't feel natural." So I'd write more drafts. I'd try to stretch out the story. I would add dialogue that I tried to make interesting but thought was boring. I would try including environment and character descriptions that felt unnecessary, (why not just let people imagine what they want?) Anyways, I gave up trying to write because in my mind, I wasn't a fiction writer. Maybe I could write a phonebook or something. But then I made a fiction podcast, and I waited for the same feedback about the fast moving plot, but guess what??? Podcasts aren't novels. The thing that made my novels suck became one of the things that made Desert Skies work. I've received some criticism since the show started, but one thing I don't receive regular complaints about is being overly-descriptive or longwinded. In fact, the opposite. It moves fast enough that it keeps peoples attention. I always felt I had a knack for telling stories but spent years beating myself up because I couldn't put those stories into novel form. The problem wasn't me. The problem was the tool I was trying to use. All that to say: If, in your innermost parts you may know that you're a storyteller but you just can't write a book, don't give up right away. You can always do things to get better and there's a lot of good resources. But if you do that for a while and novel writing just isn't your thing, try making a podcast, or creating a comic, or a poem, or a play, or a tv script. You might know you're an artist but suck at painting. Try making a glass mosaic, or miniatures, or try charcoal portraits, or embroider or collage. You might know you're a singer, but opera just isn't working out. Why not yodel? I could keep listing out examples, but the point is this. Trust your intuitions when it comes to your creative abilities, but don't inhibit yourself by becoming dogmatic about which medium you can use to express that creativity. Don't be afraid to try something new. Don't be afraid to make something new. You might just find the art form that fits the gift you knew you always had, and what it is might surprise you

[niningtori]

mastermind | oneshot

pairing: choi beomgyu x you

summary: you should be used to your relationships failing by now, but after finding out your boyfriend, yeonjun, cheated on you, you're devastated yet again. and beomgyu, your best friend, is there to pick up the pieces, just like always. but isn't it a little odd that things just never seem to work out?

genre: romance, angst, smut (MDNI), yandere

warnings: YANDERE!GYU, manipulation, gaslighting, SMUT (MDNI!) creampie, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, dirty talk, degradation, if i missed anything pls lmk!

word count: 5.1k

notes: ... hi. i'm reposting this with major edits but i hope you all still like it!

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do you love your boyfriend? of course. do you trust him? of course. so are you surprised to see a photo of him very clearly making out with another woman? well, of course.

your friends, your family, and even passersby would simply tell you you shouldn’t be, though. yeonjun used to be very well known for his sexual escapades, so when you announced he was your boyfriend, nobody was particularly happy for you. especially not your best friend in the whole world, beomgyu. 

“he’s just gonna hurt you, just like the last one!” 

you remember flinching at this. you remember how hurt and indignant you felt at the time. you also remember the silent treatment you gave him, and the cold war that began shortly thereafter. he apologized afterwards, of course, but you had asked him what was so bad about you that he couldn’t just believe that yeonjun had changed for you. he was silent at this, which only made you even angrier. it was all pointless in the end, you suppose.

as you sit on beomgyu’s couch, your phone rings again. you have a special ringtone for yeonjun, so you don’t even bother to check the caller id before you silence it. he’s been calling you incessantly since you texted him that you saw the picture and were done with him. your face is downcast and if you weren't so consumed by your sadness, you'd notice the faint look of delight in beomgyu’s eyes. 

“i think you should just block him,” he says as nonchalantly as he can muster. maybe in another state of mind, you'd register the satisfaction in his tone, but right now? all you can sense is his urgency, which can easily be explained away by selfless and sincere concern. just how he likes it.

“you’re right,” you sigh. “i guess i just don’t understand. things were going so well, and then he goes and does this to me. i don’t know what i did wrong,” you say while burying your face in your hands. he almost can’t control the way his lips want to curl up at this, but he’s become nothing if not a master of containing his true emotions. he’s kept them from your prying eyes for years, after all.

“aww, baby. it’s not you, it’s him. he’s just not the right guy for you,” he coos, but for some reason, you can’t help but be annoyed at his kindness. 

“i know you want to say i told you so, so say it,” you snap, pulling your face from your hands and scowling at him.

“i don’t want —” 

“if you wanted me to learn my lesson, i��ve learned it, alright? i don't need to be taught again,” you say with a huff. you know you’re being unreasonable. you know you’re being a bitch, but you just can’t help it. who told beomgyu to be right about your potential partners all the damn time? fuck his crazy-accurate intuition.

he looks genuinely hurt by your harsh words, though, so you can’t help but feel a wave of regret wash over you. you’re drowning in it, even, as you watch his puppy eyes gloss over.

“beomie, baby, i’m so sorry,” you say, gently grabbing his face with one hand and pushing his long hair behind his ear with the other. “i know i’m being awful to you when you’re just trying to help.”

“it’s okay,” he says solemnly, looking like a kicked puppy. “as long as you’re sorry.” somehow, his easy acceptance of your apology makes you feel even worse. you pull him in for a hug and he buries his face in your neck to a) soak up your scent and b) hide his growing smirk. but you’re too caught up in your feelings to notice.

“it’s really okay,” he assures once you part.

“no, it isn’t. i’m being a shitty friend. how about you stay over tonight? we can watch a movie and i’ll order something for us to eat,” you suggest. he graciously accepts your peace offering and the night is spent with giggles and an overt amount of cuddling.

as you’re drifting off to sleep, you feel beomgyu plant a kiss on your forehead. to anyone else, this might come across as oddly intimate, but you know better. people have said that you two would make a good couple, but you two do nothing but laugh it off every time. they just don’t understand your dynamic. he’s a man like any other, you guess, but seeing him as anything other than a friend is simply laughable. you know he feels the same exact way about you, too, which is why you are unfazed by his next words. 

“i love you. it’s just — i just love you so much, you know?” he whispers.

“aww, beomie. you know i love you, too. you’re my best friend in the whole world,” you murmur as sleep finally overcomes you.

if the lights were on, you’d see how his face falls and contorts into something like a grimace.

-

yeonjun has been spamming you like crazy, so you listen to beomgyu and block his number as well as his social media accounts. you think this whole chapter of your life is over, but, as always, you are wrong.

a week or so after your messy breakup, a sudden knock at your door pulls your attention away from mindless scrolling on your phone. you don't think much of it — it’s probably just beomgyu with some takeout, or something. however, when you look through the peephole, you realize that yeonjun is not finished bothering you just yet. 

“baby, please. i know you’re there. please, just open up. i’ll explain everything!” he pleads. you’re not particularly known for your callousness of heart, so it doesn’t take much more begging for you to feel guilty and let him in. you open your door with a sigh. 

“thank you!” yeonjun says with a look of pure relief as he hurriedly enters your apartment. he takes a seat on your couch (unprompted, you might add) and takes a shaky breath. you cautiously seat yourself on the other end of the couch and prepare to listen to whatever bullshit he has conjured up for your viewing pleasure before you decide that it’s best just to cut to the chase. ripping the band-aid off, and all that.

“look, i don’t care that you’re sorry. there’s nothing you can say to make me change my —” 

“it was beomgyu!” he exclaims before you can get another word out.

“... what?” you ask confusedly. where the hell is he going with this?

“the girl, the picture, fucking everything was all his fucking fault. he did it,” he rants. oh. he must think you’re fucking stupid.

“yeonjun, please don’t waste my time,” you sigh. “i think you should leave,” you add, getting up from your seat.

“wait!” he pleads, reaching for your hand and gently pulling you back down. “remember how i always told you that i had a weird feeling about him? like how something always felt… off?” oh well. if he wants to continue putting on a show, then so be it. besides, it’ll be a funny story to tell beomgyu later on.

you nod.

“well, he always looked at me weirdly. like, whenever i’d walk into the room, there was always this… this tension and i never knew why, but i understood it as soon as we made things official. it’s because he likes you.” you’re silent for a moment and yeonjun actually thinks he’s getting through to you before you burst into near-maniacal laughter. his face falls.

“beomgyu? beomgyu likes me?” you say between giggles. beomgyu loves you like a sister. no way in hell does he harbor a shred of romantic love for you. 

“you’re not listening,” he grunts, slightly tugging at his own hair in frustration. “he’s always been weird, and the other night at the bar, he introduced me to that girl you saw me ‘kissing’. they kept giving me drinks until i could barely fucking see straight. then she kept coming onto me, but i said no. i finally told her to kick rocks, but the next thing i knew was that she was kissing me. i know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me.” you want to dismiss everything he’s saying, but his utter sincerity seems to strike a chord within you. you can’t say you believe him, but he continues before you can properly digest his words.

“think about it. why the hell would i cheat in such a public place where all of our friends hang out? don't you think i would be smarter than that? and even if i wasn't, you know me. you know i would never cheat on you.” he seems desperate now, but it’s still hard to believe that beomgyu orchestrated this entire thing instead of the very real possibility that yeonjun just got drunk and acted recklessly.

“alright, this isn’t funny anymore. you need to stop,” you warn, not liking how much he’s making sense.

“think,” he repeats with conviction.

so you do. you think back to all of the tumultuous relationships you’ve had until now. they've all ended in different ways, yes, but they all had one common denominator: beomgyu. oh, beomgyu saw your boyfriend getting cozy with his ex. you’re having an argument with your boyfriend? beomgyu thinks he’s a piece of shit because of how he treats you, you obviously deserve better! wait, your boyfriend keeps taking too long to text you back? he’s just losing interest! it’s clearly better to break it off now rather than getting too invested when you’re inevitably going to break up, anyway. and all the other greatest hits. your face twists from focused to horrified as the realization sinks into your bones. it's beomgyu. it’s always been beomgyu. 

you look to yeonjun with pure shock in your eyes and he meets your gaze with a look of sympathy. you finally get it. 

“junie, i’m so sorry,” you say, tears springing into your eyes. “i’m so sorry i doubted you.” 

“it’s okay,” he replies with a melancholy smile. “he manipulated you.” 

“does… does that mean we’re back together now?” you ask, voice tinged with hope. his smile falters at your question, and you feel a sense of dread.

“i need some time,” he says after a pause, dropping his hand from yours. “you really hurt me. i understand that beomgyu manipulated you, but it really hurts that you didn't trust me, you know?” 

“i understand,” you quietly reply. you’d be hurt if the tables were turned — it’s only natural. you just hope to god above that you haven’t let beomgyu ruin another good thing for you.

-

beomgyu is confused as to why you’ve been ignoring him for the better part of a week. you don’t respond when he texts or calls, and his intuition is telling him that it has something to do with yeonjun. maybe you’re just shutting down because of the breakup? it was particularly brutal this time around, after all. he’s lucky that yeonjun has such a lascivious sexual history, or else you might not have bought his little charade, even with the proof presented directly in front of you. that’s how much you love(d) yeonjun. the thought causes jealousy to rear its ugly head in his stomach, but whatever. there’s no way you’re going back to him after the way the scandal has made its way through your social life. even if you do want to get back together with him, there's no way your pride will let you. your pride has been a particularly nasty sort of obstacle in beomgyu’s pursuit of you, but it’s absolutely delicious to be able to use it against you like this. serves you fucking right.

still, it’s his job as your dutiful best friend to cheer you up. with this in mind, he picks up your favorite takeout and heads to your place. he smiles when he imagines the way you’ll gratefully embrace him once you realize that he’s here for you. maybe this time you’ll understand that he’s always been the one who’s there for you when someone hurts you. maybe this time will be his big break, finally freeing him from the purgatory he has been in for god knows how long.

he knocks on your door with a hopeful smile on his face. surprisingly, you’re swinging the door open mere seconds later with your eyes similarly lit up with hope.

“yeon— oh. it’s you,” you say, deflating immediately. there’s a certain sense of resentment in your tone that he catches onto, but he chalks it up to disappointment. his face falls. goddamn it. damn it all to hell.

“i brought you some food to cheer you up,” he says while shaking the plastic takeout bag, completely ignoring the slip of another man’s name. 

he invites himself in, slipping off his shoes and sitting down on the couch as he usually does. 

he waits for you to join him, but when he looks up at you, all he sees is you staring at him, arms crossed and face contorted in anger. surely you can’t be that upset that he’s not yeonjun, right? now that he thinks about it, why would you be expecting yeonjun, anyway? hadn’t you effectively cut him off? did you talk to him and take him back after all that (you think) he’s done? that can’t be right. unless… unless you actually let him talk to you. oh god, please tell him that’s not what happened.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, face devoid of anything deeper than curiosity and worry. 

you’re silent for a moment before you carefully choose your next words.

“i talked to yeonjun,” you reply, and his heart sinks to his stomach. “he told me some… interesting things.”

beomgyu hopes you don’t notice how hard he gulps. you do not.

“what did he say?” he asks, face tense but still showing no clear signs of guilt. 

“he told me what happened that night. he told me how you got him drunk and basically forced that girl onto him. he also said that you’re the reason none of my relationships work out,” you declare, opting to stop beating around the bush and just get some answers. you study his face for a crack of some sort, but there is none.

“and what do you think?” he asks quietly.

“i think… i think he might be telling the truth,” is what you say, but you’re sounding increasingly unsure with every word because beomgyu looks more hurt than you’ve ever seen him.

“you believe him over me?” he asks, voice cracking and lips trembling with his brown eyes glossed over in what you can only describe as devastation. god, either beomgyu’s a really good actor, yeonjun’s a really good actor, or you’re just fucking stupid.

“i… i don’t know what to think, beomgyu,” you whisper after a pause. all he does is nod before his next words pierce your heart.

“is that why you’ve been ignoring me?”

jesus christ. you were so sure that yeonjun was telling the truth when he told you about beomgyu, so ignoring him only seemed natural under the circumstances, but he looks every bit like the victim in light of your accusations. his trembling lips and wounded gaze make you want to strangle yourself for ever doubting him. as you feel yourself being consumed with remorse, though, you remember the sincerity and desperation in yeonjun’s words. maybe this was all a huge misunderstanding? maybe they’re both convinced that they’re right? 

“y-yes. i’m sorry. i was just confused. maybe he just misunderstood?” you babble. he likes your hesitancy, but it’s still wearing on his patience. as much as he wants to say he can’t believe that you’d question him because of some guy you dated, he can believe it when it comes to you. you always, always, always hurt him like this, and he’s had just about enough.

“and what if it’s true?” he asks, pathetic facade wiped clean off of his face while something more somber replaces it entirely. your eyes lock with his and you’re stunned silly. 

“what?” is all you can manage to reply with. 

“what if i pushed that girl onto yeonjun? what if i ruined all of your relationships? what would you do?” 

“so it’s true?!” is all you can say, guilt flaring into sheer rage and hurt. 

“so what if it is?” he asks, as if he doesn’t comprehend how twisted this is.

“so… so how could you do that to me?!” 

“i was only doing what’s best for you,” he impatiently replies. “they were only gonna hurt you, can’t you see that? even before i did anything, there were still all those men who cheated on you, lied to you, used you. what’s wrong with wanting to protect you from people like them? i just couldn’t stand to see you living like that!” he argues, clearly believing he’s completely justified in all of this.

sure, you’ve been hurt before even without his intervention, but that doesn’t mean he can just play puppeteer in your love life to “protect” you from anything similar happening ever again. you trusted him and he manipulated you. he acted like a knight in shining armor this entire time while knowingly sabotaging any potentially good thing that could come your way. and he did it all because he wants to protect you? bullshit. 

“you know, i thought that even if everyone other man in the world could hurt me, you never would,” you say shakily, either from sadness or anger. maybe both. “i guess i was wrong.”

“hurt you?! hurt is watching the person you love fuck other people over and over and over again! hurt is watching you laugh me off and never even fucking considering me as an option, goddamn it!” he yells while slamming his hand on your coffee table. 

“so your solution was to fuck up every relationship i have just to have me to yourself?! do you not realize how fucked up that is?!” you yell back, trying to appear unfazed by his increasingly enraged behavior. he seems to falter at this, genuinely at a loss for words at your unforgiving pinpointing of his erratic actions. the desperate, eager-to-please beomgyu you know all too well is finally back and you feel your confidence surge because of it.

“i only did that because —”

“why? because you love me? or think you do?” you mock with a hollow laugh. “you don’t purposely ruin the life of someone you love.” he looks genuinely wounded by your words. 

“but i —”

“i don’t care. get out,” you say mercilessly. you’re absolutely through with listening to his fucked up ideations about love and what his twisted moral compass deems as justified because of it. you’re so preoccupied with preaching on your soapbox, you don’t even realize his attitude has once again shifted from the compliant beomgyu to the one you don’t recognize at all. 

“... no,” he says flatly. 

“did you not fucking hear me? i said get out,” you repeat through clenched teeth. normally, your raised hackles would be enough to scare him off, so you figure he’ll tuck his tail and leave right about now. oh, how wrong you are.

“are you deaf?” he asks with a sneer. “i said no.”

“what do you mean, no?” you ask. somewhere in the depths of your mind, alarm bells begin ringing, but it’s far too late to heed them. plus, you’re still under the impression that he’ll bend to your will. 

“oh, so you’re not deaf. just stupid,” he snorts. your jaw is agape at his audacity. beomgyu has caught an attitude and gotten fresh with you before, sure, but nothing like this. to say you’re dumbstruck would be to put things in the mildest of terms. you can barely get out your next sentence.

“w-what do you mean?” 

“i’m not leaving this apartment,” he says firmly, and before you can even ask him to explain, he’s dragging you away with a painful grip.

“ow! beomgyu, you’re hurting m—” 

“shut up. i told you what real hurt is, but you're not fucking listening. i don't want to hear another word come out of your mouth,” he says in a monotone voice. if the alarm bells were ringing in the depths of your mind before, they’re absolutely blaring at the forefront of your brain right now. 

“what are y-you —”

“i thought i told you to shut up,” he snaps before roughly grabbing your face and planting his lips on yours. the kiss is crude. it’s absolutely vulgar with the way it’s all tongue and teeth and saliva, but after a few seconds of uncertainty, you find yourself melting into it. this is wrong. you two are the best of friends, almost like brother and sister. and more than that, you love yeonjun, right? you’re supposed to be working on getting back together with him, aren’t you? but your reason starts to be sucked away as you feel his hands caress your body, leaving nothing but fire in their wake.

you don’t know how you got here, almost completely naked as you lay on your back while beomgyu continues attacking your lips. it’s blazing hot and you can’t help but feel your underwear becoming wet with every moan that escapes his mouth and consequently reverberates onto your tongue. as if he already knows the intricacies of your internal battle, one of his hands finds its way to your now soaking wet pussy and he uses his index and middle fingers to spread the slickness around. he swirls his fingers around your hole and just barely pushes one of them into the entrance. you gasp at the shallow intrusion and you can feel his notorious shit-eating grin pressed across your lips as he feels how tight you are. you’re ridiculously turned on and he knows it. he pauses his actions only to unzip his pants and yank them down to his knees. your eyes widen at what you can only describe as his huge appendage, all reddened and already leaking. you feel your cunt throbbing with even more need at the sight, but your last shred of reason still makes you hesitate.

“beomgyu, we can't… we're friends, and yeonjun is —”

“can’t you just let me make you feel good? god, you’re making this so difficult, but what the fuck else is new,” he growls. 

he's right. you are making things difficult. there's no way of salvaging your friendship after this, so what's the point in holding back now? you realize that while he may be absolutely unhinged, his feelings for you are real. do you reciprocate them? you don’t know yet, but the thought of him doting on another person the same way he dotes on you makes you feel uneasy. as for yeonjun? well, he deserves better than the cesspool of turbulent emotions that you currently find yourself in. 

“you still sure you don’t want me?” he asks cockily. you, with all of your pride, can only muster up a feeble shake of your head. he knew the answer before you gave it to him, but his condescending gaze shows you that your words have scratched a certain itch of his.

he rubs his hardened length against your folds and it’s all you can do to resist locking your ankles around his waist and pulling him into you, but something stops you. protection. you don’t even have to say it, because he knows you too well for your own good.

“let me fuck you raw,” he says breathily, just barely poking his length into your tight hole. “i know you need it, baby. just let me take care of you.” you’re silent for a moment before pinching out your next words.

“p-pull out?” he won’t because he knows you’ll be begging him for his cum when he’s done with you, and you already know he won’t, even when he nods and promises he will. you don't know why you even asked. 

the ache you feel to have him buried inside you is quickly replaced by the ache you feel once he begins to stretch you out. it’s a stinging, burning sort of pain, but that’s nothing in comparison to the pure pleasure you feel as his flared tip drags along your walls. he begins with thrusting shallowly, fucking you open like you’re a virgin, and you’re so tight while he’s so big, you might as well be. 

painfully slowly, he pushes each and every inch of himself into your gummy hole. he reaches places you didn’t even know existed and stretches you open so good all you have the brainpower to call the sensation is fullness. overwhelming fullness. when he finally sheathes himself in you completely, a strangled cry leaves both of your throats as you feel him throbbing inside of you and he, in turn, feels you pulsating around him. 

after you adjust, you expect him to start drilling into you with reckless abandon, but he does nothing of the sort. just watches you with a strange look on his face. 

“b-beomie? what are you doing?” you ask pathetically, head raising up from its place on the pillows to meet his wanton gaze.

“beg me for it.”

“beg for w—” your question is interrupted by a sharp smack on your sensitive pussy. 

“beg me for it. beg me to fuck you like a whore. i won’t tell you again,” he says menacingly. your bleary eyes are so confused, so stupid, and so, so cute, but he’s determined to use the last of his self-control to get you to feel even a fraction of the desperation he’s felt for years. well, even if you don’t, he’ll spend the whole night fucking you dumb until you do. but you’re so hungry for his dick, you don’t even realize that he’s bluffing.

finally, you understand what he’s asking of you, and you waste no time to comply. 

“n-need your cock, beomie. need you to make me f-feel good,” you say, trying to retain even a semblance of your dignity. this brings a mean smirk to his face, but he’s not done with you, yet.

“surely you can do better than that?” he taunts, rocking his hips ever so slightly so you can feel every inch of his length and girth teasingly hitting your cervix, but providing no relief. fuck your dignity. you need him.

“please! please, i need you! need your cock to fill me up!” you whine.

“mhmm, and?”

“need you to fuck me! need you to fill me up with your cum!” well, there goes your resolve to have him pull out. this seems to satisfy his sadistic desires.

“oh, my love. all you had to do was ask,” he says with a grin. and that’s when he starts. 

his hips meet yours in the most punishing way, and that’s what this is: a punishment for the way you’ve treated him all these years. you can feel it in the way that his fingernails dig into your skin and in the way that he mercilessly presses down on your tummy until all you can feel is pressure building up to something unknown.

“who else can fuck you like this? who else can split you open like this?” he asks as lewd squelches reverberate throughout the room. 

“n-nobody! only you, beomie!” you cry.

“that’s my good girl, such a good girl. baby just needs me to use her like a fucktoy, right?” and all you can do is whine and clench in carnal need as the poor springs of your bed squeak with every unforgiving thrust.

“oh, you like that, don’t you?” he snickers. “you like being my little whore. you’re just a toy for me, alright? free to use whenever i feel like it.” you nod in agreement and he lets out a chuckle as he pounds into you at an unimaginable speed, balls slapping your ass with every fiery thrust. each time he pumps into you, your pussy’s clamping down on him and sucking him in like that’s where he’s meant to be. and maybe it is. 

“god, i’m close,” he groans after pumping into you for what feels like hours, and you whimper like a bitch in heat. “honey, don’t worry,” he tuts. “i’ll fuck you every day, i’ll fill you with my cum so you can’t leave. not that you’ll want to after this. you’re made for me, made to be my cumdump whenever i want.” 

“y-yes!” you shriek, somehow liking the idea of being full of his cum forever and ever. 

“that’s my girl. baby just wants me to fuck her good. that’s all you needed, right? that’s why you’ve been such a brat. you just needed me to show you what it’s like to be fucked right,” he says, rolling your clit for good measure, which is enough to make you reach your high as it comes crashing down around you. beomgyu wasn’t lying when he said he was close, so when he feels you clenching around his big cock as if you’re milking him for all that he’s worth, you feel it twitching before hot bursts of cum paint your inner walls until you’re leaking white and seeing stars. he continues with slow, lazy pumps until he softens. you stay like that for an indeterminable amount of time, breathing raggedly while your bodies are overcome with thrums of delight. 

when he finally pulls out and lays down beside you, bodies slick with sheens of sweat, he pushes your hair back behind your ear and plants a kiss on your temple. shakily, he takes his hand and rubs it along your distended tummy, full of his cum. he lovingly strokes it with an awed smile on his face.

“such a good girl for me,” he repeats. “i can’t wait until you’re pregnant. you’ll have as many babies as i can give you, right?” and all you can do is nod deliriously. he smiles in satisfaction as you eagerly agree to his every nasty, perverted thought. “god, i love you so much. and you love me too, right? say it. say you love me.”

“i love you.” and you realize that you do.  this man is deranged, but he’s yours, and for better or for worse, you're his. especially now that you might very well be carrying his children. and even if you aren’t, you know he’ll make good on his promises to keep fucking you until you are. should you be glad that he effectively ruined every potential relationship for you? you were unsure before, but you realize that nobody has or ever will love you as much as he does, even if he has a demented way of showing it. well, it is what it is. there’s no way out after this.

notes pt. 2: i hope this goes over better after the editing!

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[macfrog]

sweet child o' mine | pt. ii

hi. this is max's lawyer speaking. please don't get mad at her for this part. she asked me to let you know that she loves you all and hopes that you trust her. sincerely, jimmy mcgill

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: you're pregnant with joel miller's kid. he's dating someone else. you deal with it.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy stuff like nausea (none of the v word, y'all are safe with me), ultrasound scene set in a hospital, anxiety and guilt surrounding pregnancy, description of body change/growth, brief and i mean brief discussion of abortion, joel is dating someone who isn't reader, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), reader has no physical description save for hair, cursing, genderless use of buddy when referring to baby, joel kisses someone who is not his partner, mention of alcohol, disturbing & semi-graphic nightmare about being involved in car accident, reader has a panic attack, discussion of dead parents, fluff and the beginnings of angst DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there's ever anything you feel i've missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 9.2k

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

“I know, I know,” Joel holds a palm up, “it’s nine thirty. I know. But I had to lug all this wood over here, and it – You okay?”

You realize when he pauses that you’re gaping at him, wide-eyed and frozen in place behind your front door. Your jaw hinges shut, a gulp like carpet burn down your throat. You didn’t hear a word he just said.

How does he know? He can’t possibly. Did he sense it, from two lawns away? Dream about the binding of cells, the furnace left lit in your body from that night? The embers still floating, just waiting to catch to life again?

Did he do the fucking math, the way you probably should’ve? How does he fucking know?

The minute the question leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Joel’s eyebrows drop. “How did I know what, kid? That you need new closets? Like you ain’t been nipping my ear about ‘em for weeks?”

Your eyes unlock from his and shift to the slats of wood leaning against the balustrade. The toolbox hanging from his fist. The worn jeans and the white dust marks on his thighs. He doesn’t fucking know, you idiot.

Joel steps forward. Takes your wrist. One grounding, steady hand around your thrashing pulse. “You’re freaking me out. What the hell’s –?”

“Nothing,” you chirp, remembering. The closet. The deal. The fucking – the deal. You withdraw your arm. Hidden up your sleeve, quickly slipping out of his grasp, is the news that his life is about to change forever.

Maybe. You don’t fucking know.

“No,” you continue, blinking the burn of sunlight from your vision, “I just – I forgot. Sorry. Come in. Sorry.”

“Quit sayin’ sorry,” he mutters, eyeing you suspiciously. He lifts a foot and hovers it over the threshold, hesitating. Like the first step across a minefield; instinct telling him to tread carefully.

And you swear an oath to yourself, swear it on your own life: if he doesn’t put the heel of his boot in your hallway, if he turns around right now whether because his instinct is razor sharp, or because he forgot his lucky screwdriver, or purely because he needs to take a fucking leak before he gets started – you will never tell him. He will never know.

If his intuition is that good, he’ll turn around and never show up on your porch again. If he has any sense, he’ll forget any of this ever happened. Deal off.

“How’s the stomach?” Joel asks, sole still three inches from wood.

“What?” you bleat, your heel knocking against the bottom stair. It’s a little more panicked than you intended.

“Yesterday,” a crease forms between his brows, “you said you had a weird stomach. That any better?”

Oh, you think, and as you open your mouth to reply, his foot hits the ground. No answer needed. He was coming in whether you tried to deter him or not.

“Oh, yeah. It’s – Well, it’s better than it was. I think I worked it out,” you grimace, tongue curling under the tinge of anxiety and – well. “Thanks,” you add, noticing the brisk cut of your replies.

The heavy thud of his footsteps follows you upstairs, blunt on the carpet as you lead him up. Joel sets the toolbox down and casts your room a quick glance, snapping back to you as soon as you notice him.

You tug on the corner of the bedsheets, a heat bubbling beneath your cheeks. Something shy and self-conscious, all of a sudden. The reality that you don’t feel close enough to this man to share the anatomy of your room with him, mixed with the knowledge that the two of you are, now and forever, bound by the anatomy of something a little more significant than dirty laundry and dusty wardrobes.

A little closer than most humans get, let’s say.

“You want a coffee or something?” you ask, crossing your arms and leaning back against the window sill.

“You havin’ one?”

“Sure. Wait – actually –” Can you have coffee whilst pregnant? A woman at work quit it altogether when she fell pregnant with her son. Fuck. “I’m – No. I’m good. But let me go make you one.”

Joel shakes his head, amused. Screwdriver burrowing into a door hinge already. He flashes you a tickled grin. “I’m good just now, kid. Wait until you’re makin’ one. Thanks.”

You lift a shoulder. “Welcome.”

His eyes flit from the twist of silver to your hunched shoulders, your arms crossed protectively over your chest. “You gonna stand there ‘n watch me all day? You my foreman now?”

“Sure,” you reply, and he laughs. You sniff, twisting your foot into the carpet. The plastic test itches against your skin; you can feel the two lines ripping into your wrist like tiny burns. “I can go, if you want.”

His lip turns, musing. A quick flick of his jaw. “You’re good company, all in all.”

Metal clanking against metal; fingers knuckle-deep in the toolbox. You can hear the harsh sound across your body, like the point of screws and bite of rust are actually scoring your skin. The groan of a near-fifty-year-old man rising to rip a decades-old door from its home. The creak of wood as it splits.

Everything so heightened that it’s actually painful.

Joel straightens up and pauses, turning his screwdriver between his fingers. “Are we –? We’re good, right?”

“Good?”

“Yeah. You’d tell me if things were weird?”

“Why would things be weird?”

His answer scrawls itself across his face. Your response scoffs from your lips.

“I just,” Joel sighs, “I feel like something might be off with ya. Maybe you just ain’t feelin’ too hot. But you’re quiet.”

“Quiet,” you whisper, palms locking heavily against your biceps. More defensive than convincing.

“Yeah. You usually annoy the hell outta me.”

Over your shoulder, Alice Brown waddles down her driveway, eyeing her flowerbeds. She pauses when Diane’s station wagon pulls up across the street; stands motionless as she watches the round figure climb out and totter to her own front door.

“Just – not in a very annoying mood, I guess,” you offer, staring at the white head of hair fluttering in the breeze. The glint of a trowel in her hand.

Joel’s chin lifts. He studies you, tongue tracing the ridges of his teeth. And then he’s nearing you, turning until you’re shoulder to shoulder, two silhouettes stood against the bright square of blue sky inside your window frame. His arms crossed; his stare fixed.

The words begin to boil in your stomach. Violent bubbles against the wall of your midriff. Rising like steam, fading into nothingness over your tongue, the sting of heat where your voice won’t collect them.

Joel moves from foot to foot. It feels like some kind of merry dance, some choreographed moment between you – like a skit in a comedy show. I know something you don’t know.

“What happened – at the wedding,” he murmurs, addressing the polished gold of your bedframe.

Some small sound passes your lips. An affirmative. You’re on the same page.

“We didn’t use – you know. And with you not feelin’ well, it’s…” A deep breath. Chest full of a ghostly bravery. And then he asks, “Are you –?”

Silence swallows the end of his question whole. You didn’t need it, anyway. The stiffness of his frame, his stare shooting straight ahead. The lack of oxygen between you – both holding your breath for fear that something might tear loose from your lungs. He knows. He knows he knows he knows.

You gulp. “…If I was?”

His head cranes upwards, focusing on the cracked plaster of your ceiling. The realization slowly trickling down over his skin. It hasn’t seeped through, hasn’t bled into his brain yet. “Then,” another breath, “then it’d be a conversation…” His voice is halved, split somewhere between knowing and – what is it? Hoping?

Your eyes slip over to the worn sleeve of his T-shirt, stretched around the swell of his bicep; scaling up to his shoulder, the tight set of his jaw. He’s so much taller, he’s so much older. There’s so much life lived and so many lessons learned behind his eyes that you wonder how much the news I’m pregnant would actually crack him.

Your eyes meet. You whisper, “Then – talk,” and his expression softens.

He blinks away whatever’s left of his trying, his polite attempts to skirt around it. He sheds probably a good three decades – turns back into some doe-eyed boy, wonderstruck and terrified. His voice is quiet, and at the same time, the heaviest with emotion you’ve ever heard it. “Are you?” he asks, and immediately, he blurs behind a wall of tears.

Your sentence gets caught in your teeth. It made no sense to begin with. Tangled between your molars, latching at the back of your tongue. Your hand slowly pulls free from your sleeve, the little white test between your fingers.

Joel’s eyes instantly drop, staring at the pale stick with a fraught expression you understand to mean the message has finally reached his brain. The same words now ringing between his ears: She’s pregnant. She’s pregnant. I got her pregnant.

You hold the test out, quivering in the daylight. He takes it in his thumbs, instantly soothing its tremble. Everything muted, every movement steady and considered. And suddenly the sight of that positive test feels less scary, in his hands. Feels like a smaller problem, if that were ever possible.

And he says nothing, and it’s almost unbearable to watch the shape of his lips thin, the shadow beneath his brows darken. Agonizing to stand here and wonder what the next words over his tongue will be.

He stares at it a moment longer. You count the beats of your pulse in your throat. You wrap your arms tighter around your body, holding your skeleton together.

Joel’s lips part. Your breath freezes. Whatever he says, you don’t want to miss a syllable.

“Are you –” he blinks, “– are you feelin’ okay?”

You stare blankly. His eyes finally lift.

“What?”

“Are you feeling okay?”

Your head jerks. “I’m – I’m fine. I mean, I’m fucking shocked.”

He nods. “How long have you known?”

“Took that right before you showed up,” you say, eyes diving to his hands. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

He’s still switching between you and the test. Checking those two lines are still there, as if they might fade to nothing, and then checking you’re still there – as if you might, too. Might be swept off if he’s not keeping an eye on you.

His face pales. He sinks back against the window ledge. “Jesus,” he breathes, a hand down the scruff of his chin.

And it feels like relief, like a mirror sat before you, presenting the honest truth: you’re fucked, and Joel thinks so, too. It embeds the shock into the cushion of your brain, the weight of it absorbed and laid bare for every particle in your body to pay it a visit. What the fuck do we do now?

“Yeah,” you sniff, “Jesus.”

But then his arm wraps around your shoulder, reminding you you’re still solid. Still whole. He holds you to his side, and when you turn into him, he takes you in the other and pulls you flat against his chest. His lips to your hair. His breathing slowing yours.

“We’re gonna work it out,” he says into your hair. “We’re gonna – Jesus, I did not expect…We are goin’ to be fine, alright? You are goin’ to be fine.”

You’re nodding, the prickle of tears flooding across your eyes again. They’re doing nothing, his words – blunt against your skin and insignificant to the fear swelling around your heart – but it feels better to be afraid with someone. Feels better to hold onto something stronger, something bigger, while you feel yourself beginning to shrink.

“What do we do?” you ask into his shirt.

Joel loosens his grip, pulls away until you’re staring at one another. “What do you wanna do?”

“I don’t…” Your head’s shaking, lips moving quicker than your voice will offer the words over. “I don’t think I want to get rid of it.”

He nods, a hand coming up to hold your cheek. “Alright. Then you don’t have to. You don’t gotta do anythin’ you’re not comfortable with.”

“But,” you sniff, guiltily averting his gaze, “this fucks everything up. Everything’s about to change.”

Joel takes a long, slow breath. “It complicates some things, that’s for sure.” He looks out to the street; Alice Brown now hauling weeds from the edge of her lawn. In his exhale, he breathes a name.

“V…What?”

He looks down. Eyes dance around your damp cheeks. “Vanessa,” he says, clearer now.

“Vanessa?”

A nod. His nose wriggles with an awkward sniff. You push off from his chest.

“Who the hell is Vanessa?”

Joel lets you go; lets you step back. He watches as you brace yourself against the ledge. Runs a hand through his hair while he fixes the right order of words. He’s thinking. Carefully.

Too fucking carefully. He’s taking too long.

“Joel. Who’s Vanessa?”

“She’s…” He sighs. “She’s my ex. From Tommy’s wedding. Vanessa Hart.”

Your jaw slackens. The purple dress. The hair like silk, a halo around her head where the light kissed her perfectly. Her plump lips; the way her head tipped back to laugh. The amount of air you felt her take up the second you laid eyes on her, the second you saw her, arm on top of Joel’s.

“Vanessa,” you whisper, your eyes descending his frame. The memory feels menacing now: her sweet giggle a sneering cackle, and you’ve no idea why. The bulky jewels around her neck, her clawed fingers on his arm.

Joel’s hand sits inches from yours on the wooden sill. Alice is walking back inside.

“We, uh…we swapped numbers the morning after the wedding, at breakfast. I didn’t think much of it, but we’ve seen each other a couple times since.”

This isn’t the time for another it’s a date, it’s not a date argument. What the fuck does he mean by –

“Seen each other?”

“Mhm.” He owes you better than that. He reckons so, too. “Dates,” he clarifies. “We’ve been on a couple dates.”

“Oh.”

Your heart falls to the pit of your stomach. Plummets, dragging with it your breath and your nerve and any other words you can think of. Your chest gnaws at the edges of the cavity left behind. It hurts. It stings.

Though you’ve no right for it to hurt or sting: as far as you were concerned, as far as you think Joel was concerned, that night was a one-off. It meant as little as the alcohol draining from your glasses, the vacant buzz of love and hope loose in the air. Equally as intoxicating as each other.

Cataclysmic, for the first little while. So heavily awkward that you would wait to watch Joel head out in the morning, clear of your path, before you’d set off for work. It felt like the aftermath of some natural disaster – the cleanup of debris and mistake.

But oh, it feels like a punch to the gut. Low, unexpected; a foul move by someone who never meant to hurt or not hurt you. Someone ignorant to every move he made, right up to this moment.

Your arms wrap around your body again, as though tending to the bruise left by the sucker punch shaped something like that tall woman named Vanessa.

Joel scratches the back of his neck. “We were…we were seein’ about starting things up again. Me ‘n her.”

“Yeah,” you nod, “I got you. That’s – I mean, I’m – I’m sorry, Joel, I –”

“Woah, woah,” he’s stepping forward now, “hey, no. No way. This wasn’t you. Well, shoot – it kinda was you. But it was just as much me, right?”

You smile, your face back in the safe hold of his hands. Tears roll down your cheeks, collecting in the corners of your mouth. His thumbs swipe them away.

“This was just as much me,” he repeats, voice soft and soothing.

“But, you know – if you wanted to – just ‘cause I don’t want to get – so if you didn’t wanna have to – that’d be okay, you know that, right?”

His head snaps back, brows low. It’s the first time he looks like his cool has broken all morning. It’s the first time he looks…downright offended. “Are you kidding me?” he asks, and then, “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I just – I know this ain’t ideal. It’s even worse if you’re tryna make it work with Vanessa. So if you felt like it was too much, then…”

Joel shakes his head. “Shut up,” he says, edged with some kind of groan. “Stop talking, right now. Stop. You gotta take a deep breath, alright? I’m here, ‘n I mean I’m here. We’re in this together. I am not running out on you.”

“Joel –”

What was a mere crack in his cool before, rips through it now like lightning spreading across the sky. He closes his eyes, a sigh escaping between his teeth. “If you think I would leave you right now, to deal with this on your own –”

“I don’t,” you tell him, his vexation powering your sudden animation. You wipe your tears away, shaking your head. “I’m just saying, it’s a fucking lot. I don’t want you to feel trapped. I’m giving you an out, man.”

“I am not interested in taking it. Enough. Conversation over.”

“And what about Vanessa?”

“What about her?” he asks, the question dripping in something akin to anger. He catches himself, draws it back in. “She’ll just – We’ll talk, I’ll explain it. The hell else can we do? One thing at a time, okay?”

“Right,” you nod, “okay. One thing at a time.”

“Let’s just build these damn wardrobes. I sure as hell didn’t lug all that timber over here to not do ‘em.”

“Okay,” you repeat, making for the door.

“Ah.” He clicks, and you turn back. “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

“To get the timber.”

“I don’t think so,” he says, pointing to your bed. “Sit down. Relax. You ain’t getting a damn thing.”

Joel calls it a day at six o’clock.

The skeleton of the closet is up: a smooth, tan frame lining one wall of your room. Much bigger, much sturdier than its predecessor.

You’re in the same spot he left you in: lying across your bed, admiring his handiwork. He’s good at what he does. You told him twice, and the two of you almost heaved both times. Compliments aren’t something you’re used to handing one another.

He left, maybe, three hours ago. Said he had to shower; said he’d be back first thing to finish the job. You sat up to see him out, got struck by a wave of nausea so bad that you fell back to the bed with one hand on your stomach and the other over your lips, and Joel had insisted – demanded – that you stay where you were.

I’ll be back later to check on ya, he assured, setting a glass of water at your bedside. And then he told you to call him if you felt even remotely off – sick, or panicked, or had a tickle in your throat that you couldn’t clear – and that’s when the two of you realized that you don’t even have one another’s numbers.

And you laughed, the both of you; laughed at the absurdity of you carrying his child when you don’t even carry his contact details in your phone. Laughed at how quickly everything has turned one hundred and eighty degrees in the few hours since you woke up. It felt like some form of release, the only way to clear the blockage of tension in both your throats. So, you laughed, until you felt sick again, and Joel swept the hair from your shoulders to cool you down.

The attentiveness is…new. It’s interesting. It’s kind, in the same way that being told to say hi to whoever your grandma is talking to in the grocery store, is kind. Sweet, the same way that answering the door on Halloween to a bunch of kids you don’t know from a street you don’t recognize the name of, is sweet.

Whatever. It’s fucking weird, alright?

You’ve never seen this side of Joel. You didn’t know or even think, in your wildest dreams, that he existed. Let’s face it: you two have spent the entirety of your inhabitance next door to one another, antagonizing each other. Your favorite hobby has always been pissing Joel off – teasing him for having backache, seeing how far down his porch you can launch his newspaper and he’ll still go get it. Playing the same kind of music you heard him playing on his guitar that one time, full-volume from your kitchen window just to fuck with him.

And, likewise: his favorite hobby has always been…well, ignoring you. Doing everything he can not to engage. If it weren’t for that fucking cat lady and her jittery green Chevrolet, none of this would’ve ever happened. She was a catalyst where one was neither needed nor wanted. You would’ve gone about your life, pinning your underwear only slightly more carefully to your clothesline, and Joel would’ve gone about his, doing – whatever the fuck he does.

Sure, it’s weird. But it’s nice. It’s nice to have him on your side, turning to check on you rather than snap at you for something. Nice to have him talk – actual, rounded words in place of grumbles and mumbles and groans and sighs. Nice to hang out with him and watch him work and ask questions about screws and power tools and pretend to be interested just to distract from the weight of queasiness in your stomach.

Your hands trail down, cupping around your navel. Your stomach still feels like your stomach: still soft, still spongey under your touch. If not for the two more tests you’d taken this afternoon, perched on the bathroom counter waiting for Joel to unstick his gaze from his watch and announce, That’s three minutes – both also positive, by the way – you’d have no fucking clue.

You hold the bottom half of your tummy, fingers rubbing gently over the skin that will soon enough grow and swell and protect.

“Hey,” you whisper, staring at the stationary ceiling fan overhead. A pause. An awkward inhale. “…hey, little buddy. I don’t – know you very well, yet. I figure you can’t even fucking hear me, but whatever. Just wanted to say hi. I’m – Ew, no. I’m not Mom, yet. What the fuck. I don’t know who I am right now, so just…maybe go easy on me until I figure that part out. And after, too. Alright? Are we…we cool?

“You can’t tell me, I know. I just have to assume we’re cool. Okay. Well. Keep growin’. Keep…doing your thing. You’re doing great. We’re doing – we’re doing alright.

“Good job, kid. Good job.”

Joel tells Vanessa two days later. She takes it…about as well as you might hope.

He says they talked for four hours. Three cups of coffee and a drive to Taco Bell later, she agreed to meet you. Properly. Not across the cluttered dancefloor of Tommy’s wedding.

She –? Is – is that a good idea?

I don’t know, kid. It’s the best I’ve got.

Meet me? Like, come kick my ass for sleeping with her boyfriend?

Joel had sighed and deadened his eyes on yours. Not her boyfriend, he corrected, passing you a sweater folded a little slapdash for your liking, and wasn’t her boyfriend when we slept together.

You shook the sweater straight again and fixed his work, muttering to yourself that at least he’s a better builder than he is a folder.

Joel heard you, and let it go. Passed you another – unfolded – sweater to sit in your wardrobe. Let’s just see how it goes, alright?

Alright.

We’re really trying this again. It’s only been a couple weeks.

Okay.

And neither of us have had much luck in that department since we broke it off, y’know?

Joel. I said okay.

He held your gaze a moment too long. Okay.

You’re on your porch when he strolls over, wrist blocking the six o’clock sun from his eyes. Newspaper in his fist, wind licking the corners. “Forget somethin’ today?” he asks, meeting you at the top of the steps.

“Came out to get it,” you brace yourself on the railing, “felt sick. This is me workin’ up to it.”

“You want me to toss it back onto my lawn so you can go fetch me it?”

You smile, eyes screwing shut. “Was coming over to ask what time for tomorrow.”

The reminder snaps him from his happy daydream. He says, “I was comin’ to ask you the same thing. Seven work?”

“Seven’s good. Are we getting food?”

“You wanna get food? I figured maybe you wouldn’t be up for it, what with the, uh…” Joel gestures to your hunched position, your head low between your shoulders, your deep, deliberate breaths.

“Maybe just drinks,” you utter, gulping back the sharp taste of bile.

He nods. “Drinks it is. You okay? You need anything?”

“I’m good. Thanks. See you guys at seven.”

Four minutes early, there’s a knock at your door. You pull it open, and there they are. Picture-perfect, like they might be posing for a holiday card. A bottle in his arm, a bunch of flowers in hers. A timid but genial smile between her cheeks, a twinkle in her eye. That same circle of shining light around her head, brunette tresses curled into bouncing waves.

“Howdy,” Joel says, stepping into the space you create. He dips his head, kisses your cheek, whispers a brief, Y’okay? in your ear. You nod quickly, gently shifting him out of the way.

Vanessa lingers for a moment in the doorway. She glances from Joel to you again, blinking in the porch light. Her pale skin lit in an ethereal glow. She’s prettier up close.

Joel addresses you, hand brushing the small of your back, “…this is Vanessa.”

“Hi,” she says, and pushes the flowers towards you – a small bouquet of gypsophila and eucalyptus. Bright, polite. Each sprig laden with the burden of appearing simpatico, but important. Meaningful, in the airiest sense of the word. “Hi,” again.

“Hi,” you echo, and then feel stupid for having nothing more to offer. You can feel Joel’s eyes on you, hot on your shoulder.

But Vanessa takes the weight from your chest. “It’s nice to meet you – officially. I saw you at Tommy and Maria’s wedding. You looked so beautiful.”

“Thanks,” springs from your tongue sooner than the rest of the sentence. Your brain scrams to find more words. “You looked – you looked great, too. Do you wanna –? I mean – Sorry. Come in. Obviously.”

She clicks over the threshold, her pale dress floating into your hallway like she’s part of a dream. She’s just as beautiful in this light, relaxed form – pastel blue and the glimmer of golden jewelry – as she was in the sleeker, more dramatic form you saw her in before. An aura about her which captures and tends to your attention. Intense, captivating, but not intimidating.

You usher them to the living room, offer them a space on the couch while you take Vanessa’s flowers to the kitchen. Joel follows you through, sets the bottle on the counter.

“Nonalcoholic,” he says, unscrewing the cap.

Your eyebrows jump. “Great. Thanks.”

“She’s nervous,” he murmurs, leaning in. “I know you are, too. Y’all are similar like that.”

You slot the stems into a vase of water one by one, carefully organizing a display. “She seems sweet,” you assure him. “She shouldn’t be nervous.”

“Neither should you.”

“Is this…totally weird for you?”

Joel breathes in deep, filling three glasses. “Yeah,” he says, eyes never lifting from the sparkling peach.

“Sorry.”

He angles his jaw. “Stop sayin’ you're sorry. I’ll kick your ass.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, eyes lifting only to his elbows. “Sorry.”

He scoffs, swiping the glasses and stepping back to let you out first.

“I’m trying not to make it weird,” you offer, slipping by.

“I don’t want you to try anything.” He kicks your ankle lightly and follows you back into the living room.

Vanessa sits forward and clasps her hands around her knee when you sit back down, shifting as though to reach for you before she stops herself. “How are you feeling? Joel said you’re a little…worse for wear, right now.”

“I’ve been better,” you say, smiling. “Just morning sickness. Which lasts – all day.”

She nods sympathetically. “My sister had it rough with her first. I actually…” She twists around, reaches for her purse, fishes out an orange packet. “I brought you some ginger tea. Kate told me it helped her a lot, so.”

She holds it out in almost trembling fingers. Likewise, you steady yours to take it from her, thanking her with a shy nod of the head. “That’s so kind,” you reply quietly, eyes darting to Joel. He’s staring at the pack in your hands, watching as you turn it over to read the back.

“And – listen,” Vanessa continues, the acceptance of her offering clearly fueling her assuredness, “I don’t want anything to be weird – between you and I, between you and Joel. I know this situation is…new. It’s, um…”

“It’s kinda weird,” you say, humoring. “It’s okay. I know.”

She breathes a relieved laugh. “It is. Thank God you said it.” She glances back at Joel, who smiles at her, slips his hand onto her knee. “But I guess,” a deep breath, “I guess it is what it is. And we’re all adults, you know? We can make it work, right?”

Your head switches rapidly between nodding enthusiastically and shaking enthusiastically. “Yeah. Yes. No, absolutely. And, you know, me and Joel – there isn’t – we’re not at all…”

“Oh,” she bats the idea away, “I know. I know that. He told me everything. It’s – You know, it’s just a timing thing.”

Joel’s staring down at his hand locked around her leg. Unblinking. Unmoving. His expression doesn’t shift until the two of you settle back into your seats; until Vanessa asks if he’d mind making you a cup of ginger tea.

You barely notice his absence, the way she takes you up in conversation. Like twirling you off in some kind of dance, each sentence strung safely to the next. There are no lulls, no awkward pauses. She asks about work, asks about your family. She tells you stories about her niece, who’s three now, and compares how you’re feeling to how she remembers her sister feeling.

Then her work, and the IT guy her friend hooked up with, and her class at the gym which she’s trying to convince Joel to come along to, and Kate’s hot yoga class every Thursday night, and the new sushi place which just opened downtown and You gotta try it some day; the nigiri is divine.

And you nod along, and you laugh at her anecdotes and tell your own, and Joel tells her to tell you about the jazz band who were playing at the restaurant they visited a couple weeks ago, and you offer to top her drink up and she says she’ll do it herself and she leaves you and Joel alone for the first time all evening, and – it’s weird.

Because – behind the veil of conversation you’re doing your best to uphold, sits an image of this very night – only, in Joel’s house. In Joel’s house, on Joel’s couch, drinking nonalcoholic wine with Joel’s brother. Joel and Vanessa leant against one another on one couch, Tommy and Maria on the other.

You can’t help it – you’re wondering what Maria thinks of Vanessa. How long they knew each other, if at all, before the breakup. Whether they hung out, whether they discussed sushi and yoga, or the housing market, or their Miller boyfriends and their annoying Miller habits.

Maria would’ve liked her, you think. Would’ve found her as lovely as you do. And the idea, the image of them giggling together at family parties and being Tommy’s Maria and Joel’s Vanessa – presses a firm, bullying finger into the bruise you thought had faded some from the other day.

And once they’re gone, once you’re left alone again – lying in still silence, closed in on yourself by the thick darkness of your room, nothing but you and your thoughts and your unborn child for company – it slips out.

“Fuck her, right?” You hold your hands out, addressing your stomach. “She was so fucking nice. Did you like her? Fuck me, I liked her. I hope they break up.”

And then, realizing who you’re talking to: “No. Sorry, baby, no. I don’t hope they break up. I want your dad to be really happy. But – Goddamn. She was so sweet. I thought she was gonna slap me, and she just – she brought ginger tea! Fuck. They look good together, don’t they?”

It’s just hormones. Just the emotional trip that is being four weeks pregnant. Everybody feels like this when they fall pregnant – sensitive, vulnerable, clingy. Right? Right?

Your words sit stagnant in midair. You swear you can see them, heavy and intruding. Awkwardly lingering someplace they don’t belong. Because none of it even matters – the hormones, the emotions. The weird knot burning a hole in your chest, shaped like a clenched fist, knuckles branded by the heat of longing. It can’t matter.

You’re where you are, he’s where he is. A pillow in your arm, Vanessa in his. Feet apart, bricks and mortar and something like twenty years and two dates too late separating you.

Both staring up at the ceiling, wondering who the other’s thinking of.

“At eight weeks, your baby is roughly the size of a raspberry.”

Your knee bounces, breath coming and going in shaky ripples. The rubber sole of your shoe cries against the sterilized hospital floor. Your chest hums anxiously and your throat catches when you swallow and are the lights too bright? The room too hot? You’re sweating. Why are you sweating? Can you breathe right now?

Joel nudges your arm and your eyes roll to the pamphlet in his hand, his finger tracing the words. “C’mon,” he utters, leaning in, “how can anything the size of a raspberry be scary?”

You squint under fluorescent white. “A raspberry that grows into the size of a watermelon, can break my ribs, make me throw up, make me lose hair, and then tear my vagina apart on its way out? That’s pretty scary.”

He smirks. “Not to me it ain’t. My vagina stays perfectly intact the entire time.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you reply, whacking him.

He laughs, swatting your palm away, keeping ahold of your fingers inside his own. “Speaking of – we gotta talk.” He elbows you, waiting until you’re looking again to speak. “We gotta cut the language.”

“Cut the language?”

“Uhuh. Rein it in. And by we, I mean you.”

“Uh,” you scoff, “I don’t think so. When you do the growing, then you can rein your own swearing in. Leave me alone, asshole.”

“Charming,” Joel says. “You know the baby can hear you? You want it to come out swearin’ like a trooper?”

You grin, tipping your head to him. “If it comes out and says anything, we’re rich. So – yeah. Let it.”

He opens his mouth to reply when a nurse emerges from a nearby room and calls your name.

“You’re up, kid,” Joel says, standing beside you.

You turn back, speaking before your brain settles on words. “I’m scared.”

“Hey,” he says, taking your hand. He squeezes it gently, uses the other to keep you facing him. “This is the easy part, right? We’re just going to meet them.”

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, and wander over to meet the nurse. Joel’s hand a vice grip around yours.

She leads you into a similarly washed-out clinic room, only slightly dimmer with the lights turned out, and yanks a roll of paper across the bed. Tapping it twice, she smiles. “Hop up, darlin’.”

You settle into the crinkly paper, leaning back until you’re blinking up at the speckled ceiling. Another door opens and a woman in a white coat floats in, and you swear that if it weren’t for Joel’s Evenin’, ma’am when she greets the two of you, you’d believe she were a figment of your imagination. Another character in this fucking insane dream.

“Not often I do these past five o’clock,” she says, clicking her mouse and typing on her keyboard and fixing a hair grip back into her bun. Casual. It’s not even a thing to her, introducing parents and children. She does this all fucking day.

Joel tosses half a glance to you and then realizes you’re not currently in the room. He pinches your hand again. It grounds you for all of two seconds.

“Yeah, uh,” he clears his throat, “work commitment. I couldn’t get away any earlier, so we’re havin’ to do this a little late.”

“What do you do?” she asks, staring at her screen. Her glossy brown eyes and rich, dark skin.

“I’m a contractor,” Joel replies, thumb stroking your shoulder.

Something bubbles in your stomach, something akin to jealousy, an urgency to tell her that right now, in this room, he’s mine. No more questions. Something which quickly dissipates when you remind yourself to quit being fucking ridiculous and that right now, in this room, he’s someone else’s, and the thumb on your shoulder is merely to hold you back from fleeing. Nothing more.

The sonographer nods. Her name badge reads Freya. Pretty name. Stop picturing what your kid would look like as a Freya. You are not naming them after the first sonographer you meet.

“Shouldn’t be too long, then y’all can get home for the night. You live nearby?”

“Twenty minutes’ drive. Not far, are we?” Joel asks you.

Your eyes shoot down to his. “No,” you push your cheeks up, telling Freya, “not far.”

She flattens her lips against one another, lending you a sympathetic smile. “You got nothing to worry about, honey. Promise. Gel might be a little cold, that’s about as scary as this gets. We’re just gonna make sure everything’s looking good, check your dates, check your measurements. You’re doing great.”

“You hear that?” Joel murmurs, settling down into the chair by your side. His hand hasn’t left yours. His voice is low, meant just for you, when he repeats, “You’re doin’ great.”

You huff a laugh, some nervous release from your lungs.

Freya smiles, face lit by the faint glow of the screen in front of her. “We ready?”

You roll the hem of your tee up when she motions, bunching it under the wire of your bra. She squeezes a bottle over your stomach, which tenses solid when the frozen bite of gel curls right below your belly button. Freya smiles apologetically when you wince. Told you, she murmurs, and your breath escapes in a slightly more comfortable laugh. Lighter, easier. Scariest part over.

She presses the probe to your skin and spreads the gel, coating the bottom of your tummy in a slippery slick which tickles with each inch she covers. Two buttons pressed, and a dark image appears on a screen opposite you.

A gray fan, speckled like the ceiling above your head. Dark, black shapes growing and shrinking at the turn of Freya’s wrist. She pauses, two blobs onscreen: the larger, black, round, home to a smaller, misshapen one. Flecked with white and silver and moving slowly, gently, but – right there.

“Mom, Dad,” she grins, “meet your baby.”

You and Joel move forward at the same time, drawn closer to the crunchy image as if by some kind of natural magnetism. Eyes never blinking, lips agape. The shapes flutter, the smaller dipping in and out of view.

“You see right here, right in the center?” A white cross appears over the blob’s middle. “That little movement? The kinda – pulsing?”

You each nod. Your nails dig so deep into Joel’s hand that you risk drawing blood.

“That’s the heart. Ticking away.”

“The heart?” you ask, watching the rhythmic flicker in the center of the screen.

“Yep. Perfect, too.”

She hits another key and suddenly the room is filled with a muffled thudding; a steady, energetic pulse in your ears. It matches the movements onscreen, the tiny throb of the baby’s chest, the shape of your womb moving like waves before you.

And suddenly, it's real – all of it: the screen and the room and the sonographer and you, and Joel’s hand encasing yours, holding your knuckles to his lips, and –

And the heartbeat. Right there, right in front of you. Shy, probably as nervous as you are to introduce themselves. Feeling your eyes on them, curled up somewhere safe inside you. Right there.

You turn to Joel, and his illuminated face is staring straight at the screen. Eyes soaked with tears, blinking as they form, cheeks dappled with wet. He draws his eyes from his child only to look back at you, only to mirror your stunned smile, your disbelieving laugh, more tears dripping down into his beard. He sits up, presses his damp lips firmly to your forehead.

Freya mutes the heartbeat, pauses the scan where the image is clearest, and sits back. “I’ll give you guys a moment to yourselves,” she says, wheeling back in her chair. “Take all the time you need. I’m right outside.”

“Thanks,” Joel mumbles for the both of you, sweeping hair from your face.

The door closes on your little bubble – you, Joel, and the grainy image of your baby. The evidence that – yeah, that night happened, and yeah, you’re forever changed because of it. The evidence that you’re about to become a mom, for real, no matter how much the thought makes you feel like your stomach is kicking around at your ankles.

And the evidence that, no matter how scared you might be, how unprepared and unworthy you feel – you fucking adore that little blob already.

Love it as much as Joel does, stood over you, kissing your hair and whispering words you’re only half-listening to. A quiet thank you, a shaky I can’t believe it. Something about showing his brother. And when you look up at him, blinking at one another, inches apart – he takes your jaw in his hands and lowers his lips to yours.

Different. Softer. No want laced through. No urgency. Nothing needed, nor requested, that isn’t already right here in this little bubble of yours.

He kisses you slowly, eyes closed, holding you until you pull away for breath. His nose bumps against yours and you laugh, heads together, eyes low.

“Still scared?” he whispers.

“Terrified,” you tell him.

“Me, too,” he says, and kisses you again.

You lean back against the bed, relief settling your bones and soothing your heartbeat. The notion washes over you that, if you could, you’d stay in this room forever. Staring at the screen, holding Joel’s hand. Whispering fears into his mouth and letting him swallow them in a kiss.

He hands you some paper towel and helps you drag it across your stomach, your eyes still fixed on the little shape opposite. He hooks his chin over your head – the fresh, woody smell of his cologne infiltrating your lungs and throwing you under the haze of something you’re not quite sure how to define.

“Duck,” he says, voice vibrating into your skull.

“Huh?”

“Start saying duck. Make the baby think we’re saying that, then you can say –” he lowers his voice, “– fuck, all you want.”

“The hell would I have to say duck for?”

Joel stands upright and shrugs. “I don’t know. Think of somethin’. A nickname, maybe.”

“Duck?”

He nods plainly, glancing over to the screen.

The pillow beneath your head sighs as you turn from Joel back to the ultrasound. “Baby Duck,” you offer, and he smiles.

Smiles in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile. Eyes glistening, cheeks swollen. Something innocent and earnest about it. Something pure.

He agrees. “Baby Duck it is.”

Joel insists that you spend the night at his place.

“It’s been a big day,” he reasons, fixing the bed in his guestroom. “Just – let me run around after you for a little bit.”

You fight your corner as much as you can be bothered – I gotta maintain my independence, I’m gonna be a single mom soon enough, you know – but, truthfully, you’ll take any excuse to have him rush around at your beck and call. Some days you open your mouth and he hears the wet click of saliva between your lips, and grabs a glass of water for you before you’ve even voiced the request.

He orders takeout, settles shoulder-to-shoulder with you on the couch, and lets you pick whichever movie you feel like putting him through until the food’s gone, he’s out of beer, and you’ve abandoned Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles for an argument about the best part of pizza.

You don’t like the crust?

Nope.

What fuckin’ age are you?

If it ain’t stuffed, it’s just not worth it.

At eleven, you bid him goodnight and wander upstairs, falling into a sea of navy-blue sheets to be delivered to sleep by the serene silence of Joel’s home. It takes no time for your eyes to flutter closed, the soft sheen of moonlight painted across the wall, sweeping from your view to be replaced in a whir by –

Lights. Overhead and all around and so bright and so close that you swear they’re etched on the inside of your eyelids.

You’re in the backseat, watching them soar by in blurs of white and red and amber and green, and your pulse is rattling through your veins and throbbing between your temples and you can’t focus on any one object for longer than three seconds, before your eyes roll and your head dizzies.

A word, slung from your lips in a half-wakened attempt to stop it. A word you barely recognize at first, don’t understand the meaning of. It’s been years. Why now? Mom.

You’re not sure why, or who you’re even reaching out to. There are two figures in the front seats, heads facing forward. She’s not turning around. She’s not even fucking moving, not reacting to the speed or the lights or your voice. Mom.

You scream it, the syllable ripping violently from your throat, and your tiny fingers reach for her swirls of hair. You pause, staring at the chipped polish on your stubby, kiddy nails. Mom, I’m scared.

The distorted blast of a horn scoops the car up in one motion, hurtling over itself along the freeway. You’re thrown to the roof of the car, plummet back down to your seat; the seatbelt throttles you, rips a burn deep into the skin of your neck. Back up again; your head hits the spongey roof of the car. Your stomach somersaults.

Mom, please, you wail, swiping for her hand. It’s lying limp by her thigh, dark droplets on her wrist. Mom Mom please Mom I’m scared Mom please I’m so scared I –

“Baby.”

His voice is low, earthy. It chews apart the high-pitched squeal of brakes and screaming. The glass smashing. The metal crunching.

You lift from the bed like it’s ice water, gasping when you finally surface back on Earth. Your chest heaves, it’s not sucking in enough breath; you can’t breathe you can’t breathe you can’t fucking breathe.

Joel whips the cover from your legs and you roll from the mattress, feet planting on the floor. You bend forward to grip onto the sheets, a choking rising up your throat, closer and closer until it tugs on your tongue.

“Icantbreathe,” you pant.

Joel’s body curves around yours. “You’re alright,” he’s telling you – urging you; one hand between your shoulder blades, the other holding your wrist for fear you might collapse. “I’m here, you’re okay. You’re at my place, you’re safe, but, kid – I need you to slow down. You’re hyperventilating.”

You work your breathing to the strokes of his hand up and down your spine: in out in out in and out and in and out and in, and out, and in, and…out…and in…and…out.

“That’s it. Keep doing that. You’re good, baby, I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

In – and out. In – and out again.

The room slowly desaturates back into boring, moonlit blue. Feeling sputters back into your hands, clawing at the sheets once the sharpness dissolves. The cotton pets back, smooth under your quivering touch. Your lips stop tingling, your ears stop ringing. One after another, until your blood settles back to a steady stream and you straighten up.

“Can you sit down for me?”

“No,” you whimper, and Joel nods.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I’m gonna get you a drink, that okay?”

You grab his T-shirt. “No. Don’t leave me. Please. Sorry.”

He cups your frozen cheeks. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Just downstairs. You can come.”

He settles you at his kitchen table and shuffles over to the cupboards, rubbing his eyes. You feel the heat of embarrassment and guilt, watching as he settles down with a groan minutes later.

“Ginger,” he tells you, voice rounded by his mug, sliding one of your own over to you.

“Sorry,” you mumble, lifting it with two hands. The smell sharp, cutting up the remnants of gasoline and smoke.

“Many times do I gotta say it?” he asks dryly. “Quit sayin’ you’re sorry.”

You gulp nervously. “You got work in the morning. You’re gonna be exhausted.”

“And if I hadn’t let you keep me up watchin’ chick flicks, I’d be rested. That’s something I can deal with later. I got you to worry about right now.”

You shake your head; the ceramic hits the table with a sharp thud. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Well,” Joel sniffs, “you’re carrying my child. I’ll always worry about you.”

You sit back, the curve of the chair cradling, your heart beating lamely against the wood. Joel’s jaw rests in the cushion of his palm, staring back at you.

“What time is it?” you ask, and he glances over his shoulder.

“Three. Take a sip.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sip.”

You obey, lifting the tea and swallowing harshly.

He watches every move, every shift reflected in his dark eyes, decorated by a tense, stony expression. “Does this happen a lot?”

“Never,” you say. “This never happens.”

Joel cranes his jaw, cracks his neck. “Alright,” he sighs, “that’s okay. Breathe again. You’re doing fine.”

But you don’t feel fine. The dregs of panic sizzle into something thicker, hotter. Anger. Frustration. “Why the fuck is this happening?” you hiss, fingers prodding into your eye sockets. “What the f–?”

“Easy. I don’t know. Hormones? Stress?”

“You sound like my fucking doctor.”

Joel smiles. Amusement, before concern wipes over it again. “Let’s just give it some time to pass, okay?”

You nod, hanging over your drink, the silhouette of your reflection staring back at you. The steam snakes up, seeping into your skin, bubbling under the surface. Wiping clean any memory of freeway or nail polish, like coating over a bathroom mirror. The shapes still visible behind, but blurred. Gone.

“How’s Vanessa?” you ask, an attempt to distract yourself.

Joel adjusts a little awkwardly in his chair. “She’s good. She loved the scan photo. Showed it to her sister. They’re sure it’s a boy.”

“Ha. Joel Jr.”

“Joel Jr.,” he agrees, and then attempts to distract himself. “So,” he says, “Allandale.”

“Mhm?”

“Wonder if I ever saw your mom or dad. When I was there visitin’ Sam.”

You shrug. “Doubt it. I mean, they always lived right next to the elementary school, if that helps. My mom was a first-grade teacher. The two of us used to walk there ‘n back together, every day.”

“First grade, huh? Best one.”

“Yeah. Yeah, and she was the best of the best. She used to go all out for her kids; used to go to Michaels and get all this crafty stuff so they could spend all afternoon making little houses or zoos, or – whatever she could think of. And she’d always keep some aside, bring some home for me to make one, too. One time, she came home with all this blue tissue paper and little foam fish, and we made an aquarium together.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Joel says.

“Yeah,” you say again, nodding eagerly. “She was so cool. And fun, y’know? I just remember her being so much fun. I always felt safe with her, felt loved. I actually used to think she hung the sun every morning, just for me.” You take a deep breath, replacing it with a broken sigh.

“What about your dad? What was he like?”

You frown. “He was…fine. Real quiet, reserved. A little grumpy, I guess. I always got the idea he couldn’t be bothered with me, young as I was. Always wanted to be left alone. I think my mom overcompensated a lot.”

Something flashes across Joel’s face that seems to say he knows – or, at least, he understands. Almost imperceptible, a quick flicker of annoyance. “You miss her?” he asks, switching back.

“My mom?” You almost laugh, gripping onto your mug. Staring at the slow swirl of ginger. A shrug which presents more like a flinch; an animal swatting a fly away. “I miss those parts, when I think of them. The aquarium, the walking to school. Miss the memories. But I don’t think I knew her well enough or long enough to miss her.

“I’ve lived way longer without her than I ever had her. Done everything without her, like –” gesturing down, “– this. But, sometimes…sometimes, I bundle the sheets up behind my back in bed, and I pretend it’s her. Pretend I have a mom, and she’s cuddling me to sleep. I dunno. Maybe that’s what missing her feels like.”

Joel soaks in every word you say, letting the shape of each one settle on the table between you before he speaks again. Letting them be spoken into the dead of night, collected by no one, and letting them fade into silence. Secrets sweeping off into starlight. Nothing you would admit in the daytime.

“What was her name?” he asks, voice timid and gentle in the dark kitchen.

You almost choke on your tea. “Shoot – I’m sorry. That was a lot. Sorry. She, uh – Her name?”

It brings the first genuine smile to your lips; the memory of your mom now clear behind your eyes. Her round cheeks, her fluttering earrings. The deep, dark curls of her hair, thick ringlets twisting and lighting in the sun. The gap between her front teeth, the purse of her lips as she kissed your cheeks, your hands, your tummy.

Her name like a melody in your head; a safe word, a calming mantra when the world becomes too noisy, too saturated, too sharp to bear. Two syllables. Two little beats, like a piece of her still lives in the sound of her name.

“Sarah,” you tell Joel. “Her name was Sarah.”

[driptillyoudrop]

The BIMBO Bounce

Alliteration is a useful hypnotic tool. It gives sentences a bit of extra potency, makes mantras easier to remember, and improves the lifespan of a suggestion pretty considerably. That's the operating theory, anyway. Shall we explore?

Bounce for me; that's simple enough to start things off.

Bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly.

The phrase sticks, somehow, even though it sounds a little silly. Something seems to make it linger in your head. It has a unique feel to it, a quality you can't quite put your finger on. The syllables seem to echo: bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly.

But how does a bubbly brain behave? Like a bubble, as you'd expect, with something creating a volume of empty space inside while thoughts slide smoothly across the expanding surface, oily and slick. At first, it feels like your thoughts have more area across which to spread. Your thoughts shift slightly, glistening and growing ever more thin. At least, until the bubble pops.

Bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly.

Bubbly brains are bound to burst.

And burst it must. Bubbles are ephemeral entities, aren't they? It's alright; you'll scarcely notice. When the bubble pops, your thoughts that are currently floating on the surface will splash to the floor. The empty space inside will rush rapidly outward, turning you into a bit of an airhead. Seems fitting, doesn't it?

Bursting bubbly brains blow pink

Bounce, and pop.

You'll feel the splash like a sudden surge of lust and arousal coursing through your body. The rush of air inside your head might cause you to get light-headed, so you'll spread your legs to steady yourself. Of course that's what you're doing, isn't it? Steadying yourself, not putting yourself on display. Right.

Bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly.

Bubbly brains are bound to burst.

Burst bubbly brains blow pink

Bimbos brainlessly bounce.

As you begin to bounce to a silent rhythm, it occurs to you that some bubbles have a kaleidoscopic sheen when you look at them, but others have a very solid color within. Your brain-bubble was bubblegum pink, now that you think about it.

Well, as much as you can presently think about anything. That pop did more than just fill your head with empty air. You can feel your intelligence leaking into the space around you, escaping...your absent brain can't contain it any longer.

Bimbos bounce their brains away.

If your brain was still intact, you might think to stop bouncing so you'd be better able to think. But your brain exploded in a flash of pink and wet, and now you're as blank as a bouncing bimbo should be. You're able to understand my words out of some remnant of intuition, but if you pause to try and think them through, everything just goes pink and pops again.

Blank bimbos bounce brainlessly

That seems sensible enough, especially since bouncing feels pretty good. The splash of wet pink thoughts from the pop made your body more sensitive, perhaps by providing you with better things on which to focus. You certainly feel blank, and you are bouncing. Are you a bimbo, though?

Bouncing brainwashes blank bimbos

A side effect of the bubbly brain from before is that you're finding all of this pretty amusing. Certain bits of sentences make you want to giggle and smile, even when you can barely understand them. Might've let too much of your intelligence leak away, but it's all just so silly, isn't it?

Brainwashed blank bimbos bounce

If you were a bimbo, would you be able to tell? Would you find the situation you're in far more amusing than you should? Would your body be becoming progressively more sensitive as your empty head adjusts to having no thoughts to contain and feeds all that focus to your hungry nerves? Would the bouncing be this arousing all by itself?

That depends primarily on what sort of bimbo you've become, but the answer should be clear by now. Each bounce produces a wave of pleasure, each wave pushes more of the remnants of your brains into the air. The less brains left in your head, the more you smile and giggle. The giggles produce flashes of pink that remind you how very silly and simple this is. All you did was bounce.

Bouncing blank bubbly bimbos are brainwashed

Bounces can take all sorts of forms. You can bounce bits of your body with your hands, bounce up and down in a chair, bounce with the aid of the springs below the bed...all to the same end. Everything is turning pink and wet and silly for you.

This leaves you with only two options: You could let yourself settle, riding the high of the blank bubbly brainwashed bimbo until your brain somewhat reluctantly returns to your head. I won't stop you, you'd simply wake after a few minutes of coming back down.

Or the blank bouncing brainwashed bimbo could shift the energy from bouncing just a little and satisfy that lust your body is feeling. The only real hazard is that your head is already full of air, and cumming your brains out when they've already mostly evaporated could leave you pretty dumb before it's all said and done.

But you've already made a choice, or it's already been made for you. My words could be passing by almost invisibly as the bouncing subsides, or you may already be excitedly picking a toy to bounce on or a rhythm to use while you stroke yourself senseless.

Either way, everything will fade into a yummy pink haze before much longer. I wonder how much bimbo brain you'd need to bounce away before the condition became a bit stuck...

Bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly

Bubbly brains are bound to burst

Burst bubbly brains blow pink bubbles

Blank brainless bimbos bounce

Bouncing brainwashes blank bimbos

Blank bouncing bimbos are brainwashed

Brainwashed blank bimbos bounce

Go on, up and down, bouncing yourself all brainless and bubbly. You'll drift awake awhile after you've finished following my instructions.

Do let me know how silly, brainless, or dumb you felt...if you are comfortable expressing it, of course.

[pretty-little-mind33]

FEM!READER WITH AN ABUSIVE/TOXIC EX (ft. aaron taylor johnson characters)

warnings: mentions of being in a toxic/emotionally and physically abusive relationship with someone, mentions of violence, sexual themes

includes - in said order

~ James Potter - harry potter marauder's era (yes ik it's technically a fancast but 🥺 he's my baby)

~ Tangerine - bullet train

~ Dave Lizewski - kick-ass

~ Count Alexei Vronksy - anna karenina 2012

~ Tom Ryder - the fall guy

~ @trollsareadorable hope you like this lovie! 🫶 ~

• James is very intuitive. It doesn't seem like he is, but he is. He's just a really caring person so he notices things that others don't.

• If you were friends first, he would have definitely already known that your ex was toxic/abusive and would have hated his guts. "You deserve better than him," or "he doesn't treat you like a gentleman should," type of conversations.

• If you weren't friends first and you were flirting after your break-up, he wouldn't initially think your shyness or your nerves were because anything bad had happened. Instead, he'd find it cute and would be super patient with you and be down to take things at your pace.

• James is a gentleman. His mom raised him right (Euphemia is a queen!) and so the idea of hurting a woman, especially one you're supposed to love, is unthinkable.

• So when you tell him about your ex, about his emotional/physical abuse, he'd be livid.

• James is extra careful with you after that, to the point where you have to tell him you're fine so he'll stop treating you like you're made of glass.

• When you run into your ex one night at a party, James notices you're acting strangely. "Love, are you alright? You look like you're gonna be sick," he'll say as he rubs small circles on your back.

• When you don't answer, he'll ask again. If you snap at him, he'll be hurt but he'll know something is wrong instantly.

• "You can tell me, dove. What has happened?"

• At the first sight of your tears, James's heart breaks and he ends up ushering you into a bathroom and soothingly caresses your cheeks with his thumb. When you tell him you saw your ex, it takes everything in him not to leave you and beat his sorry ass. He could—he has the build for it (okay Quidditch Captain 😵‍💫)

• Instead, he stays by your side and hugs you as you cry into his shirt.

• You're embarrassed for making a mess and crying like a baby but James isn't having it. "Don't be sorry, lovely. It's okay to have feelings and to show them," he'll reassure you. Maybe your ex didn't like when you cried so you tried to hide it from him but James knows you better.

• "C'mon, let's continue having some fun so you can forget about that bloody wanker," he'd kiss your forehead and take your hand, making sure you're next to him all evening. You've never felt happier and safer and your ex is completely forgotten.

• Tangerine has a temper. We all know this—and we all know he also has a potty mouth.

• Maybe you were coworkers first and he noticed how sensitive you were when he would raise his voice, or use some curse-words, but he starts to notice something is really wrong when you're visibly afraid to talk to guys at bars, even if it's just for fun.

• So, he would talk to you about it in private when he has the chance. "Hey, darlin', are ya okay? 'Cause you don't seem okay, y'know that guy at the bar wasn't tryin' to hurt ya, he just wanted to flirt. Did he make ya uncofmrotable," Tangerine's voice would be softer than usual.

• You open up to him, touched he cared enough to ask, and the moment he hears about your ex, he sees red. Tangerine is many things but he would never emotionally hurt or lay a hand on someone he loved ever.

• He looks at you with wide eyes, imagining your fearful expression at the hands of your ex, and his blood boils even more.

• He makes it his mission to help you feel safer around men—around him—and eventually, he falls in love with you and you fall in love with him. It takes you some time to fully trust him, but Tangerine eventually earns your trust because he shows you genuine love.

• He refrains from yelling around you and he doesn't use curse words that would remind you of the disgusting things your ex would call you. He adjusts.

• He's adaptable 😏🍊

• If you see your ex at the bar while you're refilling your drink one evening, you come back to Tangerine and you're friends and you're really quiet. More quiet than usual.

• In the beginning Tangerine is oblivious because he's joking with his friends. However, when you grasp his arm, watching your ex move across the room, he knows something is wrong. He sees where you're looking and turns you towards him gentle, one hand cupped under your chin.

• "Where'ya lookin', luv?" he'd ask and frown when he sees your glossy eyes.

• Tangerine hates when you cry—not because he's mad at you but instead because he hates knowing you're sad enough to cry. It makes him feel helpless, like he'd failed you.

• When you lean into him for comfort and tell him you saw your ex, he frowns and his eyes snap up to find your ex in the crowd. You tell him you're okay and you just want to go home, but Tangerine isn't having it.

• "That bastard hurt you. He doesn't get to get away with it," Tangerine hisses and kisses your forehead, "I'm just gonna go have a little chat with him."

• By little chat he means punching your ex so hard he breaks his nose—which leads to you, Tangerine, and your friends being kicked out of the bar.

• You're secretly very pleased to see your ex in pain and you feel all warm and fuzzy inside knowing Tangerine is willing to protect you like that. You aren't mad at him, especially when he cuddles you back at your shared apartment.

• Dave is shy just like you, so in the beginning of your relationship he doesn't take your shyness as something bad. He likes that you're nervous, because he's also nervous.

• However, he also picks up on cues that something is really wrong—like when you over apologize, or do anything in your power to please him when he's being snappy/in a bad mood.

• Alarm bells ring in Dave's head and he asks you why you feel the need to constantly apologize or make yourself small when you think he wants it.

• Because he could never want that.

• When you tell him, he doesn't know how to react. His blue eyes go wide and his mouth opens. He feels angry and sad and confused all in one overwhelming ball of emotion.

• Who would dare hurt someone as kind and lovely as you? Dave simply doesn't understand.

• "Baby, I'm so sorry that happened to you," he whispers and holds your hand, squeezing, "I promise you I will never ever do anything like that to you. Ever, you hear me? You don't have to walk on eggshells around me."

• If you saw your ex at a party?! Dave would know immediately because you would find him and tell him. You trust him more than anyone and would need him comfort instantly.

• "Shh, you're okay, baby. We can leave if you want, yeah?" he'd say and kiss your cheek, holding your closer to him and ignoring his friends wanting him to stay.

• You see, Dave doesn't confront your ex. Dave isn't a confrontational person. Plus, he'd much rather make sure you're okay than go fight someone. He doesn't want you to see him be violent because it's such a contrast to his usual sweet self.

• But Kick-Ass? Kick-Ass can teach your ex a lesson without any questions or hesitation (he'll def ask Mindy for help bc she'd also be livid that someone hurt you).

• So that's what happens.

• Alexei is a very composed person. He's doesn't often show his anger and he never screams at you. Perhaps you were friend's first and then eventually he asked you to marry him—and that's when he began to see the signs that someone had been very ungentlemanly with you.

• You flinch when you accidentally break his crockery and it makes your cry—apologizing more than necessary which to Alexei isn't normal.

• He's wealthy after all! He can easily afford a new set and something like this shouldn't cause you any distress.

• Then, he sees how you cling to him during social events and always reassures him that when you speak to other men, you have no intention of being unfaithful and they're just friends. You would sound desperate, your eyes pleading with him to understand.

• Alexei never imagined you would and he frowns. "Whatever makes you think I'd assume you would play with another man? I trust you, sweetheart," he would whisper in your ear that evening, kissing your cheek.

• When you finally tell him the cause of your distress—an ex-husband (maybe he died)—and you tell him how he'd treat you extremely poorly and was extremely jealous and possessive.

• Alexei is shocked and disgusted but he is also offended that you would think so low of him and think he'd treat you the same way.

• However, he doesn't become angry and instead sees you need comfort and he whispers soothing words into your ear. "My darling dove, I would never lay a hand on you or make you feel dirty and less than me because you have friends. I am secure in this marriage. I know you only have eyes for me—as I only have eyes for you."

• Steamy, gentle, passionate sex to remind you that you deserve to be praised and worshiped and as your husband it's his duty to do just that. 😛

• Tom is an asshole. His ego is through the roof, he's immature, he mostly thinks of himself, he can be stupid, and he can be inconsiderate and crude. All these things are very very true.

• However, he also craves genuine intimacy and love. He's insecure like that (probably wasn't hugged enough as a child) so he's immediately drawn to your kindness.

• Say you're on the crew of his new movie (a camera girl? Makeup artist? Low ranking actress) and you're visibly nervous around him both because he's Tom Ryder and simply because of his reputation as a player.

• Players make you uncomfortable.

• He sees this and in the beginning, he likes teasing you. He thinks it's funny seeing you become flustered and hide from him.

• He thinks it's funny until one of his jokes goes too far and he makes you cry. Now, it's anything but funny and he feels like an asshole. He's not used to feeling like he's an asshole (he usually thinks too highly of himself).

• So, reluctantly he decides to apologize to you.

• He finds you outside the bathrooms, eyes teary and puffy. "Listen, babe, I didn't mean to make you cry so hard, kay? You look much prettier without all that snot on your face so gimme a smile, huh?" he say, still sounding like a bit of a jerk—he can't help himself—but he's trying.

• You're vulnerable so you end up spilling with a shaky voice that his joke reminded you of something your ex would say and you ramble on and on, unable to calm your mind.

• Tom's speechless (for once) as he listens.

• He may be an asshole, but he isn't abusive towards anyone he truly cares for so he doesn't understand your ex. He's now mad at himself and he's also secretly honored you opened up to him.

• He isn't use to sincerity or someone truly revealing themselves to him. He likes the feeling.

• Over the next weeks, he's kinder to you and he writes you little sticky notes and leaves them in your trailer/locker/wherever your stuff is with weirdly endearing messages.

• It's kinda sweet and eventually you crack.

• Tom Ryder is a surprisingly decent boyfriend. Sure, he still has an ego and he's still sometimes a jerk—but it's obvious he genuinely cares for you.

• He's by your side whenever you can be, reassures you when you're insecure and nervous around him and he's gentle with you.

• He knows you need that.

• "My sweet girl," he whispers in your ear between takes, making you feel like the only girl in the world, "So good for me, aren't you? I love you so much."

• And if he ever sees your ex and you end up crying or upset because of the jack-ass, he'll get his security team to hurt him. Badly.

• And then he'll buy you whatever you want to make you feel better! He likes spoiling you and he obviously has the money to do so.

[etherfabric]

Messages from Your Protector

Choose a pile by which picture you resonate with the most.

If your mind is too busy to clearly decide, take a few deep breaths, and use the finger of your non-dominant hand to hover over the images. One will give off the most subtle yet prominent signals, like tingles, a magnetic pull, or temperature. This is your pile. Multiples are also possible.

Pile 1

The Fool, The Moon rx

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Oh my dear. I see how scared you are. I know this is nothing like anything before. But somehow also exactly like the thing you were running from your whole life. I know how unclear everything seems. How uncertain. You don't dare to move one inch.

Let me tell you now: The inch is enough. And you can take all the time you need. You can't see that from where you are, but from where I am, I can tell that time isn't important. Not at all. It doesn't make sense to you, nothing lately really does. All you had was your mind to rely on, and it's slipping away from you in ways you tried to avoid your whole life. They called you crazy, a liar, a drama queen. So you swore to always pay attention to the exterior, and only stick to the hard facts, to never be accused of that again.

And now suddenly everything turns to smoke. Nothing solid, no foundation to lean on, no former structure you recognize.

You might feel doomed, cursed, imprisoned. Imprisoned in something only you can see and feel, and not even those sensory informations seems reliable. Let me tell you, my precious lightbeam: This is your initiation. It is not for nothing. Far from it.

Not everyone is called to do this, and those who are, rarely feel "good" (in the former sense of the word) during it. It's one of the highest gifts the Universe can bestow upon you, but the process of shedding and rebuilding has phases of liminality that can't be skipped. You ask why this is happening? So you have only one thing left to use and turn to, so it becomes stronger than ever: Your faith. That crazy, invisible, unprovable thing you felt your whole life and ran from. Now it's your last resort. It seems cruel, but once you allow yourself to fully embrace it, be assured, we will bathe you in light and miracles that will carry you across this abyss. Just ask. Invite us, and we will come. The famous leap of faith is your only means of transportation right now, so to speak.

We love you so, so much. And honestly, you are doing amazing already. On our plane, your light is shining brighter than ever. We were never this close to you, and we love it. We know it doesn't feel this way all the time for you, but please listen to your intuition more. It's there to help you, not harm you. Those that judged you anytime you acted upon it are on their own, separate path. Don't let them sway you. Deep inside, you know it's something big and important, what is happening right now. You are doing amazing. We love you so much. I can't say it enough. You will get through this and be thankful. Later. Maybe you can find a smidge of that gratitude now. When you let your true opinion arise within, and dare to listen.

Pile 2

7 of Pentacles rx, 10 of Pentacles

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It's already done. The seeds are planted. This is a time of winding down, breathing in what you already have, let it enrich and nourish you. No one will come and take it away, claiming you are "too lazy" or "ungrateful" to "deserve it". Who told you this? Don't you know they were talking to themselves? To their own shadow, which they cast upon you, to not be blinded by your light? My dearest soul star. Can't you feel it, behind the worry and fear, underneath it all - the hum of completion? It surrounds you, it permeates the space between your atoms, it carries you across this cosmos.

Just imagine this gigantic planet you sit upon, its own attraction to you keeping you grounded. You belong here. You deserve everything that Life gave you. You deserve everything you worked for, and also everything you never worked for and just have, AND you deserve everything that is to come. Oh, there is a lot to come. So many blessings. You don't know even half if it yet. And that's exactly how it's supposed to be.

We don't want you to be exhausted from worry when we bring it to you. We want you to be soft and open, so it can touch your inner being - the only place where true satisfaction can take place. Look around you. The room you are in, or the environment you reside in for now. All this exists at the same time as you. Isn't that proof enough? Who else should it be for? Dare to connect to it, through whatever means sound right. Dare to delve into it. Dare to lay your hands on it, smell it, taste it, observe it, hear it. Draw pictures of it, in your mind, on a canvas, in the dirt on the ground. You are a part of all of it. You are part of the world to everyone else!

The time it takes to get you there is meant for you to enjoy what you have so far. Things will change, and the present will be another shape than the current one. So enjoy it while it lasts, until the upgrade arrives. Remember how desperate the past version of you was for so many of these circumstances? Get back in touch with them to feel their bliss and satisfaction. They are always there to help you. All the versions of you, past, present and future. They all love you in their own way, and they all are connected to you and bring their talents and wisdom as soon as you let them speak. This can be in a dream, a song, a memory, a word you read somewhere that tugs at you. Maybe a smell, or a name. Follow the thread, make space for the unraveling, and be assured we are always protecting you from what could truly be harmful. Nothing you can't take.

Admittedly, our relationship to pain is a rather abstract one compared to your incarnated self - so apologies for sounding aloof - but it carries deep truths, and is never the whole story. Promised. It will pass. You are doing so well. We love you so much more than you can imagine. For now. Soon, you will have a better idea. If you ever need our help, just call us. However feels most authentic. A thought is enough. Then listen for our signs, and dare to believe them, just like we believe in you.

Pile 3

The Star, Knight of Wands

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We are sending you support on all dimensions. You won't see it coming. It won't look like it moments before the event (or several events...) and you will be close to giving up on hope. The rhythm of the recent days was just the "right" wrong mixture of stagnation and overwhelming, sudden changes, and you are exhausted. You have lost things that you held very, very close to your heart, and you thought they belonged to your destiny.

Memories, associations, dreams, fragments of what is lost haunt you, and you try so desperately to make it fit into the picture. Sure this mean it will come back...? Well. Yes and No. Yes on the spiritual, emotional, ethereal plane - what you felt with them is just an appetizer compared to what's to come. It's a manifestation upgraded tenfold. But no, it won't be them exactly. I am so sorry for your pain - but I am not sorry for the context in which this loss happened, because I see the purpose it serves clear as day. You have to wait and see for it to unfold before your very eyes (at least the first two of them), and many fears and worries birthed from past disappointments will pop up.

Don't read those as prophecies - they are asking to be purged! So the canvas is clear for your upcoming masterpiece. It will happen at just the right time. It's not going anywhere. It is yours, and it will wait until you are ready. Promised. Your pace is just the right pace. Listen to your emotions, as untamable they might seem at times. Learn to dance with them, instead of fighting against them, and be it just one intentional second for starters. Your limits are there for a reason, and no one wants you to hurt yourself unnecessarily in the process. You deserve the reassurance and patience you need, and we hold that frequency towards you all the time.

There are judgements from people from your past still attached to what you deem true, and to which you assigned great meaning and weight in how you should be treated by the Universe, and all the people in it. You don't dare to go near them - they bite back. Like a wounded animal. Let's see how gentle you can go with them. We assure you, they will calm down as soon as they know you mean no harm. As soon as they feel you have the same patience and reassurance avaible for them you deserve. Watch the alchemy unfold, and bask in your accomplishments. This is the stuff transformation is made of. We are so freaking proud of you!

Pile 4

The Hermit, The Moon

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What you bring to the world is something not many will understand. We see your dedication, and be assured, you are on the path that was agreed upon before you came here. The unfolding of your inner voice is a marvelous endeavor without any witnesses, just yours to experience. You have never been so lonely and so rich in your whole life. And this is just the beginning.

We protect you from the harm that could sway you, but not the harm that can teach you. There are people around you who are blind to the light within, even scared when it shows up. They don't know what it means, at least not from their limited perspective they deem the whole truth. We see you trying to extend a helping hand, but this is our influence when they don't take it. You need all this energy for the next phase of transformation.

Your discipline and strategy so far has served you well, and we command you for your endurance. This is a whole new game, and you play it quite well. But be warned - this won't last forever. You might dream about what soon will finally be, to exchange it for what is right now. You will miss this once it's over. Not because the future is so grim - on the contrary. But because the beauty of inner transformation is not a constant or easily accessible one, and you either pay close attention to decipher the music in it now, or you will only have the tinted glass of nostalgia as a way back to it. What seems like a chore now will soon be the holder of self love when you look back on it. This might mean nothing to you, or even come across as accusatory, or threatening even.

We never mean harm. We are light. We are love. Just like you. What we want to invite you to is daring to be grateful to be you right now. This version of you won't last forever, so why not love it? Just for what it is?

That is why we send you this tsunami of solitude. So you and you can finally get a room and connect. Look each other in the eyes, deeply. And see how you are just perfect for each other, and exactly what you need and want. After all, this is what you chose. This is exactly your style. And it suits you so, so well.

[madebycloud]

pt 5 | Not Even at All

jinx/powder x female reader — 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬⠀𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: vi is off limits until her sister gets a date that doesn't end within the first ten minutes. eager to date vi, a certain girl approaches you with a proposal. date jinx. win her over. and for your efforts, she's willing to be generous. (10 Things I Hate About You AU) warnings/themes: fluff and slight angst, enemies to finally lovers yey, highschool, modern au, kat!jinx, patrick!reader words: 5.5k notes: i burn, i pine, i perish! it's finally the last part hehe — ✩ part one, part two, part three, part four, part five

Jinx glares at the blank sheet of notebook paper in front of her. Sitting at her desk in her room, she grips her pen tighter and tighter. It's a miracle it doesn't snap.

Just write it. Just get the assignment over with. Do the damn assignment, she mentally tells herself, but her mind won't let her focus.

She's thinking about you.

And nothing else.

You.

How long has she been sitting here? An hour? Two hours?

She glances at her phone. And then the paper again. Back and forth. Groaning, she slumps back in her chair, dropping the pen onto the desk.

The stupid assignment can wait. All the noise in her mind can't be quieted.

She grabs her phone off her desk, checking the notifications. Nothing.

You haven't called her today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Nothing for days.

But why?

She doesn't care.

She doesn't. Why should she? You did what you did, and that was that.

Jinx's head is spinning with thoughts. Anger, confusion, hurt, frustration. She's angry.

She's angry at herself for falling for your stupid words.

She's angry at herself for believing the stupid lies you told her.

She's angry at you for everything. For making a fool out of her, for lying to her face.

What an idiot.

She is such an idiot. Trusting you, caring for you, even liking you. You of all people.

You were just like all the others, but this time it hurts more.

It hurts a lot more.

Maybe if she never trusted you. Maybe if she'd just been more careful, listened to her gut more, then she wouldn't be in this whole mess.

She wouldn't be so mad.

And frustrated.

And angry.

Maybe she wouldn't be sitting in her room staring at her phone hoping to see one notification from you. Maybe she wouldn't feel like her heart was stabbed.

Jinx's fingers itch.

She wants to call you. To tell you off, to scream at you, to curse at you.

But what good will that do?

None, of course.

She's just wasting her time.

A knock at her door interrupts Jinx's thoughts. “Jinx?” she hears, recognizing her sister's voice. “Can I come in?”

Jinx huffs, spinning to look at the door. “Yeah, come in,” she mutters, turning back to her paper. She feels the door open, the floor creaking with each of Vi's footsteps.

Vi has a warm smile on her face and a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. “Want one?” she asks, holding out the mug.

Despite everything that's happened lately, Jinx manages a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “Thanks,” she says, taking the mug in her hands.

“No problem.” Vi takes a seat on Jinx's bed. “How's prom?”

Jinx grimaces, taking a sip of the coffee. It's still hot, but at least it's good. “It's fine.”

“Just fine?”

”Yeah.” Jinx shrugs, setting the mug down on her desk. “Fine.”

Vi furrows her brow at Jinx's response.

Jinx gets up from her desk and plops onto the bed beside her sister.

“I know what happened.” 

Jinx stiffens at her words. She doesn't look at her sister, refusing to meet her eyes as she picks at a loose thread on her bedsheet.

“I know something upset you,” Vi continues. “You think I don't know you? you're my little sister. I can tell when something's up.”

This isn't what Jinx wants to talk about right now. Everything is still too fresh. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Vi places a hand on her back, rubbing small circles. Not saying anything, Vi waits patiently.

“You're annoyingly good at getting me to talk,” Jinx mutters.

“It's my sisterly intuition.”

Jinx rolls her eyes, then looks up at the ceiling. This is Vi. Her sister. Jinx feels comfortable with Vi. Her sister's done so much for her.

She knows she should tell her what happened eventually. Sooner rather than later, but she just can't deal with it right now. Not yet.

“Is it about that girl?” Vi asks.

…

The silence in the room is answer enough.

“Ah, I see.”

Jinx sighs. “It's…” There are a million words that flash through her brain. Stupid. Idiotic. Infuriating. “Complicated.” 

“I thought you two were doing good. What happened?”

Jinx hesitates. How can she explain what just happened? How can she put into words the hurt, the anger, the betrayal she's feeling?

She looks down at her hands, toying with her fingers. “I thought we were too. Things were going well. I really thought, sis. I really thought-” Her voice cracks, and she immediately stops. “...it hurts, Vi.”

Vi's eyes soften. “Oh, Pow.” She wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Hey, hey, it's okay. It's alright.”

It's not alright. It's not alright at all.

She wants to cry. Scream. Hit something. Anything to make this feeling go away.

But all she can do is lean into her sister's embrace, feeling her sister's hand rubbing her arm. “Why does it hurt so much?”

“Well, it's because you really cared about this girl.”

Maybe she did. Maybe she cared too much.

Everything was going well. She felt happy.

But it was all fake.

“She was... she made me feel good,” Jinx says. “I—I thought she liked me, y'know? like, really.”

She really thought that. Despite everything in her mind telling her things couldn't possibly be true, that it was all a lie, a fantasy, she let her guard down, letting herself feel things she thought she'd never get to feel.

And it felt good. It felt great, actually.

Vi sighs. “Maybe. But I saw the way she looked at you. And that... wasn't fake.”

It was hard to miss the way you looked at Jinx. How you looked at Jinx during the drive when you couldn't keep your eyes off her in the rearview mirror. She's seen the way you look at her, how your eyes linger too long on Jinx's every move. And she's not dumb. She was also there during the party, and she saw how you looked after Jinx, how you cared for her.

Vi knows.

“Can I give some sisterly advice?”

And there it was. The advice. The sisterly wisdom. The “words of the wise” moment.

Normally, she'd roll her eyes. Normally, she'd make comments, tease her sister.

Instead, Jinx nods.

Vi continues. “You know I worry about you. You know I just want you to be happy, yeah?”

Jinx nods again. Vi has been there for her since they were kids. After everything Jinx has gone through, Vi's been her rock and her source of comfort.

“I know you really like this girl,” Vi says. “So I'm not going to tell you that everything happens for a reason and all that mumbo jumbo bullshit people say to make themselves feel good.”

Good. She doesn't want any of the positive bs. She hates those phrases people use to try to comfort someone.

“Instead, I'm going to tell you the truth. You're hurting over this. It's going to hurt for a while. Maybe a long while. You feel betrayed, angry, sad, and hopeless, and feeling those things is okay. You shouldn't feel guilty for having emotions. Let yourself feel every feeling. You're not just angry. You're not just sad. You're angry and sad and helpless, and-”

“And stupid,” Jinx interrupts.

“And stupid,” Vi adds. “But don't bottle it up. Talk about it. Vent. Scream. Cry. Scream at a pillow. Cry into that pillow. Let it all out.”

Jinx is quiet. She lets her sister's words sink into her head.

“It's not going to feel good. And at first, you're going to wonder why you're hurting so much, and how you could have been so stupid. But one day, you're going to wake up, and instead of hurting, you're just going to be angry and sad.” Vi gives her a squeeze on the shoulder, and she speaks slowly. “Over time, the anger and sadness will start to fade, and then, only when you least expect it, you're not going to feel any of it anymore. And you'll wonder when you stopped feeling it. It just happens one day… it just happens.”

Her sister's words only serve to further confirm what she already knows—she's going to hurt, she's going to feel like crap. But someday it won't matter anymore. Someday it'll just fade away. It would just happen.

But she refused to hope.

Not this time.

You fooled her. You tricked her good enough.

And yet, the words her sister said made her feel lighter, like a little of the pain had lifted away.

—

Caitlyn looks around, looking for a specific bright blue-haired and then-

“Jinx.”

Jinx pauses in the courtyard, slowly turning around to look at Caitlyn. She glances at her before looking away and adjusting her backpack.

“Can we talk?”

Jinx says nothing, instead keeping her gaze on the side.

Caitlyn continues anyway. “I know it looks bad-”

“You think?” Jinx snaps. “You think it looks bad?”

“I didn't mean for you to get hurt.”

“Oh, you didn't mean to, did you?” Jinx steps forward. “You just thought you could throw money at someone and have your way like you always do. You thought nobody would get hurt.”

“I know… I messed up, and I'm sorry,” Caitlyn replies. “But I only did what I did because I care about Vi, and I wanted to-”

Jinx scoffs, dropping her backpack. “You wanted what?” she sneers. “Was it your plan to send me straight to the damn therapist?”

“Wh-No!” she stammers. “No! Nothing like that. I-” Caitlyn stops. The courtyard is eerily silent. She looks around, noticing how many people are watching.

Jinx could hear them whispering. Whispers of “oh my god” and “what's happening?” and “is that really Caitlyn?” and more.

“Caitlyn, what are you doing here? …and Jinx?”

They pause at the familiar voice. Caitlyn and Jinx turn their heads to the voice that interrupted them... Cassandra Kiramman.

Mrs. Kiramman makes her way over to the girls, looking at the crowd of eyes around them before ushering them inside.

“Office. Now.”

The two girls have no choice but to oblige.

—

Mrs. Kiramman folds her hands on her desk and looks at the two girls in front of her. “I never thought you would do something like this, Caitlyn.” 

“Yes, I did it! Okay?!” Caitlyn exclaims. “I'm the shitty person here. I just… wanted to date Vi, and I paid someone to take her on a date so I could get closer to Vi. And yes, that makes me the most horrible, evil person on the planet.” She turns to Jinx. “I really, really messed up. I shouldn't have done what I did to you. I'm sorry.”

“This is not a conversation I expected to have with you, Caitlyn.” Mrs. Kiramman shakes her head. “This is a serious case of... emotional manipulation, I would almost say. You should be old enough to know better.” Mrs. Kiramman's eyes turn from Caitlyn to Jinx. “Do you have a response to all of this?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I guess, like...” Jinx's hand twitches. “Am I supposed to feel better now? or do I have time to, like, think about it?”

Mrs. Kiramman purses her lips together. “You should feel offended. And you should be upset.” She looks at Caitlyn. “And you should feel upset, too.”

Caitlyn nods. “I do feel upset,” she says. “I feel really awful. Incredibly, awfully awful.”

“You should,” Mrs. Kiramman replies. “Hopefully that means something to Jinx. But I want Jinx to say something.”

Jinx's looks at Mrs. Kiramman to Caitlyn, then to the floor. She scowls at the ground. “I am… upset,” she mutters. “I guess. I mean... yeah, I'm pissed.” She looks at Caitlyn. “I'm pissed.”

“Jinx-”

“NO! Don't try and talk me out of being mad or upset about being used. Because I am mad. I'm extremely pissed, actually.”

Mrs. Kiramman holds up a hand. “That's good,” she replies, stopping the two girls from snapping at each other. “It's good that you're mad. And you have every right to be, Jinx. Caitlyn has been... extremely selfish.”

“Mom…”

“Don't mom me,” Mrs. Kiramman replies sternly. “You know I'm right, and I'm not going to be soft on you. You were incredibly selfish, and you should never do this again to anyone else. Ever.”

Caitlyn winces but nods. “I... I won't.” 

Mrs. Kiramman leans in on her desk. “Jinx?” She waits for Jinx to look at her before continuing her question. “Is there anything you'd like to say to Caitlyn?”

Jinx looks at Caitlyn. The other girl looks like a kicked puppy. Caitlyn at least looks guilty, though she feels like her guilty look only proves her manipulation.

She wants about a thousand things to say to Caitlyn. She wants to rip her head off and shove it up her ass. She wants to scream, to punch, and to kick until she's in tears. But for now, one sentence will do.

“Stay away from my sister.”

“What? No, I-”

“Stay. Away. From. My. Sister.” 

Caitlyn sputters. “Jinx, listen-”

“You listen! You were willing to pull this bullshit on me. So if you seriously think I'm going to stand by and let you anywhere near Vi after this, you're out of your goddamn mind.”

“Jinx, please-”

“I'm going to tell you once and only once: Stay the hell away from my sister and stay the hell away from me.” Jinx stands up. “I don't know what sort of twisted fantasy you've cooked up in your head, but I'm sure as hell not going to be a part of it.”

Caitlyn looks stricken. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I'm serious!” Jinx snaps. “I'm not a piece in your stupid game of chess, and I'm damn sure not going to be something you play with just to get close to my sister. I don't know if you know this, but my sister means a lot to me. So if your goal was to get in my bad graces, congratulations. You've succeeded with flying colors.”

Caitlyn flinches and looks more stricken than before. But Jinx doesn't care about how bad she feels right now. This is Caitlyn's own damn fault. Caitlyn didn't think that there'd be any negative consequences from her actions. Jinx isn't going to make this easy on her.

—

You walk through the hallway, past students laughing and chatting with each other. Some talk amongst themselves, and you overhear snippets of conversation. But it's all just noise to you.

Nothing matters.

Without her, nothing matters.

You stop in front of your locker, but your eyes linger a few steps away.

Just down the hall is her locker.

It's the same as every other locker, painted white. The only things different are the crude doodles and the pink and blue stickers scattered across the metal door.

It's been a few days since the incident, a few days since she ran away, a few days since it all went wrong.

You haven't seen her since.

After what happened, after screwing things up so badly, you can't even bring yourself to say anything to her. You didn't call. You didn't send texts. You avoided places in the school you know she hangs out in. You didn't do anything.

You can't face her.

You can’t even think about facing her.

Because how could you?

How could you after what you did?

But that doesn't mean you don't think about her. You can't think about anything else.

You are not who I thought you were.

Those words.

They echo in your head.

Those words, over and over, and over.

You keep seeing her in your head. The look on her face, betrayed, heartbroken. You hear her voice, the way it cracked as she spoke. You remember the sting in her eyes that wasn't quite tears, but close enough.

You caused that.

You did that.

So many things replay in your head, and all end with the same conclusion. What you did sucks. It sucked, and it hurt Jinx. It hurt her, and it's not fair. Not one bit.

You open your locker, staring unseeing at the mess of books and notes inside.

But… you're just staring. You were supposed to take out a book for your first class, but you forgot which one you're supposed to grab. You forgot.

Or maybe your mind just can't think of anything that isn't her.

You can picture the way she looks when she laughs. You can hear her voice in your head, talking to you, asking or saying something, but not loud enough for you to make out what the exact words are.

You can just picture it, her smiling wide, showing teeth. A laugh breaking out on her face, and she laughs because of you. You were the one to make her laugh that way. Not because of a prank or some stupid joke. No, you actually made her laugh.

Sometimes you think you spot her in the distance, but it turns out to be someone else. Then something else reminds you of her. A song that plays from a speaker, some colorful drawings on the wall, blue hair amongst a sea of people.

But you're not ready to face her.

You don't know when you will be.

The bell suddenly rings, and you jump slightly.

Right.

Class. You have a class.

Shaking off the thoughts, you pull out the books you need from your locker and throw them in your bag. Slamming your locker door shut, you head down the hall.

You shove past other students in the hallway, not caring about how rough you are. People give you weird looks, maybe even whisper behind your back. But why should you care?

The only person that you should have cared about… hates you.

Hates you. That's the harsh truth of this, isn't it?

You reach your first class, sitting in your usual seat. You toss your bag onto the ground and lean your head on your hands.

Jinx is already here, but she doesn't look up.

You watch her out of the corner of your eye. She's leaning her head on one hand, the other one propping open a notebook. Her eyes and fingers are reading the page, but you doubt her mind is actually focused on the text. You doubt she's even reading it.

Mr. Salo enters, and he does a double take. He looks stunned to see you in class on time. “I assume everyone's had some time to finish up their poems.” He clears his throat. “Would anyone volunteer to read their poem aloud?”

No one responds.

Then-

A voice speaks up suddenly. “Um. I will.”

Your head snaps upwards. Jinx has her hand raised.

Mr. Salo looks surprised, but he recovers quickly. “That's… quite unexpected. I was sure I'd have to force someone to volunteer, but-” he gives Jinx a pleasant smile. “Thank you, Jinx.” He gestures to the front of the class, motioning for her to come up. “Please proceed.”

Jinx stands up, pushing her chair back. Then she makes her way to the front of the room. She looks around, looking at everyone before her eyes drift towards you. She quickly looks away, down at her notebook, and begins to read.

I hate the way you talk to me

And the way you cut your hair.

I hate the way you drive my car.

I hate it when you stare.

She pauses for a moment, swallowing down something before continuing. You can see she's gripping the paper on her notebook rather tightly.

I hate your stupid, dumb Madonna CD

And the way you read my mind.

I hate you so much it makes me sick.

It even makes me rhyme.

Her eyes flick to you again, and then she looks away.

I hate it...

I hate the way you're always right.

I hate it when you lie.

I hate it when you make me laugh,

Even worse when you make me cry.

Her voice cracks, and a tear starts to stream down her face.

I hate it when you're not around

And the fact that you didn't call,

She pauses, taking deep breaths to keep herself from crying.

But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you,

She finally looks up, looking straight at you.

Not even close

Not even a little bit

Not even at all.

Her poem ends there, and her voice quiets. For the first time since she began, there's silence in the room. Everyone else seems to notice, glancing at the other.

But you're stuck staring at Jinx. Your eyes meet hers. Nothing is said, but the moment is enough.

She closes her notebook, turns around, and walks out the door. The rest of the class is dead silent.

You remain seated, your eyes glued on the door where Jinx had left. Seeing her cry like that... 

You couldn't turn back time, no matter how much you wanted to. But you made your bed, and now you need to lie in it.

You have to do something to try and make it right.

—

After the last bell rings, students hurry out of the school carrying backpacks and sports equipment. Classes were over for the day, and thankfully, so was her stupid english class. 

Reading that damn poem in front of the entire class was a relief. She got it all out without having to talk to anyone else. It was so embarrassing having everyone know about her stupid thoughts and feelings, but if they made fun of her for it, they would get a punch to the face. At least this school year will end soon. 

Jinx walks to her car, parked in a corner of the parking lot. She opens her backpack and digs through it, her fingers searching through papers and pencils and other stuff until her hand closes around her car keys. She lifts it up, the keyring rattling.

When she's about to stick the key in the door, she notices something is off.

The driver's side window is down.

Confused, she leans down to look inside the car. She saw something.

Warlock guitar. Sitting in her seat. It was the same one she had been dreaming about. The same one she had been eyeing in the store. The one she could never justify the price or reason to buy. And now, it's right in front of her. 

—

You watch as Jinx picks up the guitar carefully, studying every inch of it.

“Pretty nice, right?”

Jinx gasps. She spins around to see you standing behind her, grinning widely.

Her eyes flit between the guitar and you. “Is it for me?” She sets the guitar back in the passenger seat before closing the door.

You nod your head. “For you, and only you.”

“...why?”

“Uh, well, I thought you could use it. You know, when you start your band,” you reply. “Besides, I had some extra cash.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “Why'd you do it? Why the guitar?”

“I… I want to apologize and please—please listen to me just this time.”

She raises an eyebrow at your words but says nothing yet.

You hold up your hands as she glares at you. “Okay, okay,” you start. “You're right to be angry with me. I did something really, really shitty and stupid. And I'm sorry for it.” You look down, avoiding her gaze in shame. “I shouldn't have taken Caitlyn's money. I shouldn't have done it, just for a stupid cash for a stupid deal. I was being selfish and not thinking about how you'd feel.”

You glance up, expecting her to be scowling and yelling at you.

But she isn't. She's just listening.

It gives you the courage to continue. “I—I should have just been honest with you about everything. I knew it was wrong, and yet I still... and I didn't stop myself. No matter how many times I tried to, I just…” You pause, struggling to say how you feel. “I couldn't stop myself from falling in love with you.”

You look at her again, and the corners of her lips twitch as she tries to keep the grin from spreading across her face. “Really?”

You weren't one to stay serious for too long, were you? you step closer to her, your eyebrows shot up, a smirk on your lips. “It's not every day you find a girl who blows up a classroom with fireworks just to get you out of detention.”

She covers her face with her hands and groans as she tries to hide the growing smile on her face. “Oh, God.”

You tried to soak in every inch of her face. If someone had taken a picture of her then, you could easily have stared at it for hours. She's beautiful—truly beautiful when she smiles.

You reach out and place your hand over hers, pulling it away from her face. Her smile fades, but she doesn't struggle with your touch as she looks at you.

“But it was pretty damn awesome, wasn't it?” you add.

You lift your hand and push a strand of her hair behind her ear before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her lips.

She lets you kiss her, closing her eyes and pulling you close. But it doesn't last long as she pulls away suddenly, her brows furrowing. “You can't just buy me a guitar every time you screw up.”

You grimace. “Yeah... I know. But then we can go to a drum set. Or a bass. And, eventually, a tambourine.”

You lean in for another kiss, but she breaks away, continuing to talk. “And don't just think you can-”

You don't allow her to finish. You shut her up with a kiss, your lips muffling her complaint.

Jinx's eyes widen for a second before she closes them. Her hands grip your shoulders. She's not pushing you away—she's pulling you closer. She melts into the kiss, letting her tongue slip out as her hand threads through your hair. 

You move your hands down her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, holding her.

Her other hand cups your face, fingers stroking your cheek.

You back her up against the driver's side door of her car, pinning her between the car and your body. You pull away to let her breathe, a thin string of saliva connecting your bottom lips with hers.

Jinx's face is flushed and her lips are swollen. She's panting, her hands tangled up and gripping your shoulder. “I'm still…” she says breathlessly. “I'm still mad at you.”

You chuckle and kiss the tip of her nose. “I know.” You take her hands in yours, fingers tracing over her knuckles. You bring her hand up, kissing the back of her hand. “I'll make it up to you.”

Jinx looks down at your entwined fingers, then back up at you. “As you should.”

—

“1, 2, 3, CHEESE!”

Click.

The camera flash goes off, and you press a kiss on her cheek. Your arm rests across her shoulders, and she's clinging onto your hand, grinning at the camera. She giggles, and you feel her nuzzle herself into your side.

Vi smiles behind the phone. “You two are nauseatingly cute,” she says as she puts her phone down.

You glance over at Jinx. The years have passed, and she's graduated. Now she's wearing an academic cap and a black gown, with her diploma in her hand.

Your heart swells with pride. Seeing her achieve her dream made you happy.

Jinx looks just as happy as you are. She held the diploma tightly, her fingers delicately holding the edge of the paper. “Can't believe I did it,” she whispers to herself. 

You give her hand a squeeze, offering silent reassurance.

You remember how hard she worked to get to this point. Late nights spent studying, long hours spent in the library, the stress and anxieties she dealt with.

But she did it.

She did it because she worked her ass off, and she earned it.

You're so proud of her.

You give Jinx a kiss at the temple. Then, you take your arm off her shoulders while you pull something out of your pocket. “I have something for you.”

“Mhm?” She tucks the tassel back under her cap and turns to face you. “What is it?”

You grin as you hold up a...

“A ticket?” she asks, confused.

You hand the ticket over to her. She furrows her eyebrows, then opens her mouth to ask, but then notices something. She looks back at you, then down to the ticket in her hands. She scans over the details, her eyes widening.

“Sweden?”

“Sweden,” you confirm. “And.” You pull out a second ticket from your pocket. “All expenses are paid for. Including the flight, the food, and the hotel room we're staying in.”

Jinx can't form any words, stunned into silence. She just stares at the ticket, flicking the corner of the ticket with her finger.

“I remembered that you said you wanted to see the northern lights. So I thought this…" You motion at the two tickets, “would be the perfect graduation gift.”

“You… you're serious?”

You nod and take her hands in yours. “I wanted to give you the world,” you say, running your thumb across her knuckles. “But seeing as I can't, I settled for the next best thing.”

Jinx says nothing. She's still staring at the tickets. You expect her to have a big, happy smile on her face, but instead, you're surprised to see her eyes beginning to fill up.

You're starting to worry she doesn't like the gift. Did you mess up? “I can get you a different gift if you don't like it,” you say hastily. “If you-”

You're cut off by Jinx throwing her arms around your shoulders, nearly tackling you in a hug. She buries her head in your neck, her arms wrapped around your torso. Her fingers grasp the back of your shirt, holding on tight. Her body trembles, and you feel tears wetting through your shirt.

“Oh.” You're taken aback, but you relax and return the hug. One hand comes down to rest on her back, holding her close to you, and your free hand finds its way to her head. You thread your fingers through her hair while you rub soothing circles across her back. “What's wrong? Did I-”

Jinx shakes her head, her sobs slowly subsiding into quiet sniffles. “N-no, no, it's n-not that...”

“Then… what-”

She raises her head, and when you look at her, you see she's now a mess of runny makeup. “It's the best present I've ever got.” She takes a breath, and you wipe some of the tears from her face. “It just… it means so much to me that… you remembered what I said that day.”

“Of course I remember everything you say.” 

Jinx closes her eyes as you use your thumb to wipe the smeared mascara under her eyes. “I love you so much,” she chokes out.

“I love you too.” Your other hand comes to her face, where you wipe the rest of the lingering teardrops and rub your thumb underneath her eye.

Vi lets out a cough, drawing both of your attention to her. You had been so caught up in the moment, you entirely forgot she was there. “Well,” Vi says with a smile. “...that was cute.”

Jinx looks like she's ready to cry for a whole new reason. She gives you a final squeeze before releasing her arms from around your shoulders and stepping away. She straightens her cap.

“Don't.” You reach out and fix her cap, adjusting it on her head.

Jinx lets out a watery chuckle and smacks your hand away. “Quit babying me.”

“Never,” you reply, and you steal a quick kiss.

Then, Jinx turns her head to her sister. “Vi, we're going to see the northern lights,” she tells her.

“Yes, I heard,” Vi says.

“Look!” Jinx shoves the ticket into her face. “We're going to Sweden. We're going to see the northern lights.”

“I know,” Vi replies, taking the ticket and looking down at it. She grins. “Congratulations, Pow. You deserve this.” She puts the ticket back into Jinx's hand. “You better appreciate that gift,” she teases. “Not a lot of people get such an awesome gift.”

“I do,” Jinx says. “I appreciate it a lot.”

“Good.” Vi looks between the two of you, then gives you a stern look. “Keep spoiling her. And I won't punch you.”

“Got it,” you say with a nod.

Jinx hugs the tickets to her chest, already imagining the sights. The northern lights, the snow, the cold temperatures, Sweden.

It's going to be amazing.

“This is going to be the best trip of my life.”

You smile at how excited Jinx is. You look at Vi, who's watching the two of you. Vi's expression softens. She smiles and nods approvingly, and you can see how much she loves her sister, how much she loves seeing Jinx happy.

“Well, I hope it lives up to your expectations,” you tell Jinx, wrapping an arm around her.

“No matter what, I'm spending it with you, so it already will be.”

End.

notes: OH HOLY GAH DAMN WE'VE FINALLY REACHED THE END!! I want to give an enormous, heartfelt thanks to each and every single one of the wonderful people who were supporting me, leaving likes, and most importantly, taking the time to comment! Your feedback honestly fueled my caffeine-driven writing sessions. Now, I love these two ladies way too much to say goodbye to them that easily, so i'll be writing some side stories to keep my stupid brain happy.

taglist: @axolotl-arsonist, @crvcified-kinx, @axoluxy, @dyslexic-dreamer, @urdeadpoet, @iluvshifting, @shootingc, @freementallyillkid, @tr3nzit444s, @powderbomb-jinxed, @chickennuggetsaresootasty, @multiliker, @rick-grimes-girl, @angelsglitch, @blobfishyy @writtenbyhollywood

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

pairing: cult leader!joel miller x virgin!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 8.6k

summary:

You think you’re as good as dead when a band of raiders find you. In what you think are your final moments, an angel appears.

His name is Joel Miller, and he is here to deliver you from evil.

author's note: a huge thank you to my fellow cultist @atinylittlepain for listening to me scream about this. without them, we'd probably be on version 5 of this story. and to everyone who has been excited about this, i hope you enjoy!

warnings: DARK CONTENT - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dub-con: power dynamics, dub-con: cult mentality, age difference - 60M and 27F, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, dual POV, post-outbreak, canon divergence, canon typical violence (knife wounds, gun shot wounds, numerous mentions of blood), minor character death(s), blood cult ceremonies, religious themes, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, loss of virginity, oral sex - f receiving, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v, cum play, dirty talk, pet names, praise, joel really has a loose screw ok? if there are any tags missing, please let me know!

“I don’t think you should go out there by yourself,” you say, watching as your dad inspects his gun. He looks up at you with a pained expression.

“I gotta see where we should head next. I don’t want to lead you out in the wrong direction, accidentally get you in a bad spot,” he says. “I’ll be fine, buttercup.”

There’s a heaviness that settles in your stomach at his words. He sounds confident enough, but his eyes tell a different story, expose his fear. He stands with a sigh, a wince of pain washing over his face.

“Maybe I should—“

“No,” he interrupts. “I’m going. I won’t be gone long, okay? We can’t stay here forever. Who knows what’s out there in the forest.”

That’s exactly what you’re afraid of. At least inside the rotted cabin you stumbled across you could pretend you were safe. The forest is alive in a way you’ve never experienced growing up in a QZ surrounded with barbed wire and steel. You hear the snap of twigs and the howl of wolves, or the flutter of wings and the call of birds, and sometimes you think you feel the weight of eyes watching you if you venture out too far in your exploration.

“We’ve made it this far. We got out of Denver and that was half the battle,” your dad says. “You got your knife, right? And enough rations.”

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. He kisses your forehead, dry lips lingering on your skin. You have an aching feeling this is a goodbye, some sinking intuition that he’s making a mistake that you can’t correct.

“Be back soon. I love you.”

Joel’s been keeping an eye on the people in the woods for the last three days. There was chatter on one of the radio stations that the Denver QZ was facing an uprising and he knows that once those walls come down, the survivors that venture out are bound to stumble across his town.

The cabin door opens and the man steps out, venturing into the forest. Joel waits to see if his female companion follows, but the door remains shut. He longs to see you, the girl who’s image has been burned into his brain since his first glimpse, but he has a duty to fulfill first.

He walks quickly and quietly through the forest, sure feet catching up with the man less than a mile from where he’d started.  Joel clears his throat. 

The man turns, fumbling with a gun that he clearly has no experience using, pointing it at Joel with shaking hands and shouting, “Move and I’ll shoot!” 

“You lost?” Joel asks, holding his hands up and keeping his face trained in a mask of concern. “Lookin’ for somethin’?”

After a pause, the man seeming to have concluded that Joel isn't a threat, he says, “My daughter and I…we escaped the Denver QZ."

"That must've been difficult." 

"We....we're running out of food," he continues, dropping his arms, limbs hanging heavy at his sides. "I-I don't know what else to do, man."

Gun no longer pointed at his face, Joel approaches the man, stopping when he's within arms reach. Up close, he can see the dismal state the guy is in -- sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, tattered clothing hanging on a thin frame. Joel places a hand on his bony shoulder.

"I can help you," he says. The man looks up, a brief glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes. Joel watches the slow realization, the way his brain catches up to what's just happened, a choked noise spilling from his dry lips. 

Joel tugs his knife from the man's gut and steps back, watching as he collapses to the ground. Desperate hands smear the blooming red stain across his abdomen. Joel circles the man, positioning himself at his back, and pulls him close with a hand slapped over his mouth.

"I'll take good care of her," he whispers before dragging his knife across his neck in one clean slice. The man twitches once before growing limp and Joel releases him, body hitting the forest floor with a dull thud. Not one to waste, Joel gathers anything of use from his person. 

Something catches the light against his neck. Curious, Joel tugs the bloodstained neck of his t-shirt to the side, finding a silver chain. He pulls, revealing the length of it. 

A cross.

The clasp snaps with a sharp tug and Joel stuffs it in his pocket. Standing and shouldering his bag once more, he begins his walk back towards the cabin.

You're running as fast as your legs will carry you, lungs and limbs burning with the effort. You made the mistake of not listening to your dad when he'd told you stay where you were, to stay hidden, that he'd come back. Your nerves had gotten the best of you and you decided that you would catch up with him, but you didn't know which direction he'd gone. You figured you would travel a little ways and see if you could find him and if you didn't do so quickly, you'd rush back to the cabin and wait, just as he told you.

That's when the men saw you, two large figures with rifles that reminded you of FEDRA soldiers slung across their backs. 

You duck behind a thick tree to catch your breath. You can hear voices calling out through the forest above the rush of blood in your ears, taunting tones carrying through the air.

"C'mon out, pretty girl!" 

You chance a peek out from your hiding spot, only catching a brief glimpse of one man through the trees. 

"Where ya hidin', sweet thing?" 

His voice sounds far away and that gives you the courage to move forward, a tentative dash for another tree. 

“I might be nicer to ya if you just come on out, but if I have to hunt ya down…well…you know what a hunter does to its prey, don’tcha?”

You press your hand over your mouth, muffling the cry that claws its way up your throat. You start to run again, faster, not caring if he can hear you so long as you're able to maintain that distance, hoping that if you can outrun them for long enough, he'll just give up and then maybe you can find your--

You crash into something, the world sliding out from under you and the breath rushing from your lungs as you land on your back with a pained shout. A hand wraps around your ankle, pulling you across the rough ground before you have the chance to recover. 

"Gotcha," a man says, the voice different from the one that had been taunting you before. A figure stands over you, a foot on either side of your hips, looking down at you with a sinister smile. "Pretty little prize, huh?"

You twist your body, scrambling away from him. He laughs, following after you with unhurried strides.

“Now, don’t play hard to get,” he admonishes. A hand wraps around your ankle and he drags you toward him, kicking and screaming. Your foot connects with some fleshy part of him and he curses. 

“You little fuckin’ cunt,” he hisses, dropping your foot. He kicks you, heavy boot colliding with soft flesh and bone, a sharp pain blossoming in your side, shooting down to your very marrow. You curl in on yourself, wounded prey trying to protect its most vulnerable parts.

A shot rings out, the sound startling in the relative quiet of the forest. You sit up, sudden movement making you light headed, and it takes you a long moment to register the scene before you.

The man that had been chasing you, the one that had caught you, the one that had hurt you on the surface but planned to do far worse, lies on the ground, eyes wide open but unseeing. Above him stands your savior, an older man with gray streaked dark curls and tan skin, broad shoulders and hard brown eyes. He reminds you of a painting you saw once in a book your dad owned, long before the outbreak.

“Death On A Pale Horse,” he explained when you showed him the painting that caught your eye. “Based on the Book of Revelations. You remember that one, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“This one,” — he pointed to the central figure, a dark creature on a white horse — “is Death. And this one” — he pointed to a figure on the right that rides a dark brown horse, the dark colors making him blend among the horrors breaking from the sky behind him — “would be famine. You can see the emaciated man below him.”

“What about the other two?” You asked.

“The one of the red horse would be war.”

You pointed to the remaining figure, a man with dark curls and a determined expression. “And the white horse?”

Your dad paused. “Conquest. Pestilence. The Antichrist. The first horseman of the apocalypse.”

The man before you today looks like that figure on the white horse and despite his choice to rescue you from one horror, you fear he may be something far worse.

The man kneels and you flinch away from him. He sighs and says, “I ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

“Who are you?” You ask, voice weak, throat on fire. 

“My name is Joel,” he says. “I want to help you.”

“How do I know you weren’t with those other guys?” Your eyes grow wide and you rush to stand on shaky legs. “Wait, there’s another—“

“He won’t be an issue,” Joel assures you, wrapping a steadying arm around your waist. “C’mon.”

“I can’t—“

“Men like those two ain’t the only things in the forest to worry about, and I’m afraid we can’t sit around and find out. That gun shot could send a horde runnin’.”

“Wait!” You snap, pulling out of his grasp. He holds his hands up, as if in surrender, or maybe like he’s approaching a wounded animal. You’re not sure which. “My dad is out there. H-he went to figure out where to go from here. We were in a cabin…” Your voice trails off. “I told him I would wait for him.”

Joel’s eyes are soft as he says, “We need to get ourselves to safety. I can send someone out to look for your dad first thing in the mornin’.”

“Send someone?”

“There’s a group of us, down in the valley. Survivors, like you.”

“Really?” Relief washes over you, eclipsing even the ache in your belly and the burn in your throat and the pain in your muscles. “How far?”

“With the state you’re in, probably about a two hour hike.”

You don’t have much choice but to go with him, do you?

“Okay.”

“Where’re you comin’ from?” Joel asks, glancing over his shoulder at you. You’ve been following quietly behind him, head down and eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Denver,” is all you offer in response. He knew that much already. He wants to know more.

Maybe he has to give more first.

“‘M from Texas, originally. Was in a QZ in Boston for a while before makin’ my way out here.”

“Why’d you come out here?” You ask.

“Had a friend once tell me, ‘Save who you can save’,” he says. 

“What does that mean?” You ask.

“You’ll see.”

Joel had mentioned survivors, but you're shocked to discover that just past a wooden sign proclaiming WELCOME TO CRESTONE in chipped yellow paint, a whole town is tucked away, surrounded by a wooden gate that opens for you as you approach. You feel the weight of curious eyes as you walk through a town square, Joel's palm between your shoulder blades steering you towards a more residential area until you reach a two story adobe home.

Once inside, you’re led upstairs to a sparsely decorated bedroom, a large bed in the center with a faded quilt tucked around the mattress with precision and a dresser against one wall covered in yellowed wallpaper. Joel gestures for you to sit, kneeling on the wood floor in front of you to work on the laces of your sneakers.

“What—“

“You need rest,” he says, removing your shoes. He looks up at you, brown eyes full of concern. Your stomach flips.

“But—“

“No,” he says sternly. He stands and walks to the side of the bed, tugging the quilt free and folding it down. “I have duties to return to, but you’ll be safe here.”

You don’t have it in you to continue arguing. You haven’t seen a comfortable bed in more than two days and the exhaustion catches up to you in one fell swoop, eyes halfway to shut as you crawl into the space Joel’s made for you between the sheets. He pulls the covers over you, the warmth of a hand smoothing across your cheek the last thing you feel before falling asleep.

You wake to the sun high in the sky, streaming through the open window of a room that you don't recognize.  You push yourself to sitting, your ribs protesting the movement and your head pulsing just behind your eyes. Your mouth is unbearably dry, so much so that you start coughing, further aggravating your bruised ribs.

"There's water on the nightstand," a voice says, startling you.

You look to your left, finding a young girl sitting in a wooden chair by your bed. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face, wayward pieces falling across pale skin. Her sharp brown eyes watch you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl.

“I’m Ellie,” she says. You mumble your own name.

“Did Joel save you?” Ellie asks. 

“Uh—“

“He must have. That’s what he does,” she continues, cutting you off. 

“Ellie!” A familiar deep voice calls out. Her eyes go wide and she scrambles from her seat, rushing for the door. Heavy footsteps climb the stairs, Joel appearing in the open doorway. He looks at her with a stern expression, mouth pressed in a thin line. “Thought I told you not to come up here.”

The look on her face isn’t fear, like her reaction would have led you to believe. No, she looks up at Joel with reverence as she says, “Sorry. Wanted to see her.”

Joel nods. “Head to the mess hall. I’ll bring her down shortly.”

Ellie casts a lingering look in your direction before disappearing through the doorway. 

“Sorry about her,” Joel says. He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Could be better,” you say honestly. “How long was I asleep for?”

“A little more than a day.”

Your eyes go wide. “My dad—“

“We’ve sent out a search party. No luck yet, I’m afraid,” he says. You curl into yourself a bit at the news, shoulders tight with worry. He reaches forward and places a hand on top of your own where it rests on the sheets. “You should get some food. I brought you some new clothes, too. I’ll let you get dressed and we can go down to the mess hall.“

He leaves the room before you respond and you drag the pile of clothes closer to you, finding a neatly folded t-shirt, jeans, underwear, and socks. It takes you a long moment to work your way out of your dirty clothes, your movements slow to not aggravate your injuries. You keep your bra on, pulling the clean shirt over your head, followed by the jeans. You're thrilled to be wearing something that's not caked with dirt and sweat.

You're working on putting your socks on when there's a knock at the door, Joel entering when you call out for him to come in. He smiles at you.

"There, that's better," he says. "C'mon. Let's get down to dinner."

You follow him out of the room and down the stairs. The first floor of the home has a kitchen that opens up to a living and dining area, the space filled with worn mismatched furniture. The walls are wood paneled and there's a massive stone fireplace with elk antlers mounted above it.

The sun is setting as you step outside and get your first real look at the town as its bathed in gold. Narrow residential streets give way to wider roads once you reach the town center, where commercial buildings are pressed together advertising long forgotten businesses, their windows dark. 

"That's the butcher up there," Joel says, pointing to one of the wooden buildings. "He gets the meat from the traps prepped for us." He points to another building with a sign that says RESTAURANT. "That's the bakery."

"A butcher and a bakery?" You ask. "Do you have electricity here?"

"Sure do. Solar panels, just outside the gate."

You continue walking through the town until you come up on a large white building, people entering and exiting through a set of thick double doors. The shadow of a cross remains above the door, perhaps scorched by the sun where a crucifix once sat. People welcome Joel as he enters, heads turning in their curiosity. You press a little closer to Joel's side.

The large room is bursting with noise and activity -- a flurry of conversations, the clink of cutlery, and laughter. You've not seen anything like it before, the mentality in the QZ not conducive to camaraderie. You can count on one hand the number of people you would have considered friends within those walls, and even that was a stretch. You and Joel join a line of people retrieving plates of food from a single window. 

"How long has all of this been here?" You ask, gesturing to the room. He looks around proudly.

"Ellie and I came across this town on accident after we went through hell leavin' Boston. The folks here set up their own quarantine zone and with bigger fish to fry, FEDRA sort of left ‘em alone. They were kind enough to take us in," he says. "After that, more people started showin' up lookin' for safety. Lots of people who escaped the QZs or had been on their own for a while and were tired of runnin'."

"Ellie says you save people," you comment, taking a step forward as the line moves. "What's that mean?"

"Every flock needs a shepherd."

You’re at the front of the line now, standing in front of the window. A woman appears, her face lighting up when she sees Joel.

“Joel! How are you?” She asks, leaning onto the ledge. Behind her you can see people moving quickly and efficiently around a stainless steel kitchen, large pots of food simmering on the stovetop. 

“Well enough,” he says. He places a hand on your shoulder. “We have a new guest. Make her plate nice and full for me?”

“Of course.” 

She gathers a plate from a precarious stack, loading it with a heaping pile of food ranging from mashed potatoes and stew to colorful vegetables that you haven’t seen in ages, not since before the outbreak when you were seven and your dad would make dinner rather than pass you a ration package. You’re speechless as she hands you the plate with a kind smile, a mumbled thank you the best you can manage to show your gratitude.

Joel is handed a plate as well and you follow him to a table where Ellie sits next to a man with white hair, her plate already empty in front of her. The man looks up at Joel as you approach, his expression closed off and wary. 

“Michael,” Joel says in greeting, jaw ticking. You take a seat beside Ellie, who to your surprise moves closer to you, arm brushing yours. “You botherin’ Ellie?”

The man, Michael, shakes his head. “No, sir. We were just having a little talk.”

“What about?” Joel sits on the opposite side of the table. He rips his bread roll in half. 

“Just some concerns I was having.”

“You bring your concerns to me. Not to her.”

The two men stare at each other, the tension thick and impossible to ignore. Finally, Michael gets up, leaving the table without another word. Ellie’s shoulder’s lose their tension and Joel catches her eye, the two of them seeming to have an entire conversation in just a look.

The moment passes and Joel’s features relax, a smile tilting the corners of his lips as he returns his attention to you and gestures to your plate.

“Dig in,” he says.

Joel walks you back to his home after dinner, the sky now dark. Ellie’s already closed herself in her room by the time the two of you return, having left the mess hall before you had finished eating. 

“Tired again?” Joel asks when you yawn, mouth open wide as you stretch your arms above your head. 

Your expression is sheepish as you say, “A little bit.”

“That’s to be expected,” he assures you. “You fought a hard fight. It’s okay to relax now. I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.” Your fingers tangle in the hem of the t-shirt he’d given you earlier. “I don’t know if I’ve said that already.”

“You’re welcome. Come on, let’s get you back upstairs. You can use the shower and get to bed.”

“Oh my god, a shower sounds amazing.”

He shows you the bathroom and helps you get the water running. Once he shows you where to find a towel, you smile gratefully before shutting the door on him.

Dismissed, Joel makes his way to Ellie’s room, knocking on the door. She answers quickly, opening up only enough for him to see her face.

“Yeah?” She asks.

“Can I come in?” 

She rolls her eyes but opens the door further, allowing him inside. Her room is smaller than his but far more decorated, pages ripped out of old magazines and comic books tacked to the wall. She takes a seat on her single bed, folding her legs beneath her.

“What did Michael talk to you about?” He asks. She shrugs her shoulders. Joel bites back a sigh. Sometimes he forgets what it was like to reason with a teenage girl. “Ellie.”

“He said” — she pauses, scratching at her wrist in the way that she will when she’s anxious — “he said that you were full of shit. That your fucked up ceremony isn’t helping any of them.”

Joel’s teeth grind together. “That all?”

“Called me a stupid kid for following what you say,” she mumbles. “Said everyone in town was stupid for believing you.”

“Thank you for tellin’ me,” he says. Rage burns in his veins as he turns to leave. 

“What are you gonna do?” Ellie asks as he reaches the door.

“I’m goin’ to teach him a lesson.”

He pulls the door shut behind him, tilting his head against the wood with a sigh. The click of a latch down the hall precedes your quiet, “Joel?”

Joel turns to face you, surprised to find you standing just outside the bathroom door with a towel tucked around your body. Water glistens on your skin in the low light, drawing his eyes down your neck and across your chest. He clears his throat.

“Everythin’ alright?” He asks. 

“Yeah, everything is fine,” you murmur. “I…could I get some new clothes?”

“Of course, should’a given you some before you showered. Sorry about that.” 

Joel walks past you, entering his bedroom and approaching the dresser. He tugs the top drawer open, full of clothing he’d gathered while you’d been asleep for more than a day. He piles together another t-shirt, sleep pants, and underwear, setting them on the bed for you. 

You’re standing in the doorway when he finishes and he fights the urge to go to you, to pull you close, to run his wretched hands over your body like he’s wanted to since he first saw you in the forest. 

He doesn’t, though. Not yet. You still have much to learn.

“Here you go,” he says. “Some more stuff in the drawers for you if you need it.”

Joel leaves you to get ready for bed, shutting the door behind him. He heads downstairs to grab what he’ll need, essentials shoved in a bag thrown over his shoulder before venturing off into the night.

Only a few lights continue to illuminate windows as Joel walks through the residential area. The house he approaches at the end of a street is already dark, quiet beyond the wood door that he knocks on three times. The door opens slowly, Michael appearing in the small space. 

“What?” He grunts.

“Come take a walk,” Joel says. Michael rolls his eyes, moving to shut the door but Joel’s boot blocks his effort. “I ain’t askin’, Michael.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you going to do?” He challenges. Joel throws his weight against the door, catching Michael by surprise enough for him to step into the house.

Joel throws an elbow into the man’s gut, making him double over with a groan. He circles behind him, kicking the back of his knee to send him to the ground. He pulls a length of chain from his pocket, looping it around Michael’s neck and pulling the ends.

Michael struggles, clawing at the garotte and thrashing wildly, but Joel holds strong. He tightens his grip further until Michael’s fight becomes sluggish, lack of oxygen finally causing him to go limp.

Joel releases the chain and Michael’s body slumps to the ground. He removes his backpack, digging through the contents until he finds a rusted pair of handcuffs that he uses to bind Michael’s arms behind his back. Next, he places a strip of duct tape over his mouth.

When he wakes, Joel will lead him out past the gate. He will find an unassuming home that rests outside the boundary of Crestone. He will open the hidden doors of the cellar, the ones covered in a layer of leaves and grass. From the darkness he will hear the echo of desperate groans and the rattle of chains and the angry attempts to break free from bindings. He will lead Michael down the dirt steps, the smell of rot and fear and death clawing at his olfactory nerves. 

He will place a burlap bag over a struggling Michael’s head and the man will beg and plead in words muffled by tape. Then, Joel will offer him for judgment.

A hand on you shoulder shakes you awake, the room still mostly dark when you manage to open your eyes. You groan, pulling the quilt up over your head.

“C’mon, we gotta get to breakfast,” Ellie says. The cover gets yanked down and she gives you a mischievous grin. 

“Where’s Joel?” You ask, sitting up slowly. She shrugs.

“Probably there already.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching your arms up. You grab the same jeans and socks from the day before, changing into them quickly and sitting down on the floor to pull your sneakers on. Ellie watches you, her foot tapping impatiently.

“You can go without me if you’re in a rush,” you offer. She shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly. “You ready?”

“Sure.”

You follow her out of the house, her clipped pace difficult to keep up with due to your lingering pain. As the sun starts to rise and you pass by more of the houses, you notice something peculiar about some of them.

“What’s that?” You ask, pausing in front of one the houses. There’s a streak of what looks like dark red paint across the top of the door. Ellie doubles back and stands beside you.

“Protection,” she says. 

“From what?” 

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable with your line of questioning. Rather than answer, she walks away, leaving you to catch up to her or be left behind.

As the two of you start to walk through the square, there’s a rush of people around you. Shouting can be heard up ahead as a crowd comes into view, gathered around the front of the mess hall building. People press in close together, craning their necks to see over each other and catch a glimpse of whatever spectacle has their attention.

Ellie pushes through the crowd and you follow close on her heels until she manages to break through the other side of the wall of people. You catch glimpses of something writhing on the ground, something animal but not quite, something failed and fetid and foul. Another peek affords you a view of an arm littered with bite marks shaped by blunt teeth, deep gouges into their skin that shine red with blood and fester with disease.

Joel appears, stepping around the side of the building. The whispers cease, the crunch of Joel’s boots and pained groans the only noise to be heard in the stale air.

His dark eyes scan the crowd. People shrink back from his gaze, pressing closer to each other for relief. He reaches down, curling his fingers into the burlap material and yanking it off to reveal a man, familiar and yet not recognizable. Unseeing eyes, ashen skin, and dark red veins now the hallmark characteristics of the man you now remember as the one who had been talking to Ellie in the dining hall.

Joel draws a gun from his back, aiming it at Michael’s head. “Let this be a lesson,” he says, pulling the trigger.

The shot rings out, making you jump. The agonized sounds come to abrupt halt and his body goes limp, eyes still open as blood blooms on the ground around him. 

“No blood spilled. No blood saved,” Joel says. You look up from the horrible scene and meet his hard gaze. You step back, turning and shoving your way through the crowd.

Then, you run.

You’re frantically shoving clothing into your bag when a door slams downstairs and heavy footsteps climb the stairs at a quick pace. You can feel the burn of Joel's eyes on your back, his presence in the room thick and cloying as you refuse to turn around, even when he murmurs your name.

He moves closer, a hand on your shoulder prompting you to turn to break the connection. He holds his hands up in surrender, taking a step back as he says, "Let me explain."

"Explain? Explain?! How the fuck do you explain that?!" You snap. 

"If you'll just listen--"

"There's nothing you could possibly say that will--"

"Ellie is immune!" He shouts. Your words die on the tip of your tongue, lost to ether as you stare at Joel. 

"W-what do you mean? Immune?" You ask. 

He takes a deep breath. "I told you what my friend said. 'Save who you can save'. The first person I saved was Ellie."

"I helped her out of Boston, kept her safe, nearly lost my life if it meant keepin' her alive," He continues. "That's what I offer here."

"So you think you're....what? Some kind of god? That you can grant immunity?"

He huffs a laugh, the noise devoid of any humor. "God abandoned his worst experiment in their time of need. There is no god anymore, just the poor creatures he left behind. Someone had to take up the mantle."

"But how?"

"The ceremony," he says. 

"That’s not a fucking answer, Joel!” You shout. “What fucking ceremony?!”

“Blood spilled for blood saved. You can’t make it in this world without givin’ your everythin’ first.” He lifts the bottom of his shirt, just enough to reveal a jagged scar to the right of his belly button, shiny scar tissue disrupting smooth tan skin. “I did this for Ellie. Now everyone else has to do it for themselves.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” You take a small step closer to inspect the wound, raising your hand and reaching out with a tentative touch. Joel inhales sharply as you run your fingers across the puckered flesh. 

His hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your hand up and holding it against his chest. “It’ll be easier to show you, okay? There’s a ceremony in a couple days.”

“I don’t—“

“You’re just afraid because this is somethin’ new, but I promise you that you got nothin’ to be scared of. I’ll take care of you.” He lifts a hand to your face, tilting your chin with his thumb. “I just need you to trust me.”

His eyes are honest, earnest, pleading with you to believe him and the longer you search them, the more truth you seem to find. He will take care of you. You just know it.

“Okay.”

Dinner is served early on the day of the ceremony, the room buzzing with excited conversation. You haven’t seen Joel much the last few days, just passing glimpses, and Ellie says it’s because he has a lot to prepare for. Tonight there’s a woman at his side wearing a white dress that flows to the floor, black hair braided down her back. She smiles at Joel, hanging on every word you can’t hear. It makes your stomach clench in a weird way when her hand curls around his bicep and her head leans against his shoulder.

“That’s Marcy. She’s volunteered for the ceremony,” Ellie says. She’s sitting across from you, a smirk on her lips. “S’why she’s been hanging around Joel the last few days. Joel’s gotta prepare her.”

“Oh,” is all you manage to reply, picking at the vegetables on your plate. “What does…what does he do? To prepare her.”

She shrugs. “Dunno.”

You glance at the pair. Joel leans in close to the woman, whispering into her ear. Your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm, your hands curled into tight fists beneath the table. He stands, a hand on the woman’s shoulder as he calls the people to attention, voices fading until silence envelops the room. 

“Tonight,” Joel says, “another is to be saved. And we will all bear witness to the gift of deliverance that only self-sacrifice can grant.”

It’s only a few words, but the power in them is palpable as you glance around the room at the entire town watching him with rapt attention. His eyes meet yours.

“Save who you can save,” he intones. A chill runs down your spine.

“Save who you can save,” the town echoes back. 

The sun is already low on the horizon, twilight casting a soft glow on the scene. You stand at the back of the crowd, watching as Joel leads Marcy onto a raised wooden platform. Another man joins them, passing something wrapped in cloth into Joel’s outstretched hands. 

“The thing about the world today,” Joel says, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a large knife, “is that there ain’t a single guarantee.” He looks out over the crowd. “Except here, within these walls. Why? Because here you’ll make the greatest sacrifice and earn the greatest reward.”

He begins to pace the length of the platform, knife in hand. “Givin’ your blood in exchange for your safety? That doesn’t sound so bad, right?” The people around you nod their heads in agreement. “You’ve seen what that sacrifice can do. I did it for Ellie. I did it for myself. And tonight—“ he places a hand on Marcy’s shoulder “—another has made the choice to earn that gift of protection.”

A cheer erupts, spreading through the crowd through shouts and applause. You find yourself joining them, clapping your hands together as you continue to watch Joel. 

“Marcy,” Joel says. “What brings you here today?”

“No blood spilled, no blood saved,” she recites dutifully. 

“Are you afraid?” He asks.

“No,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I trust in your protection.”

Joel smiles at her, beaming with pride, and that knot in your stomach from earlier returns with a vengeance. You want him to look at you like that.

He stands in front of her, blocking her from view with his body. A hush falls over the crowd and from the silence erupts an anguished scream. You flinch, the sound piercing and painful and petrifying, though it seems to have taken nobody else by surprise.

Another scream as he jerks his arm back, the knife in his hand now stained with red that slides down the blade, dripping to the wood beneath his feet. He steps to the side and you can see the woman now, her hands pressed to her belly. Crimson blooms beneath her hands, marring her pretty white dress and leaching the color and vitality from her face. She drops to her knees and so does Joel, who wraps an arm around her shoulders and gently guides her until she’s lying on her back. He holds her hand and smooths her hair from her face as she just repeats, “Thank you.”

Slowly, the strength in her voice fades. Her arm goes limp in his grasp, dropping to the floor with a dull thud as her eyes flutter shut. Joel whistles sharply, three men rushing up the platform and lifting the girl into their arms, careful not to jostle her too much. Joel remains kneeling, his head turning to scan the crowd.

“We are born covered in blood,” he says. “It gives you protection from the outside world when you’re wrenched from the womb. And it will protect you now as it is wrenched from you.”

He steps off the platform and walks past the crowd, heading for the residential street. Everyone shuffles forward, moving en masse like sheep following their shepherd or cattle to the slaughter. You’re led to one of the smaller homes and you watch as Joel smooths the flat of the blade across his hand, gathering blood in his palm. 

He places his palm on the door, smearing the blood across the faded blue paint. When he’s done, he turns to face the crowd.

“Marcy has earned her protection. Those of you among us that have not yet made your sacrifice, may you return home this evenin’ and realize that each passin’ day is a wasted opportunity for your salvation.” His serious expression softens as he smiles. “No blood spilled.”

“No blood saved,” the crowd says.

To your surprise, the words fall easily from your lips.

Joel shuts the door quietly behind him. He’s just finished checking on Marcy and was pleased to find that her wound has been dressed and she’s recovering well. At the kitchen sink he runs the water as hot as he can tolerate and scrubs his hands clean.

He can hear faint footsteps upstairs, the sound of your pacing back and forth in his bedroom. He’s pleased that you stayed through the entire ceremony, didn’t run away filled with fear or disgust like you had watching him make an example out of Michael. 

There’s hope for you yet.

Joel dries his hands on a towel and heads upstairs. He glances at Ellie’s room out of habit, though he knows it’s empty. She likes to help out after the ceremony, usually sticking beside the town nurse, Shelly, as she monitors the person who participated in the ceremony over night. 

The door to his bedroom is shut but he can see that the light is on, the glow of it seeping out from the gap beneath the door. He knocks, three sharp raps of his knuckles, and waits.

You pull the door open, and Joel is once again struck by how much he wants you, how much he’s craved you since the first time he saw you. You look up at him with wide eyes but he doesn’t sense any fear as you pull the door open further and step back to let him enter.

“You doin’ okay?” He asks, shutting the door quietly behind him. You’re standing with your arms wrapped around yourself, nodding quietly. Joel moves closer, tentatively reaching out to tilt your chin up so that he’s looking into your eyes. “Talk to me.”

“I….,” your voice trails off. You take a breath. “I want that protection.”

He was hoping you would say that. Relief floods through him.

“I can’t do that,” he says. Your brows pinch together, hurt flashing across your features. “I won’t have your blood on my hands.”

“But—“

“Listen to me—“ his hands frame your face, thumbs smoothing over the high points of your cheeks “—you’re meant for somethin’ different here.”

“Something different?” You repeat. You shake your head slightly. ���I don’t understand.”

“From the moment I saw you, I knew I couldn’t let you lose a drop,” he whispers. “You don’t need to bleed, sweetheart. Not like them. I’ll protect you myself.”

Your mouth drops open the slightest bit, drawing Joel’s gaze. He slides his thumb across your bottom lip, mesmerized by the softness of it. There’s not much about his life the last twenty or so years that he would call soft.

There was his brother, Tommy, even though they couldn’t see eye to eye and had to part ways. His daughter, Sarah, before the outbreak. She took care of him, made sure he took his vitamins and packed his lunch and didn’t miss a parent-teacher conference. She was light and joy, his heart outside of his body, and she was ripped from his grasp.

There was Tess, who was not a soft person but was a soft place to land among the carnage. Bill, ornery though he was, and Frank, arguably his better half. They were a breath of normalcy, even when Bill had a gun trained on him. Ellie, once she quit being a pain in the ass and wormed her way into his heart with her promise to follow him wherever he went.

And now there was you.

“Will you let me do that?” Joel asks. “Protect you?”

You lift your hands, delicate fingers wrapping around his wrists. He wonders if you can feel the rapid beat of his heart, his pulse pounding beneath your grip. Finally, after a long moment, you whisper, “Yes.”

Joel captures your lips with his, swallowing your gasp of surprise. You’re tentative, a bit clumsy with your movements as you kiss back and he pulls away, leaning his forehead to yours.

“I-I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I’ve never—“

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you.”

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you.”

While his words don’t stop your pulse from racing, they do calm your nerves the slightest bit. It’s not that you’ve never been interested in sex, there was just never a good opportunity. Going through puberty in an apocalypse where a militant government faction monitors your every move in exchange for basic necessities wasn’t exactly conducive to forming intimate relationships. 

While you’re lost in your thoughts, Joel moves you backwards until your legs hit the mattress and he urges you to sit down. He kneels in front of you, working on the laces of your sneakers, removing them and setting them to the side. He looks up at you as he removes your socks and you’re not sure if you're supposed to find the sight of him kneeling at your feet as sexy as you do, but a rush of warmth rolls through you all the same.

He runs his palms up your legs, across your thighs, until his fingertips find the waist of your jeans, popping the button of the fly and pulling the zipper down. 

“Lift your hips a bit, sweetheart,” he says, working the denim down and off your legs, tossing them aside. His hands return to your thighs, goosebumps erupting along their path to your hips. 

“No one’s touched you here?” He asks, here being the soft skin of your inner thigh that his thumbs sweep across. You shake your head. He moves higher, a featherlight touch over the elastic of your underwear that makes you gasp. “What about here?”

“N-no,” you manage to whisper. He smiles at you, the same proud smile he’d given Marcy that you were so desperate to have for yourself. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. He kisses the inside of your knee quickly before sitting up higher, reaching up to lift your shirt up, tugging it over your head and dropping it onto the growing pile of your clothing.

“Lie back for me,” Joel commands. You shift up the mattress and follow his instruction, bringing your arms up to cover your exposed breasts. He makes a dissatisfied click with his tongue, pulling your arms away as he crawls up the mattress to settle between your legs.

“None of that,” he admonishes, planting your hands by your head. He kisses your lips again, butterflies erupting in your stomach when his tongue tangles with yours, hot and demanding. He palms one of your breasts, hands rough on the delicate skin. “This is mine, do you understand?”

Joel brings his mouth to your breast, tongue swirling over your stiff nipple. You cry out, the foreign sensation making more heat rush through you, leaving you throbbing between your thighs. He looks up at you through his lashes as he sucks your nipple between his lips, releasing it with a lewd pop.

“Mine to touch,” he says, leaning on one arm to trail his fingers down your stomach. “Mine to kiss.” His lips trace the same heated path. “Mine to protect.”

When he reaches your underwear, he pulls back. “Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing across the gusset, making you whimper and squirm. “You’ve soaked your panties, sweetheart.”

Your face feels hot with embarrassment. “‘M sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry? Ain’t nothin’ you need to be sorry about,” he says with a chuckle. He sits up, working your only remaining barrier between you down your legs. He spreads your legs with his hands on your thighs. “Goddamn, you look so pretty, baby.”

“Really?” You ask. His answering grin is wolfish. 

“So pretty,” he repeats. He settles on his belly, face so close to your pussy you can feel the warmth of his breath against your heated flesh. “Gotta get you ready.”

Your response to the question is cut off with a high pitched moan as Joel runs his tongue through your folds, circling your clit with broad strokes. You try to close your legs against the sensation but his strong hands keep your thighs pinned down near the mattress.

He groans as he sets a slow and measured pace, alternating attention to your clit with dipping his tongue inside of you, dragging your essence from the source. Your hands clench in the sheets, chasing and retreating from the overwhelming sensation in equal measure.

There’s a blunt pressure that turns into a slight pinch as Joel slips a finger into your tight heat. Your head tilts back with a high keening noise and you’re panting, desperate for breath as he moves his hand in tandem with his tongue.

One finger becomes two that thrust and curl and part inside of you, stretching you in unfamiliar ways. It feels good, and all you want is more, more, more.

Joel’s hand moves quickly and he sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves until that flood of relief that you’ve only accomplished a handful of times on your own washes over you, your back arching sharply off the mattress as you shout his name like a prayer to the heavens.

His motions slow to a stop and he leaves the bed. You hear the clink of a belt and the rustle of clothing being removed before his weight returns between your legs, a new heat to be felt against your flushed skin with his clothes no longer in the way. With shaky hands you reach up to touch him, starting at his shoulders.

You trail your hands across his warm tan skin, down his hard chest and softer belly. That scar, the one that frightened you before, leaves you breathless as you run your fingers over it now. He’s so strong, so powerful, and he wants you. Wants to protect you so that you don’t know that same pain.

“Joel,” you whisper. He leans forward, hands on the mattress beside your head. He kisses you, slow and all encompassing. You can feel the hard length of his sliding through the mess he’s made of you and you gasp.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he says, face serious, “there ain’t any goin’ back from this. You’re mine. You got that?”

“I trust you,” you reply. Your response earns you a deep groan from the man, a kiss to your forehead that precedes the blunt head of his cock pressing to your soaked entrance.

His cock is thicker, much thicker, than his fingers were and you whine at the intrusion. His shushes you, peppering your face with soothing kisses. 

“I don’t think—“

“You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart, I know you can handle it,” Joel says. “Take a deep breath, just a little more.”

Tension gives way, a sharp pinch that turns into an ache as Joel presses his hips firmly against yours. He kisses your neck and trails his nose across your sweat damp skin, holding still as you adjust to his girth.

You shift your hips the slightest bit and Joel’s moan echoes your gasp. “Tell me I can move,” he begs, another desperate kiss pressed to your lips. “Please, baby.”

There’s something heady about the power you have in this brief moment, a man like Joel begging you for something when he’s used to having everything. You nod and that’s all the encouragement he needs to draw back slowly, that fullness leaving you inch by inch, before thrusting sharply.

It’s unlike any experience you’ve had before — the way his body moves with yours, the flex of his muscles above you, the intense look in his eyes each time he presses inside of you.

“Made for me,” he murmurs. “Mine.”

“Yours,” you agree, moaning as each drag of his cock presses against a tender spot inside of you that has your stomach tightening rapidly.

His effort doubles, hips slamming hard enough to make the headboard bang against the wall. You dig your nails into his back, watch the clench of his jaw against the sting, and moan his name as you succumb to the feeling of free falling into bliss, clenching around his cock.

“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck,” he growls, hips stilling against yours as warmth pulses inside of you, his mouth dropped open on a groan of your name.

Joel takes a moment to catch his breath before withdrawing from you. He reaches his hand between your legs, pressing his fingers into your swollen pussy as you gasp.

He holds those fingers up, the light catching on the red staining them.

Perhaps you’d spilled blood for your safety after all.

You wake to the early morning light filtering through the window, a noticeable ache between your legs as you begin to stir. You’re naked, having fallen asleep in Joel’s arms last night, his lips caressing your neck until you’d drifted off and dreamt of blood and wolves. You stretch your limbs, encountering only cold sheets as you do.

As you sit up, you realize the sound of rushing water is the shower and surmise that Joel must be in there. With stiff movements you leave the warmth of the bed and approach the dresser, tugging open the top drawer to find clothing for the day.

You’re reaching for underwear when your fingers catch on something cold, metal in a sea of fabric. You pull on the object, unearthing it from its hiding spot and holding it up for inspection.

A cross, hanging from a silver chain. A chain you would tangle your fingers in as a child, a cross that a thumb would rub across as a deep, familiar voice muttered prayers.

The shower turns off and you take one last look at the crucifix before setting it back into the dark corner you’d unearthed it from.

Then, you shut the drawer. 

Joel Miller masterlist

All masterlists

[spiderfunkz]

HYUN-JU x CHUBBY!READER

pairings. cho hyun-ju x f!reader

author's note: i hope i did this request justice!! i have a few more drafts to upload😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 likes and reblogs help boost my writing and are very appreciated.

▸ hyun-ju isn't shy nor afraid to show you off to her friends, to let them see what a beautiful person you truly are. inside and out. she loves seeing you become more comfortable and confident, that's her girl. and plus, she loves it when you get flustered sometimes. it's cute.

▸ she's a great listener, as said before. she's empathetic and emotionally intelligent. she's quick to reassure you when you feel down. she's incredibly good with her words, they always make you feel more relaxed and calm. she'll rub your back and play with your hair as you talk.

▸ hyun-ju believes that an 'ideal body' is a body you're comfortable in. she would never cross your boundaries. she always supports your goals and accomplishments, as small as they can be, she's still proud. your celebrations are hers too. she doesn't care about societal standards, as long as you're happy and healthy, she'll love you no matter what.

▸ she compliments you all the time! she tells you how perfect your curves are, how she loves every single part of you. hyun-ju states that beauty and love come in all shapes and sizes.

▸ when you're feeling self conscious or insecure, hyun-ju knows how to softly handle it. she isn't unknown to the struggles of being uncomfortable or upset with your own body. she's experienced it herself. you two can have deep talks about it without any judgement, she's here for you, and you're here for her.

▸ she's very affectionate. she loves cuddling with you, cupping your cheeks, holding and caressing your thigh while you're in the passenger seat. she always makes sure you feel loved and valued.

▸ hyun-ju is a great cook. i just know it. she gives you the first bite in every meal and occasionally asks for feedback. she makes sure you're well fed and eat delicious meals all day! besides, you two make a great pair in the kitchen, always laughing, cracking jokes and eggs.

▸ loves it when you dress up. will shower you with flattering remarks and praise. "you look so beautiful. so gorgeous. i'm so lucky to be with the most beautiful angel ever. tell me, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" and obviously, she'll throw in a cheesy pick up line to get a giggle out of you.

▸ or you know, when you leave her completely speechless, she just utters "i could marry you right now."

▸ hyun-ju is the type of girlfriend to bring you flowers every tuesday. with a note to keep you motivated throughout the next week. you've received so many, you collect all the notes and keep it in a small box. when hyun-ju's not at home, you like to read it.

▸ she's always down for any activity you want to do. long walks, short walks, a nice car ride around the city, and even a trip to the gym.

▸ hyun-ju goes to the gym often, i mean, she's quite buff. she loves to coach you and help you adapt to the surroundings. she always helps you when you're struggling with an equipment or when you need to fix your form.

▸ self-love and self-care is very important to her. she loves days where you just stay at home, do skin care together, baths, and put on the comfiest of clothes. preferably, she'll borrow your sweaters as it provides the most warmth, comfort, and your scent is just addicting.

▸ she isn't afraid to stand up for you. she can fight and she knows it. though, she'll only fight when necessary. her words are strong too, her tone is tough and stern. she's very protective of you.

▸ she knows how to make you feel safe. after all, you're her safe space. she can and will take care of you, making sure your wants or needs are fulfilled. she can ask you about it, but trust, hyun-ju always knows what you want or need. she calls it 'girlfriend intuition'

▸ i know i've repeated countless times that hyun-ju's love language is acts of service, but you know what else is? words of affirmation and quality time. these play such a part in your relationship and you couldn't be anymore grateful to have hyun-ju.

▸ you're just so perfect in her eyes. hyun-ju is just so ridiculously in love with you.

[astermath]

hiya! i’m a really big fan of your stranger things work and I was wondering, if youre comfortable of course, a steve x reader period imagine where reader tried to hide their period from Steve, but he finds out and is super fluffy and sweet about it? thank you!

HAHAH wow i have let this ask stew in my inbox since last year thats CRAZY im so sorry my dear,, i was going through old asks and i rlly like this prompt actually so here u go, i hope u enjoy!!!!

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

tags: established relationship, obv mentions of periods / menstruation, reader is referred to as female, steve being dense at first lol, regular sized font below!

wc: 1.4K

notes: while the reader in this fic is female, i am well aware not everyone who has a period is a girl, and not everyone who's a girl has a period!

Steve is one attentive boyfriend.

It’s the early stages of your relationship, the golden era, the honeymoon phase. And while you’re a still a bit nervous about it all, you couldn’t be happier, because he does it all right.

He knows your favourite snacks, what music you like, what makes you laugh, what makes you cry. He’s starting to figure out your ins and outs, and it’s almost crazy how quickly he’s catching on. You have no reason to feel judged by him at any point, he truly is comfort poured into the shape of a person.

So then why are you staring at your phone right now, struggling to dial his number and just tell him why you can’t make it to your date?

It’s not usually this bad, at least it hadn’t been for a while, so why now, of all moments, must you be forsaken to be terrorised by your period?

You bite your lip, laying flat onto your bed, hand over your lower stomach. It's right where the pain is just gnawing at you, just like the guilt is. But you know you’d feel even guiltier if you just stood him up, he doesn’t deserve that. You sit up, a tad slowly to save yourself from another cramp, and swallow your nerves for now.

“I’ll just… Tell him I’m sick. Yeah… Yeah I can do that.” You think to yourself.

The combination of his number had started to feel natural to your fingers now, unlike how anxiously you pressed the buttons the first time, triple checking before finally pressing call. You're triple checking again now, more so because you're not sure you can handle hearing the defeat in his voice when you tell him you can't make it.

The phone barely gets a moment to ring before he picks it up, and his all too familiar sweet voice comes through the device.

"Hey babe, everything okay over there?"

You pause a moment before replying. "How did you know it was me calling?"

"Lover's intuition." He chuckles, and it makes your heart flutter. It's not fair how easy it is for him to do that to you, but you enjoy it nonetheless. "So, what's going on?"

"I, uh..." God, getting the words out is like pulling teeth. But you'd rather die than let him think you just got cold feet about your movie date. "I'm really not feeling too well right now, Steve... I'm-- I'm so sorry, I'm gonna have to cancel for tonight." Your eyes are welling up with tears before he even gets a chance to reply, just imagining his pretty face losing its bright expression when hearing your unfortunate news.

"Oh," damnit, he does sound sad, "that's okay, uhm... Is there anything I can do? What kinda sick is it?"

Shit, he's gonna make you say it, isn't he? You know Steve is a mature guy, he knows about periods, knows how they work, but you've been told to suck it up and get on with it before... A part of you is still disappointed that you just can't.

"U-Uhm... It's more like, a stomach thing, I guess?" It's the best way you can put it for now, hoping it'll put his worries to rest.

"Okay, I see..." You can nearly hear him thinking, the subtle noise of bags being moved and a fridge being opened coming through the phone. "Uh, how aboouuut... I come over to yours, and we just watch a movie at home? I still got a couple of tapes we haven't gotten to, and I can bring some light snacks that won't upset your stomach too much."

The thought of Steve caring for you while you're sick sends a warm feeling through your entire body. God, how does he just keep getting better? But you can't lie to him, right? It's not like you're really sick, unless you count the curse of menstruation as a symptom.

Before you get a chance to explain, he's talking again, and by the ruckus in the background you can only guess he's rushing to grab all his stuff. "I'll be heading out in a bit, I'll stop by the corner store too, stay put for me alright? See ya in a bit!"

You're sure he didn't realize he wasn't letting you talk, but frankly, you probably couldn't even come up with a response on time anyways. Right now, you just have to worry about looking somewhat presentable, and maybe figure out a way to tell him you're not actually sick.

By the time you've brushed your hair and brushed some mascara onto your lashes, you're already hearing the doorbell. You just manage to pull a fresh shirt over your head, before stumbling down the stairs and stopping in front of the door. With a deep, loaded, sigh you open it, to reveal your boyfriend.

Hair messed up, plastic bag in hand, jacket haphazardly thrown on. He clearly rushed to be here, still panting a little, but in your eyes, he's the image of your guardian angel, your saviour in need.

Before either of you know it, you're crying again, your freshly applied mascara now leaving thin black streaks over your cheeks. Your hands go up to cover your face, embarrassed, not even sure why you're sobbing all of a sudden. The feelings just hit you like a freight train, rocking you before you even have a time to rationalize.

Steve's expression falters, the bag he had in hand dropping to the floor in an instant, stepping in closer so he can carefully wrap his arms around you and pull you to his chest. Not too tight, he doesn't want to startle you. He's a bit distraught; he's really only seen you cry at a sad movie scene before, so he's a bit unsure as to what's caught you to be so upset right now.

"I-I'm sorry..." you manage to mutter through your incoherent sobs and sniffs, effectively ruining the front of his shirt in the process.

"Hey, hey..." His big hands go up to your face, gently cupping your wettened cheeks as he looks into your teary eyes. Hell, the image of you is almost enough to make him break too. "What're you sorry for? You can't help it that you're sick, right?"

The reminder of your lie makes you want to break eye contact in shame, but it's hard to force yourself to lose sight of that soft, caring gaze of his.

"I," sniff, "I lied, I'm so sorry Steve, I-- I'm not sick, I just... I have..."

He watches you expectedly, not upset, just curious. You'd surely have your reasons if whatever caused you to cancel is making you this upset.

"I'm... I'm just on my period and it-- it hurts really bad, it's not even usually this bad, and I felt like I was overreacting and I feel so bad and--" Your ramble gets cut short by his chuckle, the same one that nearly caused you to melt over the phone earlier.

"W-Wha... Why are you laughing?" You're not sure if you should be happy or worried, you're already experiencing so much at once, it's hard to pick one emotion to feel.

"Nothing, it's just, well," he picks up the bag he dropped, opening it slightly to show the bars of chocolate, candy and your favorite chips inside. "I had a feeling."

The sight of it makes you snap out of your state of distress, and you can’t help but crack a smile through your tears. “Seriously? How?”

He shrugs, a sheepish smile adorning his face. “I told you, lover’s intuition.” He pulls you back to him and kisses your head. “There’s another bag in the car with chicken soup in case I was wrong.”

You both laugh, just hugging on your doorstep for a moment. You have to let it sink in, that maybe Steve just is that sweet and considerate of a guy.

“D’you wanna go inside, or does standing outside help with cramps?” He pulls back a little, and you fight the urge to poke him in the ribs for his sarcasm. You love it either way.

“Yeah, let’s go inside. We can watch When Harry Met Sally and I can cry my eyes out again. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

-

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-

-

-

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[yuus-sentient-teddy]

While stuff is going down on Sage's Island, what's happening with some of the families of the NRC students?

S.T.Y.X. probably had to be the ones to tell the families the situation. Even though they explain it as lightly as possible so that there's no major panic, that won't stop the families from worrying.

I thought about Deuce's mom after Malleus casted the spell, when Deuce hasn't called her to talk about his day. Her intuition is telling her that something is amiss, but she tries to brush it off even though Deuce has never missed a call.

She sends a good morning text the following day.

She tries calling him an hour later when there's no response. What if he got sick and that's why he hasn't said anything?

But the call immediately goes to voicemail.

Okay, don't panic. She's sure her son must have forgotten to charge his phone (unlikely, a part of her says) or maybe he's deep asleep from being sick.

Dila debates on whether to call the school. She doesn't want to be overprotective or overbearing. . . and yet her mother's intuition is still screaming at her that something isn't right.

It wouldn't hurt to just be sure, right?

Dila's heart sinks when the call to the school immediately goes to voicemail.

The next chance she gets, Dila drives to the Trappola residence. She starts to feel a little ridiculous when Mrs. Trappola answers the door without a single bit of worry. What if it's nothing? But she still asks if Mrs. Trappola has heard from her son.

Mrs. Trappola shakes her head. "No, but he usually talks with his brother a lot. What's up?"

Dila explains how her son hasn't called or texted her and that the call to the school was unsuccessful. "Hmmm... it could be your phone. Let me try calling."

But the same thing happens--the school doesn't pick up. Dila notices something she missed in the beginning: Mrs. Trappola's stiffness beneath a casual mask. Does Mrs. Trappola also feel like something is wrong?

"Hang on, let me try calling his brother."

He's casual when he picks up and tells his mom that Ace hadn't called him last night. But there is a bit of trepidation when he asks, "Is something going on?"

"No, just checking. I'll call you later." Mrs. Trappola lets out a breath and meets Dila's eyes. Both mothers recognize the look in the other's eyes.

"Do you know Clover Bakery?" Dila asks. "Deuce told me that the son of the family who runs it is in the same dorm as him and Ace."

Mrs. Trappola nods. "Ace mentioned him a few times. Trey."

"I'm going to go over there. Want to come with?"

"Give me a second to get my stuff."

Two worried mothers become three, and they're all sitting around a table in the back of the bakery while a father is with the employees at the front. At this point, it's clear that something has happened to their sons and the school.

The three discuss what to do next. Should they try calling the school again? Reach out to the police station? To another family? How about contacting that Diamond kid's family?

But why stop at this part of the world?

Perhaps a while after the sleeping spell is cast, a little heir is wandering the streets pouting because no one is telling him what is going on.

Something has happened to his uncle, that he knows, but he doesn't know just exactly what.

This little heir may bump into an older woman, a grandmother, who asks why he's wandering around on his own so late in the day. He almost cries in frustration while telling her about the adults not telling him anything about his uncle. He lets slip that his uncle goes to Night Raven College.

That makes the grandmother pause, the uneasy feeling inside of her making itself known once again.

She tells the child that his family might be worried about him and eventually persuades him that going home would be a good idea. She escorts him out of the slums, listening to him talk about his uncle, until some guards find the two.

Before the guards escort the little prince back home, the grandmother asks about Night Raven College. Her grandson is a student there and in the same dorm as Leona Kingscholar. The guards reply with an apology and that they have not heard of an incident at the school.

But she stops them. Surely, they must have heard of something. She doesn't miss the fleeting look in one of the guards' eyes--perhaps that woman has a child who goes there too?

That guard tells her partner to go on ahead, and once the prince and his guard are far enough, she tells the grandmother that all communication to the school and Leona--even to anywhere on the island--have been unsuccessful. Other ways of communicating are being sought, but the guard is bracing for the worse.

She tells the grandmother that if she hears anything, she'll come find her.

The parents of four families congregate in Clover Bakery before it opens. It's clear that no one has gotten much sleep. Cups of coffee are handed out as they all take a seat in the bakery's main area.

"Any word?"

"No."

"Actually," Mrs. Trappola says, "my eldest told me that his friend on the Land of Dawning was given an evacuation order alongside every single citizen there."

". . . The entire land?" Mrs. Clover says faintly, disbelieved.

"The entire land." The weight of the words is heavy and they all silently contemplate what the evacuation could mean.

"Doesn't the heir of Briar Valley also go to the school?" Mrs. Diamond asks. "It's possible he might be keeping everyone safe. Plus--" she fixes a bright smile on her face--"our boys have survived two Overblots. What's one more?"

"There's also a magicless student who goes to the school," Mrs. Trappola says. "I heard from Ace that they've gone through multiple Overblots and survived without so much a scratch. If they can stay standing after that kind of disaster, then this should be nothing for them."

". . . I'm sorry, did you say multiple?"

The bell above the door chimes. In steps none other than Mrs. Rosehearts and a man who seems smaller in her presence. It's not missed the way the woman stands stiffly, and in the corner of Dila's eye, she sees Mr. and Mrs. Clover sitting up straighter.

"Is there anything we can help you with?" Mrs. Clover asks. Dila hears a little tremble in her voice as she tries to sound neutral. She meets Mrs. Diamond's eyes across the way and the two share the same thought: there's a strained history between the Rosehearts and Clovers.

That is when Dila remembers a phone call with Deuce early in the school year--Riddle and Trey's past and Riddle's Overblot.

Mrs. Rosehearts takes a deep breath and lets it out in a half-huff. It seems like she's fighting with her pride. "Yes. Have you heard from the school or your sons?"

"No. None of us have."

Mr. Clover gestures to the chairs. "Have a seat."

The man accompanying Mrs. Rosehearts, Mr. Rosehearts, accepts the invitation. However, halfway sitting down, he notices his wife is still standing. "I'm fine. This shouldn't take long," she says.

He blinks, then fully sits. "So, uh, what have we missed?" he asks.

After the two are filled in, Mr. Rosehearts nods sadly while Mrs. Rosehearts's scowl deepens. "So there's nothing." She almost spits out the last word.

"What about you? Have you tried anything?" Mrs. Diamond asks calmly, like the two were acquaintances.

"Of course I have! But nothing worked!" Mrs. Rosehearts shuts her eyes, tightens her grip on her handbag, and tries to calm down from the outburst.

"We both tried calling people we knew on the island, but our calls kept bouncing," Mr. Rosehearts supplies. "I heard about the Land of Dawning evacuation from a friend of mine. They also said that S.T.Y.X. was the one issuing it."

"S.T.Y.X?!" the room explodes.

"They're only involved if there's an Overblot. So does that mean. . . ?" Mr. Clover doesn't dare finish the sentence.

"But what kind of Overblot causes an entire island to be shut down and another island to evacuate?" Dila asks.

"One that can be caused by a powerful mage," Mrs. Trappola softly says.

The room is once again blanketed by horrified and tense silence. Thoughts return to what Mrs. Diamond said earlier. Doesn't the heir of Briar Valley also go to the school?

Mrs. Rosehearts suddenly spins around and marches to the door.

"Where are you going?" her husband asks.

"To the emissary. I will not sit idly and ponder useless things with useless outcomes while my son is in potential danger."

She's halfway through the door when her and everyone's phones go off simultaneously, creating a cacophony of text notification sounds. They're whipped out and Dila holds her breath as she opens the text application.

. . .

Mr. Clover takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Mr. Diamond runs a hand through his hair. And Mr. Trappola and Mr. Rosehearts can't stop staring at the message on his phone.

It felt good finally having a confirmation that something was amiss and knowing that a major organization was handling it. At the same, however, it left longing for more information.

"What about my son?!" Mrs. Rosehearts's demand to know her son's well-being felt like a reflection of what the other parents were feeling inside. Anger, worry, helplessness.

Mrs. Clover sits back in her chair with a distant, worried gaze. Mrs. Diamond leans on her husband's shoulder. Mrs. Trappola rubs her face. Mrs. Rosehearts slams the door as she leaves the bakery.

After a few attempts, Dila finally opens the internet application. It brings her to a news article from a while ago, written by a Sage's Island reporter, and at the very top is a picture of her son performing in the Star Sending Ceremony. She can't stop staring at it. What if she never sees him again?

"Deuce. . ."

Meanwhile, in Sunset Savannah, a little prince runs down a street. His head turns wildly, searching for a certain face. Anyone outside pause to stare at him, no doubt curious as to why the heir is here in this neighborhood of all places. He finally spots her leaving a run-down home and sprints the rest of the way.

The grandmother hears him before she sees him. He slows to a stop before her and is panting as he says, "I know what's happening! The island is shut down and some sticks are fixing it!"

"'Some sticks'?" she repeats, puzzled.

He nods feverishly. "Yeah! That's what I heard."

She assumes it's magic-related. "What about the island? Did you hear why it is shut down?"

He goes to answer, but pauses. "Um... I didn't," he says bashfully.

She's disappointed, but doesn't let that show. "That's all right. Thank you for telling me about what you heard."

"Prince Cheka!" Marching down the street is the guard from yesterday. The little prince's ears press down. "Please, notify any of us when you plan to leave the palace," she says, though it sounds more like scolding.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to let grandmother know about the school."

The guard sighs. "Your parents have already been told and they expect you back soon. I will stand guard beside the house. Let me know when you are ready to return."

"Can you tell grandmother what you know?" Cheka asks. "I saw you talking to her yesterday."

The guard, beneath the stoic exterior, had been impatient to tell the grandmother. "Very well."

She relays the message she, a couple of the other guards, and the queen received. An incident on Sage's Island. . . All travel to Sage's Island and the Land of Dawn are prohibited. . . S.T.Y.X. is currently handling the situation and will notify when the situation has been resolved.

"I am sorry I can't give you more information," the guard says.

Grandma Bucchi shakes her head. "You've given me enough."

She makes her way to a cracked chair and tries not to fall back on it as she sits. "Are you okay?" Cheka asks, approaching as the guard readies herself to help.

"I'm all right," she half lies. She prays to the stars of the coming night that nothing is happening to Ruggie. She already lost her daughter-in-law and son; she cannot lose her grandson.

"He'll figure out a way to survive. He's resourceful," she says, partly as a reminder to herself.

"My uncle might be helping him. They might be helping each other, like the King of Beasts and the hyenas!" Cheka says, brightening.

Grandma Bucchi knows the story well--everyone in Sunset Savannah does. It came to mind when Ruggie told her about his working relationship with Leona, and the thought wasn't lost on Ruggie either.

Perhaps they are helping each other through the danger that has taken hold of the island. "It is possible. My grandson is in the same dorm as your uncle."

A/N: I have been dying to share this with ya'll for a couple of weeks. I also kind of oneshot this XD

[dripdropdown555]

The Bimbo Bounce (I’m back)

Alliteration is a useful hypnotic tool. It gives sentences a bit of extra potency, makes mantras easier to remember, and improves the lifespan of a suggestion pretty considerably. That's the operating theory, anyway. Shall we explore?

Bounce for me; that's simple enough to start things off.

Bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly.

The phrase sticks, somehow, even though it sounds a little silly. Something seems to make it linger in your head. It has a unique feel to it, a quality you can't quite put your finger on. The syllables seem to echo: bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly.

But how does a bubbly brain behave? Like a bubble, as you'd expect, with something creating a volume of empty space inside while thoughts slide smoothly across the expanding surface, oily and slick. At first, it feels like your thoughts have more area across which to spread. Your thoughts shift slightly, glistening and growing ever more thin. At least, until the bubble pops.

Bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly.

Bubbly brains are bound to burst.

And burst it must. Bubbles are ephemeral entities, aren't they? It's alright; you'll scarcely notice. When the bubble pops, your thoughts that are currently floating on the surface will splash to the floor. The empty space inside will rush rapidly outward, turning you into a bit of an airhead. Seems fitting, doesn't it?

Bursting bubbly brains blow pink

Bounce, and pop.

You'll feel the splash like a sudden surge of lust and arousal coursing through your body. The rush of air inside your head might cause you to get light-headed, so you'll spread your legs to steady yourself. Of course that's what you're doing, isn't it? Steadying yourself, not putting yourself on display. Right.

Bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly.

Bubbly brains are bound to burst.

Burst bubbly brains blew pink

Bimbos brainlessly bounce.

As you begin to bounce to a silent rhythm, it occurs to you that some bubbles have a kaleidoscopic sheen when you look at them, but others have a very solid color within. Your brain-bubble was bubblegum pink, now that you think about it.

Well, as much as you can presently think about anything. That pop did more than just fill your head with empty air. You can feel your intelligence leaking into the space around you, escaping...your absent brain can't contain it any longer.

Bimbos bounce their brains away.

If your brain was still intact, you might think to stop bouncing so you'd be better able to think. But your brain exploded in a flash of pink and wet, and now you're as blank as a bouncing bimbo should be. You're able to understand my words out of some remnant of intuition, but if you pause to try and think them through, everything just goes pink and pops again.

Blank bimbos bounce brainlessly

That seems sensible enough, especially since bouncing feels pretty good. The splash of wet pink thoughts from the pop made your body more sensitive, perhaps by providing you with better things on which to focus. You certainly feel blank, and you are bouncing. Are you a bimbo, though?

Bouncing brainwashes blank bimbos

A side effect of the bubbly brain from before is that you're finding all of this pretty amusing. Certain bits of sentences make you want to giggle and smile, even when you can barely understand them. Might've let too much of your intelligence leak away, but it's all just so silly, isn't it?

Brainwashed blank bimbos bounce

If you were a bimbo, would you be able to tell? Would you find the situation you're in far more amusing than you should? Would your body be becoming progressively more sensitive as your empty head adjusts to having no thoughts to contain and feeds all that focus to your hungry nerves? Would the bouncing be this arousing all by itself?

That depends primarily on what sort of bimbo you've become, but the answer should be clear by now. Each bounce produces a wave of pleasure, each wave pushes more of the remnants of your brains into the air. The less brains left in your head, the more you smile and giggle. The giggles produce flashes of pink that remind you how very silly and simple this is. All you did was bounce.

Bouncing blank bubbly bimbos are brainwashed

Bounces can take all sorts of forms. You can bounce bits of your body with your hands, bounce up and down in a chair, bounce with the aid of the springs below the bed...all to the same end. Everything is turning pink and wet and silly for you.

This leaves you with only two options: You could let yourself settle, riding the high of the blank bubbly brainwashed bimbo until your brain somewhat reluctantly returns to your head. I won't stop you, you'd simply wake after a few minutes of coming back down.

Or the blank bouncing brainwashed bimbo could shift the energy from bouncing just a little and satisfy that lust your body is feeling. The only real hazard is that your head is already full of air, and cumming your brains out when they've already mostly evaporated could leave you pretty dumb before it's all said and done.

But you've already made a choice, or it's already been made for you. My words could be passing by almost invisibly as the bouncing subsides, or you may already be excitedly picking a toy to bounce on or a rhythm to use while you stroke yourself senseless.

Either way, everything will fade into a yummy pink haze before much longer. I wonder how much bimbo brain you'd need to bounce away before the condition became a bit stuck...

Bouncing your body makes your brain bubbly

Bubbly brains are bound to burst

Burst bubbly brains blow pink bubbles

Blank brainless bimbos bounce

Bouncing brainwashes blank bimbos

Blank bouncing bimbos are brainwashed

Brainwashed blank bimbos bounce

Go on, up and down, bouncing yourself all brainless and bubbly. You'll drift awake awhile after you've finished following my instructions.

Do let me know how silly, brainless, or dumb you felt...if you are comfortable expressing it, of course.

(Editors Note: I used to be @slowlymyavenue but tumblr shadow banned me so I have restarted - please follow and reblog here)

[windvexer]

Hey chicken,

You previously said that you believe even doing simple things in spellwork, like leaving something in a dish of salt, need to be worked over. How would you work over simple things like that? Burning a candle? Just infusing it with some energy?

Even more simple than infusing it with energy, maybe.

This isn't like, set in stone. But I generally believe that the first step of all Witchcraft is permission.

As in, you speak from a place of authority as a Witch, and give permission that reality may become abnormal.

Witchcraft is abnormal, in my opinion. I think it's perfectly nice that people build paradigms based on the idea that magic is altogether completely natural and there is no difference between the magic and normal, but I like the sinister stuff.

So IMO the first, most basic, essential "working over" is to take something (the dish of salt) and, give it permission to become abnormal and begin to effect reality abnormally.

This is the hinge upon which Witchcraft pivots: the Witch going in and taking normal things, and realigning the tracks of fate beneath them, compelling things to start happening which never would have happened if not for that specific intervention.

A dish of salt does not normally just make a space clear of emotions. If it did so, that would not be normal. It would be abnormal. Paranormal, even.

So how do you get salt to stop being normal, and start being a paranormal substance that does abnormal things?

Charging with energy is a later step. You charge with energy to fulfill an intent already set.

The first step is to give reality - the reality of the salt, of the emotions in the room - permission to be a fucked up little guy. It's easy as pie. And it mostly comes down to magical headspace: you seeing reality as something quite permeable, and easy to change, and almost illusory, springing from the web of fate that underpins it; but you can change that fate. Reality likes us. It mimics us to show that it wants to be friends. Put yourself in a state where the world is mutable, and around you the world complies.

So step one is magical headspace.

Step two is telling the salt what to do. "Listen here, you fucked up glorious little guy. Before you were dead, only crystals harvested and mined, sold on a grocery shelf where you've been reduced to nothing but flavor. They chew on your bones and forget to worship your soul. But here, in my house, you are a god. Rise from your grave in this new form, to this new purpose: purify from this room the unwanted, the harmful, and the malignant. By my word and my will, this new fate has been granted to you."

No energy work. No visualization. Just tell it like it is.

Or you could be more corporate about it. "This salt purifies negative energy from the room." It's just setting intent, if you want to be crude.

It's hard for me to do corporate magic. With all apologies to the people who do prefer the very simplified present-tense intentions.

Reality mimics us. If something is stirring inside of you, then something is stirring inside of the salt. No visualizing energy roots required.

A simple sentence may not be enough, or a paragraph. Sometimes it takes a while to find the right words. Maybe the salt isn't really a god. Maybe it's a gnome, a saltwork machine, the dead crest of a long-forgotten ocean wave that preserved a billion amoeba in crystalline purity, ready now to purify your room.

Over time, intuition and experience will both grow and combine to advise exactly what to say.

After all, you're telling it like it is - not making it up.

Go to the place where magic is real and you're doing it.

Assign new fates through words.

These are the simplest steps to working over something.

[l-in-the-light]

About his "trigger warnings"

I mentioned here on tumblr that I used to have a number one favourite book writer. I guess not anymore. After all the SA allegations and other stories that got leaked by people around him (his collegues, co-workers etc.), I realized he's an abusive asshole and I owe you all to say that openly here. And some of the assaults date back decades now, which means he didn't just wake up one day and changed into an asshole, he most likely was always one.

I read the foreword to his book Trigger Warning again. I feel like I took a peek beyond his fake persona there. He writes about trigger warnings like it's some exotic curious little trend that kids on the internet came up with, finds it a bit peculiar like a daddy trying to understand their kid's hobbies, then proceeds to use them like a funny teasers for his short stories ("can you find the big tentacle hidden among the pages somewhere?"), only to finish it all up with a punch straight to your face: real life doesn't have trigger warnings, so always watch out for yourself. On the surface level? This all sounds like a slightly misguided, maybe even witty intro. Nothing is said with malice, right? And yet, the message underneath it all was always to discredit trigger warnings as a concept. That's why that delivery line is at the very end of that intro. You're supposed to be lulled into agreeing how silly it all is. I dunno if he did it on purpose or did it without thinking much about it, by habit, but that intention is there and it's disguised with concern and attempts to sound kind. A peek beyond the nice guy mask. No wonder I could never finish that anthology of short stories. The cognitive dissonance caused by the foreword sticked with me like a bad aftertaste. My intuition told me this was all wrong, I just couldn't find the words to express it.

And you know why it works so well as a disguise and why we tend to believe he didn't do it on purpose? Because hey, he just said the facts, the truth! Reality indeed doesn't have any trigger warnings, what's wrong with saying that! Yes, that statement is true. Using real statements in carefully woven context to sell a lie, is an example of an excellent manipulation. So allow me to untangle it or, in other words, to reveal the magic trick behind it.

Why do trigger warnings exist? Isn't Gaiman right, aren't they counterproductive, you might think, because by avoiding triggers you will never get better at dealing with them? Indeed, here's the catch, because the answer isn't a simple yes or no here. Yes, often to recover from trauma, you need to expose yourself to it in some way - like for example, through exposure therapy (or even just classic psychotherapy). But also No, because there's no rule that says you will officially recover only after you're fine reading fiction about sexual assault (for example)! Some triggers will dimnish, some will not, and the best you can do for the latter is to avoid them altogether. Triggers are extremely personal, but you can learn to manage them, in ways that respect your own boundaries, but never by giving up your right to selfcare. You see the difference?

Back to therapy bit for a moment. To recover, often you need to go through with it. But here's the thing - you do it in *controlled environment*, accompanied by a specialist that is there to help and calm you down afterwards. And you only start to do that once you feel *ready* to face it. Now compare it to a situation of reading a book (yes, a book, which usually never has any trigger warnings, because that's such a silly fanfiction thing). You come upon your trigger without any warning, preparation or support around you, you're left with the aftermath of possible panic attack or other symptoms completely on your own. It might take you weeks to recover from it, because perhaps you weren't yet in any therapy that could help you manage your triggers more effectively. But then you tell yourself it's fine, minimizing your own emotional reactions, because *it was just a book*. But, you realize, even years later you still remember it and you might finally accept the harsh truth that you're still not fine with it.

Now imagine same situation, but the book did have trigger warnings listed. For example, about sexual abuse. You would see that and leave the bookstore without the book, because you would know you're not *ready* for that. And it's fine not to be ready, be it yet or ever. This is about consent and selfcare, both are essential to process through trauma and recover. The books without trigger warnings rob selfcare, consent and a choice from us. They teach us we should always ignore our triggers and push through. It's sadly a reality that is widely accepted so Gaiman is right, nothing in reality will flash you a warning. But he's also wrong: it doesn't mean we can't make the life a tiny bit easier for those of us who are traumatized, instead of leaving them with all of that on their very own. This part, he doesn't want you to even consider. He doesn't want you to imagine the positive side of living in a world in which real books warn you about triggers, because then it would prove that it *can* become a reality in which real things (like books) warn you of triggers. They can't shield you from everything, but that's also not the point: it's just to make some things feel more safe, for everybody.

(As a side note, being triggered is not the same as stepping outside your comfort zone - those are two different matters! Though yes, stepping outside your comfort zone in an extreme way CAN become traumatic as the result as well).

I guess Neil Gaiman just thinks some people are too sensitive and should just get over themselves. You don't need those warnings, they won't protect you anyway. Have you tried not getting traumatized? How dare you think your selfcare is more important than reading my questionable fantasies? You're missing out if you skip my book (that has no proper trigger warnings) and you have only yourself to blame! I provide you a safe environment to explore your traumatic triggers, you should be grateful! And how is your book providing a safe environment exactly, author? Did you even try to put a safety net there for your reader? Do you even care? Of course you don't. But you will pretend like you do: by providing a very ingenuine effort that is mostly meant to be a pat on your own back for cleverly dismissing the very concept of trigger warnings, while pretending to play along with it and exposing their lack of power in the process. Disguised as a coincidence, lack of understanding or unskillful attempt written by a slightly ignorant daddy-like figure. What an irony that you do it by nearly surgically focusing on the blind spots of the concept, proving at the same time you do know the mechanism behind it pretty well. You knew what you were doing and how you were doing it.

Or at least, this is how I see it: I might be wrong on the details, but I'm sure I caught the gist of the manipulative behaviour there. An abuser always wants you to step out of your comfort zone, get surprised by a trigger, and to make sure you're outside your safety net. Because then you're an easier target, more likely to agree to harmful things (be it real actions or just harmful beliefs delivered to you by the author of a book, like in case of *trigger warnings being pointless*). They want to groom you into thinking that you're just being silly and see things that aren't there.

Trigger Warning's foreword is exactly that and I feel disgusted, now that I finally recognize my own feelings about it. I probably didn't find words for it before, because I wanted to believe Gaiman had good intentions behind it, they just didn't work out very well. Except that was never the case and that's why it never felt right. That good intention was never there, but it sure *looked* like it was. Also it took me way too long to realize people do things like that on purpose. You know what, Gaiman? Thanks to gaslighting efforts like yours it took me also way too many years to accept that selfcare IS OKAY.

So many people now think nothing was ever genuine about Neil Gaiman because his nice guy mask slipped. A mask he used to hide his autism behind and appear neurotypical/feel accepted thanks to it. Whenever a really advanced mask like that slips, the cognitive dissonance becomes a huge gap between a mask and actual self in perception of other people. Still, your autism is not an excuse for things you do and say, and definitely doesn't excuse assault as simple miscommunication - and yes, he did try to justify lack of consent this way. "I'm autistic, I read the body language wrong and wasn't even aware of it". Hey, you could have, like, asked. There's no shame in getting confirmation in words :P but it's just a poor excuse anyway, the truth is he didn't care if it was wanted or not, as long as he got adoration and powertripping thrill out of that, and that's the best case scenario here.

I believe the allegations. I won't be able to read Gaiman's books anymore, I honestly can't see them the same way I used to anymore. I loved Coraline and The Graveyard Book, and Smoke and Mirrors. I feel disgusted knowing that he openly claimed to be a feminist while at the same time assaulted so many people and used emotional manipulation so they won't #metoo him. He even went as far as to claim "always believe the victims", but once the allegations flew his way, what did he do? Blamed the victims, even called them mentally ill! I also feel now like his books are also just full of deception, meant to hide harmful beliefs under quirky words and imaginative tales. And I might never be able to stop feeling this way and I don't owe him a second chance anyway.

Good Omens stays in my heart though, because sir Terry Pratchett put a lot of work into it and it shows. I feel like I would show him disrespect if I discarded it. Let's say it becomes a Gaiman Who Might Have Been But Never Was, for me.