#there will always be things --even minor things-- that will have to be different

[controld3vil]

midnight snack

pairings: yelena belova, bucky barnes , john walker, robert reynolds/sentry, ava starr/ghost, tony masters/taskmaster (comic), alexei shokstakov/red guardian x gn!thunderbolts!reader (separate)

synopsis: You’re one of the stealthiest members and they catch you making a midnight snack.

notes -> ive never written for marvel before!! tags: inaccurate characterization/take it w/ a grain of salt, i have NOT seen the film, reader is part of the thunderbolts, mentions of minor injuries; canon typical violence, reader making midnight snacks (grilled cheese w/ jam, s’mores dipped in peanut, cheesy noodles w/ cream cheese, chip sandwich, mixed cereal, ice cream w/ cookies), headcanons can be seen either platonic/romantic!

YELENA BEVOLA

-> is consciously disturbed by it. she always feared that your name, reputation, and expertise are not something to laugh about. hell, coming from her, that is enough to say you were beyond her level. however, the obscurity of seeing you making a grilled cheese… with jam? that blows her mind out of proportion.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to eat that…” Yelena doesn’t even attempt to hide her disgusted look. What you’re doing is absurd. Even more, she has always respected your name, representing the standard of Hydra operations that they have always been proud of. She had expected to see you in the morning. Instead, she finds you leaning over the counter, cuts, bruises in all, while you were making a sandwich for yourself.

It wasn’t particularly what you were doing that startled her. Yelena has seen you make a variety of sandwiches — the simple turkey club, egg salad, tuna, and all you’ve seemed to master. You always packed pretty lunch boxes for yourself. It was a simple way to stay motivated. But the jam? The thought of combining grilled cheese with sweet strawberry syrup makes her stomach grimace.

You look at your blonde friend steadily. “I’m hungry, though.” You say, unfazed by the abomination you were making. “I didn’t know what else to make.”

“I could think of plenty of things you can make besides that,” She sneers, almost offended by what you created. You shrug, casually, not even caring about Yelena’s persistent glares.

BUCKY BARNES

-> is confused. so confused about your choice in cravings. he’s survived scarce military rations during the war. the food back then was bland and lacked nutrition, but it was all he had during those grueling days of fighting. he’s survived times when food was difficult to salvage. but you, dipping homemade s'mores into peanut butter?

He doesn’t know what to say. What the hell? No. What the fuck? Too much.

“What are you making?” Bucky questions, dragging the last part partially too long as if he was unsure if he should’ve asked or not. The whole scenario was bizarre. Because never would he, Bucky, catch you doing something like this.

You were just like the rest of them, ruthless killers with no place to call home. Yet along the way, you’ve connected and called it friendship. Bucky especially favored you, believe it or not, because of your kind-hearted spirit. 

“I was craving s’mores!” You raised your hands, holding one s’more between your fingers. “But when I bit into it, it tasted like something was missing…” It was almost comical how innocent you looked during this confrontation. You were still in your tactical suit, with your weapons and all. Your face looked vaguely exhausted, with your droopy eyes and smile.

“So you thought peanut butter could fix it?” The ex-Hydra assassin looked in disbelief, unable to piece together how the two could possibly be a good combination.

“It’s actually good if you try it.” You blink before catching Bucky slowly backing away. “Hey! It is good!”

JOHN WALKER

-> looks at you like a disappointed dad. trust me, he’s seen one too many mishaps from his son. he knows kids playing with their food is normal. how many times has he seen his kid splash spaghetti all over the table? the only difference between you is — well, you’re an adult, a very skilled assassin who could make people disappear without a trace.

“Uh— What the hell are you doing?” John walks into the kitchen with squinted eyes. The bright ceiling lights were blinding him, as his eyes were still trying to adjust to the brightness.

“Making dinner?” As you continued to stir the boiling pot of noodles you cooked up. It didn’t look out of the ordinary, you were cooking instant noodles, thinking it was the quickest meal you could make.

“Yeah, I know that,” the super-soldier points to the opened package of American cheese. “But why the hell do you need cheese?” Shortly after, he noticed the jar of cream cheese you had by the boiling pot. What?

“I saw a video online where putting cheese and sour cream in your noodles would taste better.” You explained simply. Because there was no other way to put it. John looks at you with mild disgust, with one eye scrunched and a frown beginning to form. It was as if his expression was saying, “What is wrong with you?”

“Well, does it?”

“I don’t know! So I’m going to try it.”

“You’re insane.” He doesn’t give you the pleasure of giving you a face palm, knowing you would be annoyingly satisfied with his distaste. Instead, he grumbles like any parent would when their child makes a mess. “You better clean up after yourself.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS/SENTRY

-> genuinely curious what you’re up to! he may seem scared at first, but will eventually show that he is more curious, that’s all! he’s never had such a domestic conversation with you before, so don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions! will occasionally ask about your odd cravings, as if they’re not the most grotesque creations you’ve made, but more so to understand you better.

“This is…new.” Bob appears out of the corner of the island table as you grab two plain pieces of bread. He’s become used to you returning around this time, at the dead of night. Most of the time, he’s awake with his mind too occupied to fall asleep. At times, he’s afraid to walk outside his room, not wanting to disturb the rest of the team’s deep slumber. But on particular nights, when he knows you’re coming back from a grueling operation, he waits for you.

“I saw it from someone on YouTube,” you placed the two pieces of toast into the toaster, dialing the heat to medium. Once you confirmed the temperature, you walked towards the cupboard where all the dry snacks were and scanned the selection. “Thought I’d give it a try.”

“Sounds… good.” Bob didn’t know how to respond. He had never had this kind of experience with food before. Food was always prepared for him in a monolithic and minimalistic fashion. The same proportions and items every day. The more he thought about it, it made him feel like a prisoner, a person out of his skin.

So seeing you, being carefree about what to eat, makes him feel something. Not in a bad way, but a strange, warm feeling. Even if you don’t realize it, he’s probably more attached to you than anyone else in the team because of how relaxed you are with him. You don’t throw insults or glare his way. You just exist, treat him as a human being. Make odd-looking meals in front of him like he’s another friend witnessing one of your many creations.

When the timer runs off, you carefully pull the two pieces onto your plate and lay them next to each other. He watches as you open the bag of your preferred chips and place them neatly on one side. With the other piece of toast, you place it on top, putting pressure on the sandwich. He hears the crinkling of the chips as a few pieces fall out. 

It wasn’t the most exquisite-looking meal. But it wasn’t the worst he’s seen.

“Would you like to try?”

AVA STARR/GHOST

-> the only person who tolerates your creative mind. under her tough exterior, ava cares for the people close to her. no matter how broken or messed up they are, she’ll still choose them. including you, so no matter how strange your meals were, she won’t say anything bad. out of the corner of your eye, she’ll give you a strange look, but otherwise she won’t go any further than that. 

“Whatcha got there?” Even you sometimes had to double-check the corners of the room for Ava. She was quick and could faze through walls, the perfect ability for an assassin. However, you’re glad you trusted your intuition, half-expecting her to pop up eventually. Ava does not look as tired as you expected. Rather, she looks oddly calm and relaxed in her casual wear. 

“Cereal,” You plopped one box of Toast Crunch beside you. However, you know she’s eyeing the Coco Puffs sitting next to your bowl. Do you want a sugar rush? 

“That’s a lot of sugar, don’t you think?” The ex-agent nudges playfully, choosing to sit across from you. She rests her elbow on the granite table, leaning her chin onto her palm. 

“I’m a sweet person,” You grin to yourself before momentarily letting out an agonized groan. Your friend stands up, giving you a sympathetic look. “Ah, it’s okay, I’m fine.” 

“You sure?” Ava inspects you with clean precision. The way you hold your tricep meant something more. You were hurt badly. “You may want to lay off the cereal, then. Let me help you get to the medics.” 

You shake your head, insistent on staying where you were. “It’s alright, it’s not that bad.”

“Let me at least look at it first.” She doesn’t leave you a second to refuse. Ava is swift on her toes, grabbing the emergency medical kit on the top shelf. Turning back to you, she fixes you with a gaze, firm yet gentle. “Come on, you have your cereal after I patch you up.” 

TONY MASTERS/TASKMASTER

-> leaves you be. tony isn’t the type of person to barge into your business. but since getting to know you, you’re absolutely certain he’s growing to become comfortable around you. the way he walks over with quiet concern, or offers a slight nod whenever you ask a question. tony is a scarred man, yet somehow you’re able to bring out some kind of softness in him. 

You came home to a quiet kitchen. You hadn’t intended on returning so soon, but due to the nature of your work, sometimes you made choices less advantageous. You’re hurt, bleeding from your head, most likely from a concussion. The medics reaffirmed that you should rest in the meantime. Bucky would not be so pleased to see you so soon. 

You were busy, scooping the last clump of ice cream into your bowl. All day, you couldn’t stop thinking about ice cream, especially cookies and cream, topped with chunks of chocolate chip cookies and syrup. You knew it was a bit of a stretch to add cookies, but your mind was elsewhere already once you added them on top of your dessert. 

Tony was there somewhere the entire time. Whether your mind was too fuzzy or you had no intention of asking why he was standing by the doorway for so long, you didn’t care. All you wanted at that moment was to eat your ice cream in peace. 

Eventually, halfway through your meal, you finally address him. “I know you don’t speak, but you don’t have to just stand there and watch me eat like some animal.” Your eyes lock with his blank mask. You often found yourself talking aloud more around Tony because of his lack of expression. “Come sit.” 

Tony threads out of the shadows like a predator hidden behind the bushes. His steps are intentional, short, and steady. You’ve never seen him out of his suit and mask. It was almost like he wasn’t human, never once allowing his guard down. 

You glance at him, catching the way he’s frozen mid-stepped, scanning you like he’s accessing every wound.

You rub the back of your neck, a hint of embarrassment in your gesture. “It went…bad.” His stillness urged you to go on.. “I didn’t see the bomb. The ceiling came down on me… actually, multiple floors did.” The silence in between your words made the weight of your injuries feel heavier. You glanced back at your ice cream, slowly melting away. 

You feel his hesitancy to move closer, feeling the sense of guilt and frustration through your words. 

“I got checked– they said I needed some rest, that’s all.” You gave a small smile, knowing he could see right through you. Suddenly, the simple act of eating ice cream left an uneasy twist in your stomach. The silence was almost unbearable. You felt you couldn’t look at him properly, knowing now he’s a witness to your failure– your injuries. 

You were careless. Reckless. If you had taken a second longer to search the building, you could’ve avoided the bomb from going off. The more your thoughts consume you, the more you feel bad about yourself. 

Then you spot a vial near the edge of the table, right where Tony stood. However, when you looked around, he was already gone. You pick it up, eyes scanning the bottle.

Pain relief.

ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV/RED GUARDIAN

-> supportive about it! he’s very caring about your well-being, so he doesn’t judge you with whatever you make. as long as you're happy eating it, he’s alright about it. but if there is any chance that he catches you, returning home in a battered state, he will 100% make you a meal. that’s just the dad in him.

“You’re back!” You bring yourself to give him a weak smile, before he engulfs you in a hug. Alexei is one of those people who are naturally affectionate and are not afraid to show it. That’s what you think, at least. 

“I thought you would be asleep by now.” You unlatch yourself from his bear-like grip. The Russian man has started to cook something, which makes you question if he knew you were coming home later tonight. 

“The rest are asleep! But me? No, I could never have you come back on an empty stomach!” Now you see the apron he’s wearing, and the faint smoke coming from the stove. You couldn’t say no now, not while Alexei put all this effort into making you dinner. You owed him big time. 

You found yourself a seat, while the Red Guardian’s back was facing you. Whatever he was making smelled good. It had a rich flavor like barbeque, but better. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until he placed a plate in front of you. 

“Thanks… Alexei. You didn’t have to.” Your stomach grumbled in protest, weak at the aroma of perfectly grilled skewers, fluffy rice, and tangy pickled vegetables. You caught your teammate’s intense gaze as you grabbed a fork and speared a piece of the meat. 

“Wow, this is good,” 

“Of course it is! I made it!” 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” You pulled the skewers free of the meat, digging in with mouthfuls of rice and tangy vegetables. The warmth settled your hunger. You’re able to sleep tonight. All thanks to Alexei. 

“I’ve been practicing!” he said with a booming laugh, wiping his hands on a clean towel. “It’s my specialty– so you don’t have to make any more of those monstrosities when you get home!”

You paused, looking up at him, surprised. “I thought you liked them!”

“I do, I do! But you know– sometimes I think it’s better to eat real, digestible food.”

[thewickedbohemian]

but the thing with mutants is that not every mutant has powers of the same threat level, like, (even among the X-Men never mind the countless mutants whose mutation is too minor to be of use, heck wasn't there some minor character who was some sort of aspiring entertainer whose mutation was literally just that his skin was naturally blue) for every Cyclops or Rogue who one might be able to argue could be a danger to others without the right training there's someone like Kitty Pryde whose mutation, yes, can technically be used to harm-if-not-kill others, but it'd have to be in such a specific way that you couldn't really do it by accident unless you had literally no control

And with Zootopia I always saw it as about prejudice in general/the nature of implicit biases as Judy faces as much prejudice (just in a different way) for being a small animal as Nick does for being a predator, y'know, remember the exchange with her boss (who also happens to be prey and that's never really addressed) "Sir, I'm not just some token bunny" "then writing 100 tickets a day should be easy". Also she was literally, well, not really a "DEI" hire but DEI got her into the academy, she just became valedictorian all on her own

the reason "robot racism" is often a really stupid metaphor is the same reason that like. discrimination against demons or vampires or whatever doesn't work, is because there's often a pretty justified reasons humans are scared of vampires or robots or whatever, in a way that doesn't apply to real life minorities, like a fantasy author will be like "the reason vampires are discriminated against is because most of them and kill and eat people for fun and pleasure, and so humans respond by trying to kill them, isn't that so sad" and like no that's a perfectly fine reason to not trust vampires i think.

[joelmillers-wife]

take my hand (joel miller x f!reader) chapter nine

18+, MDNI series masterlist: here | please check this for complete series warnings and tags pairing: joel miller x f!reader chapter summary: fully recovered from your injury, you and joel go on a typical routine patrol that takes a sharp turn wc: 11.5k. buckle up rating: this story is 18+ (minors, do not interact), there will be eventual smut in later chapters  chapter warnings and tags: cursing and tlou lore accurate outbreak content below, angst, graphic violence, gore, blood, TW: topics surrounding SA (nothing happens, it’s mainly just alluded to the subject but please be careful while reading and feel free to message me beforehand for specific details), hurt/comfort, trauma, small bits of fluff, reader has no description besides she has hair, jackson!joel, age difference: reader is in her 30s and joel is in his 50s, sloooow burn a/n: double update this weekend because i will be gone next weekend and won't be able to post until the last week of may. enjoy this long one (also as an apology for the last chapter being so short). be kind to yourselves. ao3 | follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for chapters! dividers made by: @saradika-graphics , check them out!

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IX. X&Y

I dive in at the deep end You become my best friend I want to love you but I don't know if I can I know something is broken And I'm trying to fix it Trying to repair it Any way I can

As you had assumed, your shoulder had healed well, courtesy of Joel’s fine stitching, and you soon were more than capable of returning to your usual routine. With the weeks that had gone by, the spring steadily unfolding into the welcoming heat of summer allowed you to become more appreciative of this season, considering the colder temperatures this city was capable of having. 

Your continuing friendship and abundant amount of time spent with Joel had settled any previous anxieties you had—the two of you falling into a pattern of familiarity that made his presence comforting and one that you purposefully sought out.

One thing that had changed was Ellie, specifically in regards to Joel. 

You hadn’t pushed, or even asked about it in the first place, but all you know is that things had been more… tense between them. A part of you chalked it up to her being so close to becoming an adult, and wanting more freedom. She was beginning patrol training soon, and the idea made Joel nervous with her being out there outside of his watch. Joel had asked Tommy to get her supervised shifts set up with the two brothers, you, or Jesse—the young man you had gone on patrol with the day your shoulder was injured, who had proven himself to be a good fit as an up-and-coming leader in Jackson.

The extent of what you had learned was that a certain patrol shift ended up with Joel and Ellie fighting off a decent sized group of infected when checking out a music store. Since that day, Ellie had been standoffish to Joel, and you could see the impact it left on him. He seemed more on edge and uncertain around her—a stark contrast to the easy understanding that usually flows between the two of them. It was a simmering tension that didn’t raise an eyebrow to all of Jackson, but you saw it.

The advice you had tried to give him was that she was a teenager who was growing and wanting her independence, but his reactions always gave off the impression something else had been going on—subconscious nods that told you your perspective on it wasn’t the full story. You had never, and would never, push the topic though. The most you’d been doing was hoping that Joel knew he could confide in you if needed. 

To you, Ellie was changing—not just physically, but also with the people she surrounded herself with. You stopped hearing much about Cat, her close friend you have briefly spoken to occasionally, and seen Ellie around a newer friend of hers that she has been spending an increasing amount of time with. Dina. She was a sweet girl. Very vivacious and teasing—her energy making it difficult for her to not capture everyone’s heart. You understood why Ellie had gotten close to her, and the idea warmed your heart. Ellie seemed more comfortable around Dina—the girl bringing Ellie out of her shell just a bit. It was a reassuring feeling to know that, whatever was going on in Ellie’s life, she seemed to have others she was close to that she could rely on.

“You all set?”

You’re brought out of your thoughts when hearing a voice as you were locking your front door behind you, turning to see Joel standing at the end of your walkway as you lock your front door—the warm air hitting your skin telling you that patrol would be good today.

“Yup. All good,” you respond with a smile.

Joel gives you a warm look in response as you make your way over to him, the two of you falling into pace with each other seamlessly as you make your way through town and over to the stables. Reaching the area, you find that Jesse is posted out front, and feel pleased as he greets you with a kind smile the moment he sees you.

“Hey Jesse, how’s your mom been?” You ask. 

You hadn’t spent so much time with the man at first, but ever since your injury, you had spent enough moments with him after that that you felt comfortable being friendly with him. He was polite enough to check on you after that day—occasionally stopping when he saw you around town to catch up and see how things were. Being one of the newer recruits, he was younger, probably early to mid twenties, but just as prepared as any of the others who went past the gates for patrol.

“She’s been alright. She told me Dina brought over some lemon cakes that were a recipe of yours she and Ellie made—it was amazing. Think she’d smack me if I didn’t pass along the compliment to you.”

A laugh bubbles out of your chest at his words, but your attention is cut off when you hear someone clear your throat behind you. 

You look back to see Joel standing closer over your shoulder, glaring down at Jesse. You didn’t notice how, or when Joel had gotten so close to you, but his frame hovers over you and nearly engulfs you in his presence. 

“Think we should head out now,” Joel says, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Turning back to say goodbye to Jesse before heading out, you feel bad when you see the young man look down to the ground sheepishly. You assume that Jesse being with you when you were shot had made Joel act odd around him, at least when the topic revolved you. Joel was always fine with Jesse being around Ellie, even agreeing that Jesse has proved himself of his capabilities, but perhaps Joel didn’t like him when it came to your own safety.

Watching Jesse walk away, you and Joel mount your horses—a playful comment leaves your lips as you turn to him, prepared to make your way over to the gates. “Ready, partner?” 

Your words seem to make Joel’s body relax from his previous tense state around Jesse, a half-smirk gracing his lips before shaking his head lightheartedly—his chest moving a bit as you see him try to suppress a laugh. “Sure am, darlin’,” he says, before tugging the reins of Callus to alert him to begin moving with you following them close behind.

The trek to your destination went quick and without any difficulty. Finished checking your designated area, Joel suggested the two of you venture a bit further into a neighboring city. 

“Tommy told me ‘bout it. He said we could find some extra supplies in the area. Apparently he and Eugene had found it and said the area seemed mostly clear of infected. It’s a bit of a trip, but, I have the time if you feel up for it?”

You nod in agreement as the two of you ride your horses over to the city. As he said, it did take some time, but the two of you dismounted and tied up your horses before walking through the city, checking in and out of different stores for some items.

One store that you pass happens to be a coffee shop. The moment he notices the sign in the shop window with a faded coffee cup design, Joel lets out a half-sigh, half-groan—a vocal cue of nostalgia that makes you smirk.

“You know, you do have coffee at home. Like, so much.”

Joel makes a soft tsk sound. “Not the same, darlin’. S’good enough to make me pretend like it’s the real thing, but not the same.”

His words that end in a sigh have you breaking into a small laugh. “Ah, yes. Possibly the only thing worse than living with infected is not having Starbucks, huh?”

Joel catches the sarcasm in your town, side-eyeing you as you two continue to make your way in and out of the various shops along the street. 

“Okay, little miss trouble, you tellin’ me you ain’t got nothin’ you’d kill to have again?”

The nickname he’s used for you more often causes your face to flush, making you look down at your feet to try and shove the feeling away as you think about his answer. You let out an exaggerated hum, tilting your head to the sky and squinting as you try to figure out your answer. 

“Something for pleasure? Chocolate covered strawberries. Something practical? A silk pillowcase.

You turn to face Joel and see him give you an amused look. “Chocolate covered strawberries, huh?”

“Mhm. Chocolate covered strawberries were my favorite dessert.”

“Think you could make it?” Joel asks.

You ponder on the idea. “I think chocolate would be technically possible. Probably just wouldn’t taste as sweet as all those artificial things they threw in food. I know I seem to make good carrot cake and lemon cakes, but I’m not sure I even know what I would need to make chocolate.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joel open his mouth to speak before he seems to quickly shake away the thought. Instead, he twists his face in confusion. “And a pillowcase? You have those?”

His tone makes you slightly laugh. “A silk one, Joel.” Your clarification only makes him roll his eyes playfully, none the wiser of the difference. “It’s gentler on your hair. Guess I just miss tiny things for self-care. I always slept with a silk pillowcase before. Made my hair softer or whatever.”

For some reason, the memory stings more than you had thought as you miss the simple luxuries of the world before. You swallow down the thought and sigh. “Now… that is something I have no idea how to get.” With a teasing, yet wishful sigh, you say, “I’ll live, though.”

Joel breathes out what sounds like a laugh. “Still, I’m sure it’d be nice to have.”

You look over at him to see him giving you a thoughtful look, the intensity of his gaze causing you to break eye contact and look forward. 

The two of you continue roaming through the stores, only finding a few bits of supplies that could be taken back to Jackson.

“So,” Joel says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Jesse’s cute.”

You look over to him, a surprised look on your face at the sudden topic, when you see him with a firm look on his face.

“Didn’t know you swung that way, Miller.”

He laughs loudly, not expecting your response before clarifying. “I meant, like, for you or… somethin’.”

You scrunch up your face at that. “He’s kinda young isn’t he?”

“He’s around 23, I think… Not that far off from you.”

“I’m in my early thirties Joel,” you say while laughing awkwardly. “Not exactly the age range I’m looking for.”

“Closer to his age than mine. ‘Bout ten years is not much of a difference compared to the twenty-somethin’ year difference to mine.”

His persistence on the topic has you looking at him quizzically, only to find him looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with you as you see a muscle tick in his jaw. 

Trying to ease the odd tension that’s built, you laugh and ask, “You implying my only options are between Jesse and you?”

Joel tenses up at the question briefly, a sight that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. The rigidness goes away as quickly as it came as he shrugs with no other response, his lips settling into a tight line and a frown appearing on his face.

The awkwardness that’s been created from your words has you biting the inside of your cheek while trying to come up with a response to redirect the topic. “I mean, I guess? He’s cute and all but… no. He’s not someone I see like that.”

Joel gives a thoughtful nod as you two cross onto the other side of the street. “Thought it might be an option for you, is all. Assuming you aren’t with anyone–”

You give him a deadpan look at the suggestion before he can finish. “Trust me, you’d be the first to know if that was the case. Plus, I don’t know… I’ve had people ‘flirt’ with me without knowing because I just didn’t even think to see them that way. Maria and Ellie always have to call it out when it happens because I’m apparently ‘too blind’.”

The memory makes you laugh before another thought comes to your mind. “How about you? Anyone around?”

The mere thought has Joel scoffing as he shakes his head. “Think I’ve solidified myself as someone who is unapproachable.”

You laugh at that. “Hey, you didn’t scare me off that easily,” you say pointedly. The two of you continue walking side by side as you push a bit further. “What about Esther?”

Joel suddenly whips his head to look at you as if you spoke another language. “Esther? What about her?”

“Oh come on Joel,” you say with a playful roll of your eyes. “She’s always staring at you, trying so desperately to get you to talk to her. She seems cute—nice enough.” 

You’ve seen her around before and spoken to her. She was… fine. Pretty, though. An older woman, closer to Joel’s age, whose voice was a bit too high-pitched with a smile that was a bit too fake. You first picked up on her advances to Joel at the bars when she’d come sit beside him at the counter, leaning her body a bit too close to his to get him to look at her. He never did.

Your mention of Esther comes with a tinge of distaste in your tone, one that Joel doesn’t seem to miss as one corner of his lips quirk up just a bit before he shakes his head. “No chance in hell darlin’. She reminds me too much of the PTA moms I’d have to deal with at Sarah’s schools. Gonna be a big pass from me on that front.”

As you take in the information while nodding, an odd sense of relief falls off your shoulders. Something in you has you not wanting to drop the topic just yet. “So… there’s no one you got your eye on?”

You ask the question while looking at him, still walking side by side down the sidewalk, and see him turn his head to meet your gaze. His mouth parts open slightly as he looks down at your lips, his expression indicating he has a response.

“Hey there!”

At the sound, a chill runs down your spine as the two of you quickly spin your bodies around to see six men across the street a couple stores down, slowly walking closer to you. The one in the front and center appears to be older, with a handgun stationed at his hip, and a wide smile spread on his face. Two of the men stand on one side of him while the other three stay on his other side. Some are younger than the others, but each is seen holding shotguns and assault rifles in their hands positioned in front of them. 

Joel angles his body slightly in front of you, shielding their view of you as much as possible as he hisses, “Stay behind me.”

Complying, your hand slowly goes to rest on your own gun stationed at your hip as you take one step back to stand half-behind Joel.  You watch him as he grips his assault rifle slung around his neck a bit tighter.

The group settles about twenty feet away from you before the man in the middle speaks up with the same disturbing smile, making you realize it was him who spoke up in the first place. 

“You guys from around here?”

Resting your left hand on Joel’s back for comfort, you feel his body tense up further and see a slight tick in his jaw as he clenches it repeatedly, gritting out in a monotone voice, “Just passin’ through.”

The man waits for a few seconds to see if Joel will continue speaking before saying, “We don’t usually get many people come by here, so… it’s nice to see some friendly faces after looking at so many dead ones.” The words slip past his lips in an unsettling saccharine tone. “You two have a community of your own?”

Joel doesn’t respond verbally, and instead gives a single shake of his head, lying to the group so as to not let them know anything about Jackson. 

His smile falters for a moment before widening again. “You know, we got a settlement about a couple hours to the west… you two are more than welcome to come with!” His eyes trail away from Joel to settle on you before he adds, “We got plenty of women so your missus won’t feel too scared.”

The moment he looks at you to speak to you directly, you feel Joel shift in his feet for a moment before a low growl leaves his throat that’s only loud enough for you to hear. Voice thick and gruff, he responds, “We’re alright. Again, just makin’ our way through.” It’s clean. Final. Leaving no room for argument, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy them.

A younger one from the group speaks up, eyes on you over Joel’s shoulder. “Now, my mama raised me right, so I can’t in good conscience let a beautiful young lady go on her own when I could help her.” His eyes trail over Joel’s form before smirking. “Can’t imagine an old man like you is able to take… proper care of a woman like that in a world like this.”

The words insinuate something darker that has bile rising in your throat. Your palm on Joel’s back has you able to feel his reaction—his body tensing before practically vibrating in anger. Looking up to eye his profile, you see his jaw clenching and moving as he grinds his teeth together. From your view, Joel’s eyes can be seen shifting between the group frantically as his mind races with what the best move is.

Somehow, the group seems to realize his intentions before you do as you see them all grip their weapons tighter. At the same moment, Joel quietly spits out a sharp go to you. You waste no time at all as you immediately move to duck behind the abandoned car for cover that is parked to your right while you hear shouting before the men begin to shoot in your direction. You feel Joel’s hand on your back as he throws you both to the ground—the two of you pressing yourselves low against the side of the car.

The sounds of gunshots stop for a moment as you hear them walking closer to your position. You look at Joel with a panicked expression to see a focused look on him, but not before you see a flash of fear in his eyes when he looks at you.

Frantically, he looks around before he settles on one of the stores a few feet to the right of the car. You follow his gaze to notice that, in their attempt to shoot you two, the men had shot up the coffee shop you had gone into earlier—the glass windows shattered as shards of glass line the sidewalk below. Joel looks back at you for confirmation and you give him a single nod, knowing his plan without any words spoken between the two of you. He jerks his head in the direction of the café, instructing you to make a run for the shop as he peeks over to the car to cover you from the men. 

The place was further down from where the men were approaching from, allowing more distance to be created between them. Joel and you use the mailboxes and old bus stop benches for cover as you each take turns shooting at the men as you move. Making your way into the opening created from the broken windows, Joel makes sure to stay close behind you as you run in, the protection allowing you to duck behind the counter and bakery case before he jumps over to sit behind as well.

The continuous shooting as you two ran now stops. A voice you recognize as the first man who had spoken, the one who you assume is their leader, calls out to you both. “Oh come on, now. We don’t want to hurt you guys! Just want to make sure you both find your way out safely.” His voice drips with malice at the end, causing another bone chilling fear to course through you. 

Fear begins to wrap a hand around your throat and causes you to lose focus. You look at the wall in front of you while breathing erratically, trying to swallow down the panic and think of something. Joel nudges your shoulder to grab your attention, the contact briefly snapping you out of your thoughts. He gestures to your weapons that you both hold and nods in the direction to the group outside. You give your own nod of understanding, and he takes a deep breath while looking at you before you both take turns to poke your bodies out and shoot off a few shots to the group.

In the time you spend out of cover, you notice they are spread out around the front of the shop, surrounding you while using their own forms of cover.

The ordeal goes on for what feels like an eternity–the two of you only getting one man down in the process. Joel drops down next to you for cover again before cursing quietly. He looks around the shop and leans his body to look past you. Getting your attention, Joel leans in close to you to quietly rush out a command. “M’gonna go sneak around the side to try and catch ‘em off guard. You keep shootin’ them from the front to distract ‘em, alright?”

No time to debate, you simply nod in agreement and Joel wastes no time to crouch down and crawl his way behind the counter and back his way around. You lift your body to peek over the tops of the counter and fire off a few more shots at them before dropping back down. In that time, Joel’s plan succeeds by surprising them with the angle and getting down one of them in the process. More shouting is heard from the men, alerting you that Joel killed the one he snuck up on.

Two down, you tell yourself. You can do this.

The back-and-forth continues. You fire off a couple shots at them, take cover when they shoot at you. Inevitably, you knew someone would have to make a move that caught more off guard.

Thankfully, you’re able to take one more down and soon after, Joel takes his own down from behind one of the cars. You do a mental scan of the group, remembering who was a part of it and which ones would be left. Thinking over it, you realize that only two would remain—the younger one who couldn’t have been much older than a teenager, and the leader of the group who you haven’t heard from or seen him show himself as much as the others.

Angling your head a bit, you look to find Joel coming up on the younger one. The one who had made a comment about you.

Joel shoots him in the kneecap before swiftly kicking the gun out of the kid’s hand. A sharp cry of pain is heard from the boy as he begs for mercy. Looking through the foggy bakery case, you try to squint to see a better view of what was happening. What you find is the sight of Joel kicking the boy’s head back with the butt of his gun, repeatedly smashing it into his skull. The twisted sounds of bones breaking fill your senses, mixed in with garbled cries of pain and pleading words spoken from the boy.

You peek over the counter once again to fire out a shot in hopes that the sound makes the leader’s presence known, but you’re met with the soft click of the gun signaling you are out of bullets.

Dropping back down, you curse and force yourself to not panic but fail as you reach into your jacket pocket with shaky hands trying to find your spare ammo. In the process, you don’t hear the crunching sound of glass close to you until you feel a tight grip on your arm as you’re forced to a standing position. A sharp yelp leaves you from the movement and your eyes widen when they settle on the figure that grabbed you.

“Looks like you’re caught now, princess,” he sneers.

The leader of the group gives you a sick smirk and snarls as he yanks you out from behind the counter after taking your gun and throwing it off to the side. You desperately try to fight against him, wriggling your body to free yourself from his grasp and run away, but he just presses your back deeper into the front of his body. Locking his left arm in front of your chest with a bone-breaking grip, he drags you out onto the street a few feet away from Joel.

He’s still straddling the boy as he beats him far past death, seemingly distracted as he gives no indication he heard or noticed what happened. The realization that his right ear had been facing the coffee shop hits you, understanding why he wouldn’t hear above the sounds of his fist driving into the boy’s face.

The leader calls out to Joel with a wave of his knife before pressing it against your throat and applying enough pressure for you to feel the sharp edge dig into your skin, alerting you if you move too suddenly, it would slice you. In a desperate attempt to keep the knife away from you, you keep your left hand gripped on his arm across your chest and your right hand holding his wrist that holds the knife to your throat—hoping you could use the force to escape if his grip loosened in the slightest.

At the call, you see Joel straighten up. His head whips around as he looks wild and confused, before his eyes settle on yours and you watch his entire body freeze in an instant.

You don’t take your eyes off him as you try not to let panic consume you, trying to use Joel’s presence as a source of comfort, but you aren’t stupid. You are aware that there is little that can be done from Joel right now without triggering this man to hurt you in some way. What causes your composure to falter, is you can tell that Joel realizes it too.

Joel raises his hands slowly in front of him, his rifle still slung around his neck but the handle of it loosely held in his hand as he holds it out and away from his body.

“Let her go.”

The tone in Joel’s voice is one you haven’t heard before, one that makes you shudder. It’s a mix of pure blind rage, combined with complete fear, all while his eyes never stray from yours. Not once.

The man laughs disturbingly. “You think this is a fucking discussion? We just wanted to talk, and you killed my fucking men.”

You feel the grip from his arm wrapped around your chest tighten, simultaneously applying more pressure with the knife held in his other hand. You feel nauseous—bile rising in your throat for what seemed like the hundredth time today as you feel his body behind you press further into yours. 

Joel seems to notice the action as he looks down quickly to the lower half of your body before flicking his eyes up to the man, a sickening snarl on his face. You see his body twitching from anger despite the distance between the two of you, noticing the way his hand’s grip on his gun tightens.

The man brings his face against the side of yours, his nose pressed against your temple as you feel his breath fanning your neck. Side-eyeing Joel, he says, “Can’t say I blame you, though. I mean if I found something this pretty in a world so ugly, well… I wouldn’t want to let it go either.”

He looks between you and Joel, a smirk in his voice as he snickers. “It’s a good thing I’m willing to share.”

You try to slow your breathing back to a steady pace, desperately trying to come up with a way out of this situation. You know that it would be hard for Joel to make a sudden move without something happening to you in the process, and you can tell from his body language and from how well you know him that he realizes it too. But you can also see, feel, the anger in him and his growing impatience. 

Your eyes flick around the scene before you to figure something out. Out of the corner of your eye, you focus on the way the man holds the knife to your throat. His right arm is held up and out, and the knife is long enough to cover your whole throat. His grip on the handle makes it so his hand is not parallel to your body, but rather it is held just above your shoulder. Noticing the detail, you think of a plan.

God, you hope this will work.

As if he could hear your thoughts, Joel breaks eye contact with the man and settles his gaze back onto yours, his eyes softening in the slightest when they meet your own. You flick your eyes down to your grip on the man before very slowly taking your index finger you have on the man’s right wrist, and make two light taps on the back of his hand—the action so delicate that the man doesn’t notice. But Joel does.

The movement catches Joel’s eye instantly as he’s hyper aware of every single part of your body at the moment, making him look at the hand holding the knife. The furrow between his brows twitches in understanding, a movement only you would catch, before he locks eyes with you again. 

Silent words pass between you in mere seconds, and you know Joel understands what you need him to do. His jaw clenches briefly, a sign that tells you he isn’t happy with the plan, and he quickly looks back to the man’s hand before his eyes flick between both of yours, a sudden nervous look in them. 

The two of you understand the risk, but both know there isn’t another option.

Gritting his teeth, Joel moves with a swiftness as he tightens his grip on his rifle and positions the weapon to aim. The movement is so sudden that the man has no chance to process what is happening before Joel shoots once at the back of the man’s hand that holds the knife. 

You only feel a small sharp sting followed by relief as the bullet grazes the top of your shoulder instead of completely penetrating your skin as it goes through the man’s hand.

He yells in distress as he pulls his right hand off your throat and drops the knife in shock. The moment makes his grip on your chest loosen, allowing you to rip his left arm off you and elbow him in the stomach before throwing yourself forward. In the same moment, Joel reaches for you and catches you by your forearms to try and break your fall as you land on the ground from exhaustion.

Seemingly satisfied with your immediate safety, Joel begins walking over to the man that sits on the ground screaming in pain and repeatedly cursing, “You fucking bitch!”

His face shifts into one of fear when his eyes lift up to the sight of Joel marching towards him, whatever expression on Joel’s face makes him scramble to try and get up to run. Before he gets the chance, Joel reaches his cowering body and uses the toe of his boot to kick the man in the chin, sending him laying back down on the ground with another curse and blood rushing from his nose and mouth.

You stay on the ground, hands digging into the pavement behind you as you watch Joel tower over the man before climbing on top of him. Joel reaches forward to wrap his left hand around the collar of the man’s shirt and raises his right hand, balled into a fist, and brings it down onto the side of his face repeatedly.

Your senses are consumed by the violence before you. All you can focus your eyes on is the violence before you. All you hear is the disturbings sounds of the man wailing in pain, bones crunching, and Joel. His snarls and grunts fill your ears as he proceeds to slam his fist into the man’s face for what feels like forever.

Eventually, you stop hearing the sounds of pain coming from the man who had almost killed you. You realize he’s dead, but Joel doesn’t stop. 

Eyes unable to be taken off the right side of Joel’s body over his body, you watch as Joel begins to alternate between fists as he continues beating him—only using his dead body as a vessel to let out pure anger and adrenaline at this point. The sounds of impact become more wet as blood completely covers the dead man’s face, Joel pounding into him relentlessly with the occasional sounds of bones crunching still occurring. You didn’t even know there were so many bones in the face to break.

Time passes, you aren’t sure how long, before Joel’s movements slow down to a stop. You think he only stops because his body is exhausted as you hear his harsh breathing and watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His fists twitch as if holding himself back from continuing, and you look to see the knuckles on both of his hands are covered in deep bruises along with blood. So much blood, covering his hands, arms, and splatters of it on his face.

This is what Maria had meant that first day you were here. What Joel was capable of.

As if he entered his body again, Joel seems to freeze. Perhaps he was lost in the violence and forgot you were there. Maybe, with the right side of his body facing you, he didn’t hear your labored breathing. You watch him slowly stand up off the now dead body, hovering over it as he looks down with disinterest. He turns and begins to walk over to you silently, his head angled downwards as he extends a bloody hand to help you up. 

You take it, your fingers wrapping around his usually warm and calloused palm that now is wet and sticky with blood. Allowing him to pull you up, you try to duck your head to look at him, but he has his eyes trained on the ground since he stopped punching.

“Are you okay?”

The words come out broken through his hoarse voice, the question being the first thing he’s said in however long he was killing that man. His eyes don’t raise past your waist, still not making eye contact with you directly as his face is etched in a deep frown.

You just want him to look at you.

You nod your head for a second before speaking up, your own voice sounding so small—the effort of speaking being almost painful. “Yes.”

Joel doesn’t seem satisfied with your answer as he opens and closes his mouth for a second, his frown deepening even more before he harshly shuts his eyes for a moment.

“Did they–” The words sound as if they are being forced out of his throat, his voice catching and a choked sound coming out as he spoke. “Did he… did he touch you?”

“No,” you respond softly.

Joel nods slowly before looking around at the aftermath of the fight.

Why won’t he look at you?

After a few moments, Joel clears his throat and his voice breaks slightly as he says, “Sound could’ve attracted clickers. We better head back to Jackson. S’gonna get dark soon.” The words are factual, said with no real rush in them, as if he’s forcing himself to move on. He gestures towards the horses down the road behind you, walking past you for a few steps. You stand there, staring at the barely recognizable dead body ahead of you before you turn around and call out.

“Joel?”

Your voice cracks at the name and you watch as his movements halt, turning his body half towards you with his eyes still firmly fixed on the ground. All he gives you is a hum of acknowledgement before you take one hesitant step towards him, seeing him tense up and take an unconscious step back. The action makes a crack split in your chest.

“Joel,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper. “Can you please look at me?”

Hearing the tremble in your voice, Joel slowly, yet carefully, lifts his eyes to yours. Seeing his brown eyes finally making contact with yours makes you take a shaky breath in. The same eyes that always look at you with so much warmth in them that it envelopes you in him. You feel so small at the moment, not knowing how to tell him what you want.

He studies you for a moment, his own breathing stuttering when he makes eye contact with you. His frown deepens at first until he sees something in your eyes that makes his hardened face soften into relief, as if he read your mind and could hear the thoughts you desperately wanted to convey.

You aren’t scared of him, as he feared. As he has feared, for almost two years. Fear that if you saw every side of him, you would recoil with disgust. Completely pulling yourself away from him and looking at him like a monster.

In that moment, he realizes you don’t fear him. You need him.

He lets out what must have been a breath he was holding in since the two of you heard the stranger’s voice for the first time, his entire body sagging before launching himself forward in your direction. The moment Joel moves toward you, you impatiently step forward too and throw yourself into his arms.

You wrap both of your arms as tight as possible around his waist, eyes screwed shut and burrowing your face into his chest. Smelling sweat, and blood, and him. His own arms wrap around your back, somehow holding you tighter than you were holding him, as if he wanted to feel every inch of your skin against his own. He brings his right hand to hold the back of your head, pushing you even further into him before resting his face against the top of your head and letting his eyes fall closed at the feeling of you safe in his arms.

The comfort somehow makes you want to crumble further, the freedom to be more vulnerable causing a sob to escape your throat. You try to stifle the sound but Joel already heard it, rubbing the back of your head with his thumb as he moves to dip his head into the crook of your neck and breathes you in deeply.

“I got you, darlin’. Always,” he whispers against your neck.

With those words, you let everything out.

The name he’s called you for months now somehow hits you harder than it ever has, making your knees buckle as the exhaustion and loss of adrenaline seems to catch up to you. You feel Joel adjust his grip to hold you tighter and keep you up, mumbling against your skin, “M’not gonna let you fall.”

His touch and his words provide you more sturdiness and protection than you have ever felt—more than you thought was humanly possible.

Your sobs and panicked breathing eventually even out into sniffles as you focus on the rhythm of his heartbeat that you faintly hear with your ears pressed against his chest. You stand there holding each other for what feels like too long, yet also not long enough. When you feel more calm, you begin to loosen your hold and pull away, but not before Joel’s grip on you tightens just a bit more before letting you pull yourself away first.

You lean only inches back from him, eyes trained on the base of his neck as you feel his breath on your mouth. He brings the hand that was on the back of your head over to gently cup your cheek, rubbing his thumb underneath your eye to wipe away tears and the tenderness of his touch has your eyes falling shut. You feel him lean his forehead against yours for a few seconds before he pulls back enough to place a gentle and lingering kiss to your forehead.

Taking a step back from you, he moves his grip to place one on your waist and another on your upper arm. His eyes move across your face, taking in every detail before he breathes out to say, “We gotta go home, darlin’.”

His words cause you to snap back into reality as he was right. The sun had begun setting and it would be a long trip back to Jackson—you two had to leave now. It didn’t stop the small part of you that wished you could stay in his arms for the rest of your life.

You turn your body to head down the street when you feel him slip his hand into yours, squeezing tightly, before leading you over to your horses.

Déjà vu is a funny feeling. It’s something that people tend to forget just how odd of a sensation it is.

The blinding white lights that make your head pound intensely. The sterile smell of the hospital room. The hushed voices between the medical staff as they poke and prod you. Your own dissociative state as you sit silently, eyes unfocused on the wall in front of you. It’s all eerily similar to what you remember as your first day in Jackson.

All you want to do is go home and go to sleep for as long as humanly possible.

Joel and you had made your way back to Jackson, arriving close to midnight, you think. Due to how far you two had gone, it got dark fast. You had spent the ride back feeling Joel’s eyes on you at any chance he could get, but you had just stared straight ahead, too exhausted from the events that just occurred. About an hour in you remember Joel had called out to you, offering for you to ride on his horse sitting behind him so you could rest and use his back as support. His offer was due to his notice that your eyes had started fluttering shut more and more often, worrying him further on your current state. You declined, knowing that him having to steer his own horse while holding onto the reins of yours as she rode beside would only make the journey go slower.

You just wanted to be home as fast as you could.

Once arriving back to town, you found Maria, Tommy, and a few other leaders in the town waiting at the gates restlessly. Your absences had made the others worry something was wrong, and they seemed prepared to head out in search of you two.

You vaguely remember shouting. Tommy’s face growing alarmingly concerned at the sight of the state you two were in. Maria’s own body sagging with relief at the fact you two were alive before matching her husband in his concern once her eyes scanned over your form. You had felt hands grabbing you, bringing Joel and you to the doctor quickly to get you both checked for injuries. 

Since riding into Jackson, Joel hadn’t seemed to have taken his eyes off you now that he didn’t have to focus on the road ahead. You faintly recall his sounds of protest when the doctor had separated you two into your own rooms—Joel only succumbing to their efforts when Maria laid a firm hand on his chest to hold them back. “We’re giving her a female doctor to check her over, and I’ll sit with her the whole time. I promise.” Her words brought Joel a tiny bit of peace before becoming nauseous at the need for their decisions regarding you.

A hand touching your shoulder brings you back to reality for a moment, causing you to flinch at the sudden touch. Looking up, you realize the doctor was speaking to you with Maria behind her and looking over her shoulder to watch your reactions.

“What?”

The memory of your first day arriving here comes back to you once again when you speak, remembering the overwhelming feeling you had so long ago. The feeling of being underwater while drowned-out voices echo around you and try to grab your attention.

The doctor sighs before looking at Maria, not impatiently, but knowingly. “I’ve checked her thoroughly. Besides the small wound on the top of her shoulder from the bullet, she doesn’t seem to have any other injuries. Some bruising, sure, but I mainly think she’s just overwhelmed.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she leans closer to Maria, intending for you to not hear what she says. But you do. “The mental signs of infection are most likely due to the trauma.”

She talks about you like you aren’t there. Like you aren’t human. 

The question that races through your mind, the only question you care for the answer to, comes out of you. “Where’s Joel?”

Maria turns her attention to you when she hears your voice croak out the words. She gives a sad smile before replying, “Don’t worry honey, he’s just outside talking with Tommy right now. He’s alright, too…we figured you’d want your space–”

“I want Joel,” you say, leaving no room for argument in your tone.

Her eyes soften in understanding and she gives a small nod before the doctor opens the room to head out, Maria following her out. She leaves the door open a bit, allowing you to hear the hushed, broken sentences from Tommy and Joel—the door angled so you could see Joel leaning close to Tommy to whisper, their words fading in and out.

“...Where do you think they…”, you hear from Tommy first.

“Don’t know. Can't be too close. We were so far out and…”

“... Could be on their way if they see… Just like David was…”

David? Who was David?

“No, no… made sure they couldn’t follow…”

You wish they would speak up louder so you could hear more of what they were saying.

Then, in a weaker voice, you hear Joel say, “It happened again, Tommy… I couldn’t protect her, I couldn’t–”

Their conversation is interrupted as Maria walks up. You see Joel’s body language straighten out and tense up as he looks to her with stoicism. It isn’t until you hear your name being said in the mix of words that you see Joel’s head snap in your direction before he takes quick strides to get to your door.

The moment it opens, his eyes are alert—worried. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You shake your head. “Nothing, just… wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay too.”

His features soften, his round eyes so heartbreakingly beautiful that you forget about what happened for a single moment and only focus on him.

“Yeah, I’m alright, darlin’. Doc said you’re cleared. They patched up your shoulder and everythin’.”

You nod, not caring much for the state of your injuries as you can only focus on one goal. “Can we go home now?”

Joel nods without hesitation. “‘Course we can,” he says, walking towards your chair. His hand seems to hover over your back, wanting to guide you but knowing you had been jumpy to anyone touching you the whole time you were here. You take the initiative to lean your body into his when you stand up, giving him a silent cue that his touch was welcome—craved, even. You hear a small sigh of relief leave his mouth as he wraps his arm around your back, holding you close to him as he guides you both outside the building. 

You catch Tommy and Maria speaking in hushed tones outside the front door of the hospital before stopping when they see you two. They both look down to Joel’s arm around you—Maria with a firm look on her face, lips tight and brows twitching together, while Tommy offers a more softer and sympathetic look. “You guys let me know if you need anythin’, alright?”

Joel gives a nod of acknowledgement to his brother before Tommy comes over to pat his shoulder, leaning in as you hear Tommy whisper to him. “Take care of your girl, alright, big brother?”

The words don’t impact you as much as they might have before today, letting you know that you aren’t completely there, but they seem to affect Joel as you hear him take a sharp inhale of breath before giving a single nod in response.

It’s a short and silent walk to your house until you turn onto your walkway. Joel leads you over to your door as you reach into the inside of your jacket to take out your house key in the pocket there. Your hands uncontrollably shake as you try to get them, but your struggle is stopped not long after by the feeling of Joel’s hand gently laying on top of yours.

You look up to meet his eyes, seeing his eyebrows pushed together and up a bit as he gives you the same tender look he’s given you, and only you, all night whenever he looks at you. “Let me,” he softly commands, taking over to reach into your pocket. As he grabs the key and opens your front door, he still supports your body with his other arm as you lean into his side.

He gently helps you into your home before closing and locking the door behind him while you just stand there, numb, and looking around the entryway. When he finally turns around to look at you, he’s met with the sight of your back, unmoving, and his worry only grows. 

Slowly walking around to stand in front of you, he lifts his hand to carefully brush away stray pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face, as if he’s done the action a million times. You look at his chest, yet stare at nothing in front of you as your eyes continue to stay unfocused. Noticing this, Joel begins to frown as he feels a lump in his throat—a pain stabbing him in his chest.

He brings his hand that brushes your hair away to cup your chin, delicately guiding your head upwards to try and get you to focus on him. It seems to do the trick as your eyes meet his, blinking repeatedly to adjust your eyes to your surroundings.

The sight of you more focused eases Joel’s worry a bit. You lift your eyes to his and watch as he smiles sadly. “There she is. Missed ya.”

You become aware of how you’ve been acting. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to–”

Joel cuts you off with a shake of his head before speaking to you with sincerity in his voice. “Absolutely nothin’ you need to apologize for, darlin’. Just want you alright is all.”

You numbly nod your head, watching as Joel straightens up to look over to your staircase leading upstairs. “How about you go up there, take a shower, and get ready for bed. I’ll give you some space if you want and head home to do the same before I–”

The thought of being alone makes you frantically shake your head, eyes wide as you begin rambling. “No, please don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone, please just–”

Surprised worry appears on Joel’s face as he places his hands on your arms to steady you and bring your attention back on to him, ducking his head down to level his eyes with yours once again. “Hey, hey,” he hushes soothingly. “I’m gonna come right back, make you some food to eat ‘til you fall asleep, okay?”

It’s not enough. You shake your head again. “Please don’t go yet… you can use my shower before I do and then we can eat. I have plenty of spare towels if you’re okay with that?”

Joel pauses for half a second before giving you a smile in response. “‘Course I can, darlin’. Let me go home to grab some clothes, then I can get washed up here and we can eat before you sleep. That sound alright with you?”

His suggestion is the most logical, so you nod in agreement. It doesn’t stop you from standing at your window and watching him as he walks across the street to his house, only to stare at his door waiting until he comes back out. The lights go on and off as he seems to move about the house before he comes back out shortly. Seeing him again has you letting out a breath of relief, taking no hesitation to swing open your door before he is even fully on your side of the street. 

The sound of you opening the door has his steps faltering for a brief moment, his movements pause until continuing to make his way inside—a small bag over his shoulder that you assume is filled with a change of clothes.

You hover close to him as you watch him cross the threshold and remove his shoes at the front of your door. He gestures upstairs with a nod of his head. “You take the first shower, okay?”

You try and argue, suddenly feeling bad about making him stay here with you, but he just shakes his head at you. “Nope, I’ll be alright ‘til you’re ready. I can start preparin’ some hot food for you so it’s nice and fresh for when you’re done. Take your time, okay?”

Nodding to him, you slowly make your way upstairs, turning at the top to see him watching you until you reach your bedroom. You then hear the sounds of him walking into your kitchen—the clanging sounds of pots assuring you he was still here.

Your body moves like a zombie. Your motions are on autopilot as you walk into your bathroom, turning on the shower to let it warm up before beginning to undress. Once completely stripped, you look at the pile of clothes that now lays on the bathroom tile—what looks like every inch of it covered in blood and fully ruined. You stand there for a few seconds too long, simply looking down and glaring at it as if its presence disgusts you, before deciding you would throw it out in the morning. Or maybe even burn it.

As you turn to step into the shower, you make an effort to avoid your mirror at any cost, forcing your legs to lift and settle into your position under the stream. The hot water burns your skin, a feeling you relish in that moment as you wish it would rip your skin off and allow your body to start over. You grab your various soaps and begin washing your hair, your body, your face—ending up scrubbing relentlessly in every spot you can possibly think of until the skin burns raw, the dried blood that was left on you far gone.

You aren’t sure how long passes after you finish removing the filth of the day from your body, but you stay standing under the water and let it cascade over your body—your arms folded across your midsection as you tilt your head down to stare at the drain as it turns from red to clear.

A knock on your bathroom door pulls your attention, followed by a call of your name. “You okay in there?”

It takes you a second to find the strength to speak before you’re able to call out a response. “Yes,” you reply, the broken sound of your own voice shocking you.

There’s a short pause before you hear Joel respond. “Alright… just wanted to let you know that the food’s ready, so you can come down whenever you’re done.”

Surprise hits you for a moment. “How long have I been in here?”

With a layer of worry in his tone, Joel calls out, “Uh, just lil’ over an hour… Why? Is somethin’ wrong?”

You shake your head before you realize that he can’t see you. “No… I’ll be out in a moment.”

You hear him say to take your time, but you already turned off the water and step out, beginning to dry off and put your pajamas on.

Once finished, you open your bathroom door expecting to see Joel standing in your bedroom. In his absence, panic begins to build inside you and has you calling out his name hurriedly before you see him poke his head into your bedroom door out of the corner of your eye. You turn to face him fully and sigh with relief, realizing that he was just standing outside in your hallway. 

“Sorry,” he sheepishly responds. “Just wanted to give you some privacy.”

You shake away his apology, feeling ridiculous for your reaction in the first place, and move to grab the clean spare towels you have in your cupboard and hand them to him. “Here.”

He gives you a polite smile before taking the pile of folded cloth into his hands, adjusting his grip to pick up the bag he brought here that was leaning against the wall outside your room.

“You go head downstairs and start eatin’. I’ll join you when I’m done. Should be only ten minutes, I promise.”

You nod and let him walk past you into your bathroom, closing that door behind him. 

For a moment, you stand in your bedroom doorway and look in the direction of your staircase. Hovering for a moment while fidgeting, you feel unsure of what to do with yourself until you decide to sit on your bed and wait there for him. The sounds of him turning the water on and moving around brought you a bit of peace, and you end up staring at the clock to watch the hands tick by while you wait for him.

He was right about the time as you hear the water turn off only twelve minutes… and thirty-seven seconds later—your eyes never straying from the moving lines on your clock until you hear shuffling, assuming he’s getting dressed before the bathroom door opens. 

Joel comes out with his head bowed down as he runs a towel quickly through his hair, wearing black sweatpants and a soft looking navy blue T-shirt. He takes two steps out of the bathroom before his head raises back up to see you sitting on the bed waiting for him with your legs folded beneath you.

He jumps slightly, not expecting you to be there, and looks out your bedroom before turning back to you with a confused expression. “Thought I told you dinner was ready?” He calmly says, no judgment or accusation in his tone.

You look down at your hands you’d been fidgeting with in your lap, picking at your fingernails. “I… I wanted to wait up here for you.”

He blinks once. The confusion stays with him for a second as he processes your response,  until his face shifts into warm understanding. “Okay. Let’s go down to eat.”

The moment he steps away from the bathroom door, the bright bathroom light he had shielded you from with his body no longer lays on you. When you stand, Joel takes a step towards you to help you up but freezes once he sees you under the light, his face hardening.

Confusion and worry consume you for a moment, but clarity strikes you when you see his gaze trained below your face. Due to the dim lighting of your house, and the fact your clothing up until now was covering most of your body, Joel had not yet seen the extent of your injuries that you avoided staring at in the bathroom.

His eyes stay glued to the brushing on your arms for a few seconds before they lift up to the bandage on your shoulder. His focus travels to your throat where you assume a long thing cut laid there from the knife that was pressed against you.

Still looking at your throat, you watch Joel’s top lip twitch before he swallows his emotions harshly. “C’mon,” he mutters softly, placing his hand on your shoulder and guiding you gently downstairs.

Reaching the kitchen, you see a pot of stew sitting on the now-off stove with two bowls next to the stovetop and a large ladle placed against the side of the pot. Joel pulls out a chair for you at your kitchen table, letting you sit before he goes over to fill up the two bowls with the food, coming back over to place them down in front of your respective spots before going to grab some water from the fridge.

You both settle into your seats and begin to eat silently, the only words spoken being a quiet thank you from you for him making you something to eat. He brushes off your appreciation lightheartedly, as if his sentiment was as natural as breathing and nothing worth being thanked for. The sounds of silverware clanking against the ceramic bowls mixed with the domestic nature of the two of you eating together in silence is enough for you a sense of safety and comfortability to wash over you, no words needing to be shared to fill the quiet.

When you finish your bowl, Joel moves to take it to the sink as he was done with his own a few minutes before, and starts to wash and put away everything. You watch his back silently as he moves, thinking you hear a very faint sound of humming coming from him, but it’s too quiet for you to be sure.

As he dries the last bowl left, you quickly rush out a question you've had on your mind since coming home.

Joel turns to face you, looking confused and making you realize you had spoken too quietly. You wait a few moments as he turns the water over, drying his hands on your dish towel and turning his body to face you directly as he leans back against the sink counter.

You clear your throat and look at the ground as you repeat your question. “Can you sleep here tonight?”

His lack of response for a few seconds fills you with shame, feeling stupid for even asking. Trying to rectify the embarrassment, you begin to ramble out more words with your head angled towards the floor. “I just… I don’t really want to be alone tonight. I know the couch is not the most comfortable thing to sleep on, so if you don’t want to I completely understand, I just–”

“Yes.”

The sound of his voice responding to you makes you shoot your head up to look at him, eyes wide as you hadn’t expected him to agree. Making eye contact with you, you see a sure look in his eyes mixed with… relief?

Did he want to sleep here tonight, too?

Mouth parted in a small “o” shape, you slowly nod. “Okay… um, I have some spare pillows and blankets in my bedroom closet. Let me go get them for you and I’ll set you up on the couch.”

Joel wordlessly nods, walking into the living room as you quickly make your eyes upstairs to grab the items. In your room, your eyes glance at the clock hung on your wall to see it was 2 am. Your body seems to snap back into its previously exhausted state as you realize how long the day has been—Joel’s presence since you arrived home seems to have distracted you from the reality of the toll your mind and body took on today.

You make your way downstairs to find Joel watching you carefully as you walk up to him and hand him the pillows and blankets. He takes them with a hum of appreciation before he begins to set up his space for the night.

The sight of him fluffing the pillow onto one end of the couch and stretching the fabric of your quilt across the narrow cushions has you wince. The guilt of making him, as big and broad as he is, spend the night on your cramped couch grows in you.

As he finishes his movements with a final flick of his wrist to throw one end of the quilt at the end of the couch, you open your mouth to tell him he can go home. Somehow, despite his back being towards yours, he turns to look at you before you can even speak, only to immediately say, “I want to be here.”

Your mouth flutters open and closed after he speaks with such confidence, momentarily stunned at the timing of your thoughts. Or perhaps he knew what you were going to say without even seeing that you had wanted to speak. 

You give him an attempt at a smile, your lips barely curling up in one corner, something that takes a bit of effort as you think you haven’t done it since before your run in earlier. You seem to be proven right when you see Joel’s shoulders sag with relief at the sight, grateful to have some emotion be shown out of you.

You look around the room, unsure how to say goodnight, while also not wanting to be away from him. He seems to notice your hesitancy, because he nods his head in the direction of your staircase. “Let me get you to bed, darlin’.”

Assuring him you can do so on your own, you shake your head and begin to protest. He carefully reaches his hand out to hold one of your hands as his eyes focus on you and speaks with the same confidence from before. “I want to.”

With that, you allow him to walk up with you to your bedroom—Joel opening the door for you and guiding you inside. You make your way over to your bed and watch with slight awe as Joel reaches over to pull the covers back, allowing you to slip in. The action makes your cheeks flush, and you become grateful for the darkness in the room as you crawl into bed and settle beneath the covers. You look at the lamp that sits on your dresser in the corner of the room before eyeing Joel nervously. His gaze follows yours to look at the lack of light with furrowed brows. 

“Could you… um…” you trail off, gesturing towards the lamp with your chin. He understands your request and walks over to turn it on so that a dim warm light fills your room. 

Embarrassment fills you for a moment, feeling like a fucking child who just woke up from a nightmare and needs their light on to sleep through the night. Maybe that’s what today was, you think. One big nightmare, and you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling normal again.

Logically, you knew you would recover. Having had these encounters in the past before, you always compartmentalized the experiences and moved on—forcing yourself to bury the complexities of your emotions in order for you to be able to keep going both physically and mentally. Today, though, you found yourself feeling safe in terms of your reactions. Joel’s patient and gentle nature with you makes you feel free enough to not need to keep it all in. For once, you could let yourself rely on someone else to be there for you.

As Joel makes his way back around to you, he sits on the edge of your bed beside you to begin adjusting the blankets until they cover you more properly. Satisfied with his effort, he rests one of his hands on top of yours that lay on your stomach overlapping each other. His eyes lift to yours with such warm intensity that it makes your heart skip a beat. You can’t recall a moment where anyone has ever looked at you with so much emotion and care in their eyes.

The two of you simply gaze into each other’s eyes for a minute before Joel breaks the contact by leaning forward slowly, slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted, but you don’t want to. His lips press a lingering kiss to your forehead, a deep inhale leaves his nose before he pulls back.

“Goodnight, darlin’,” he says as he stands and begins to walk backwards out of your room, eyes never leaving your face. 

“Goodnight, Joel.”

You watch him leave your room and notice how he keeps your door partly open so that you can see him walk down the staircase, deliberately leaving your dim staircase light on to give you more comfort.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! i hope you all enjoy <3 follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for updates!

a/n: sorry for the emotional rollercoaster, and posting it after episode 6. feeling masochistic. 🏷️: @dendulinka6 @suzysface @koshkaj-blog @orcasoul @emmasveinyahhdih @thatoneperson38747 @silksepia @orodaeh @ithinkimokeei @emnull0 @warriorkarol @luvwanda @pascal-mynightlyobsession @grayandthyme @crlsummer @ashleyfilm @darling-imobsessed @tjohn63

[enimsiyobeht]

thinking about .... enhypen ft. dilf reader x bp jungwon !!

a/n : def didn't just start this because i couldnt write a genuine drabble on it (im not that good at writing dilf/milfs 💔💔). i know damn well my anon disappointed, sorry babe.

synopsis : some headcannons/hard thought on dilf reader x boypussy jungwon!! big dick reader (hehehe 😼😼). virgin jungwon. use of pussy, lips, folds, clit, and cunt as jungwon’s gential. mention of reader having an older son, minor jealousy/bratty jungwon, subtle manipulation if you squint, minor guilt on reader’s end, size kink/difference, spit as lube, baby trapping if you squint, breeding kink, unprotected sex (wrap it up buddy), minor choking.

Jungwon who can’t help the years of your only son moving out of your house for college abroad for him to move in himself—offering to keep you company “so you’re not alone,” and conveniently doing all the little things your son used to, like leaving the porch light on or making you tea when you come home from work.

Jungwon who acts like the most respectful, well-mannered boy to your face, always offering to clean up, do chores, or massage your shoulders after work—only to blush and bite his lip when your hand brushes his hip just a little too close to that warm spot between his thighs.

Jungwon who starts calling your house "home" before even realizing he’s saying it, and laughs nervously when you raise a brow—but doesn't correct himself. Instead, he starts leaving his things there: toothbrush, cologne, soft little pajama shorts you swear are too short.

Jungwon who flinches every time you go on a date or mention someone your age, then clings to you more than usual for days after—more touches, more smiles, longer eye contact. He keeps proving he's good, loyal, grown... better than anyone else.

Jungwon acts bratty just to get your attention. Talks back. Gets mouthy. Then when you pin him with a firm voice or a hard stare, he folds instantly. Looks down, whispers a soft “sorry, sir,” with a little too much heat in his tone. You always brush it off. He always bites back a smirk.

Jungwon who casually lounges around in oversized shirts and loose sleep shorts, but never bothers with underwear underneath—spreading out on your couch in suggestive positions that he swears are “comfortable,” while giving you a clear view of his soft thighs and bulge.

Jungwon who looks at you with those wide, pleading eyes whenever you try to keep your distance—like it hurts him that you won’t touch him. Like your restraint is the cruelest thing you could do to him. And eventually, you stop saying no.

You should’ve pushed him away.

Should’ve told him to go back to his room and forget all of this.

But when Jungwon kissed you—soft, shaking, lips full of longing—you lost every last shred of control.

You kissed him back, deeper. Rougher. He whimpered into your mouth like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.

You grabbed his waist and lowered him back against the couch. He spread his thighs with no hesitation, heart pounding in his chest, already flushed beneath the oversized T-shirt he’d stolen from you.

“I shouldn’t want this,” you muttered, dragging the fabric up his trembling stomach.

“But you do,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Just like I do.”

When you pulled the shirt over his head, your breath caught.

Smooth, pale skin. Perky little nipples. And between his spread legs—pink, glistening, untouched—his pussy was soaked. Lips slick and parted, pulsing for attention.

You hissed. “You’re wet already?”

His thighs trembled.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he admitted, breathless. “Fantasizing… Touching myself and pretending it was your fingers.”

You groaned, hand sliding down to press against his swollen folds. He cried out when your thumb teased the hood of his clit, hips twitching toward your palm.

“So sensitive,” you muttered. “You’ve never had anything inside here, have you?”

Jungwon bit his lip and shook his head. “Only my fingers. Never… not like this.”

Your cock was hard—aching. You freed it from your pants and slicked it with your spit, letting him watch. His eyes widened when he saw how thick you were.

“That won’t fit,” he breathed. “It’s too—”

“It’ll fit,” you growled, moving between his legs. “You’re gonna take all of it, baby.”

You hooked his knees up, spreading him wide, and rubbed the tip of your cock against his dripping folds. His pussy twitched with need, fluttering against your head.

Then you pushed in.

His hands flew to your shoulders, back arching as your thick cock split him open for the first time. Tight, hot, wet—so fucking tight.

“F-Fuck—” he sobbed, legs locking around your hips. “So big—hurts—”

“You’re doing perfect,” you grunted, slowly rocking deeper. “This little pussy was made to take me.”

You bottomed out with a groan, balls snug against him. Jungwon gasped, tears slipping down his cheeks from the stretch, but his pussy clenched around you hungrily.

“Y-You’re inside,” he whimpered. “So full—feels so full—”

You started to move, rolling your hips in slow, grinding thrusts. Jungwon’s hands gripped the couch cushions as he moaned louder with each one, his slick folds sucking you back in every time you pulled out.

“Look at you,” you growled. “So fuckin’ needy. You begged me for this, remember?”

“Please—” he cried. “F-Fuck me harder—want it all—need you to fill me up—”

You snapped your hips and he screamed, back arching as your cock pounded deep into his virgin cunt. His pussy fluttered, clenching around you with every thrust, soaking your cock in slick.

You leaned over him, one hand grabbing his throat, the other rubbing tight circles on his clit.

“Take it. Take everything.”

He came like that—legs shaking, lips parted, clit throbbing under your fingers while his tight little cunt spasmed around your cock.

You didn’t stop.

You flipped him over, pulled his hips up, and shoved back into him from behind. His face was buried in the cushions, hands clawing at the fabric, voice hoarse from crying out your name.

“Breed me,” he sobbed. “Please—put a baby in me—I need it—need to feel you drip out of me—”

You growled and fucked him faster, harder. He was so soaked now it was filthy—wet sounds echoing through the room, his slick cunt drooling around your cock with every thrust.

You reached under him, spread his lips apart with two fingers, and watched your cock disappear into the soaked heat of his pussy again and again.

When you came, it was with a snarl—hot spurts of cum flooding his clenching pussy. It leaked out almost instantly, dripping down his trembling thighs and onto the cushions.

You didn’t pull out.

You leaned down, pressed your hand to his belly, and whispered in his ear:

“You’re mine now. I’m not letting anyone else have this pussy.”

Jungwon whimpered.

“Good,” he whispered. “I never wanted anyone but you.”

(thanks for 400 followers by the way, i swear i had 300 a few days ago 👉👈).

[mintyys-blog]

Requests are open?? 👀👀

I've been asking different people to get their opinions, but how do you think the Marks would react to a blind girlfriend? Comfort fic for me ngl, since I'm going blind, but also I think it would be neat. I would love your headcanons on the topic.

I feel like the variants would handle it way worse than main mark, you could be stolen from them with something as minor as a wet floor.

I wonder which ones of them tries to hide things? Would they let you know they are covered in blood, or would they try to keep the dangers of the world out of your pretty little head.

I feel like Maskless, Prisoner, and full mask would try to hide the blood stains, while the others I have no idea what they'd do.

I'd love to hear your thoughts or headcanons on the topic!! Again, I LOVE YOUR BLOG SO MUCH I AM TOTALLY NORMAL ABOUT IT 😅

HEADCANONS | variants with s/o who is blind

invincible masterlist

warnings ; mention of murder, blood, hurt/comfort

MAIN MARK

You can hear him cleaning again. It’s the soft shuffle of socks on hardwood, the muted thunk of something being moved back into place. Maybe a chair pushed in. Maybe a cup set down gently so it doesn’t clink and make you flinch. You can smell the lemon cleaner he’s been using all week—stronger than before, like he scrubbed the countertops twice just to be sure.

You smile. “Babe,” you call out, “if you’re reorganizing the spice rack again, I swear to God—”

“I’m not!” Mark yells back from the kitchen, a little too fast. “I just—um. I put the cumin and paprika back where they belong. That’s all. No changes. I promise.” You laugh. “You better not. I finally memorized the shelf.”

He appears in the doorway seconds later, towel over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from a post-fight shower. He smells like your detergent now. Like home. He walks over with cautious steps, just like he always does now—more careful than he needs to be. You don’t mind. It’s sweet, the way he announces himself in every room now. Not with words, always, but with presence. Sound. Scent. A gentle nudge of his hand on yours when he’s close.

“Mark,” you say, reaching out. Your hand brushes the front of his hoodie, and he immediately curls his fingers around yours.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

You nod. “Are you okay? You’ve been deep cleaning for two hours. If you mop again, the floor’s gonna dissolve.” He groans a little and rests his forehead against yours. “I just—wanna make sure you don’t trip on anything. Or stub your toe. Or bump into that stupid coat rack again.”

“I like the coat rack.”

“The coat rack almost killed you last week.” You smirk. “Dramatic.”

“I am dramatic. And you’re…” He trails off, squeezing your hand. His voice softens. “You’re everything to me. And this whole thing—you losing your sight—it’s not fair. So I just… wanna help. However I can.” You feel your throat tighten, just a little. He doesn’t say it with pity. Not Mark. He says it like a vow. Like he’s still learning the shape of what support means, but he’s not going anywhere until he gets it right.

You let go of his hand and reach for his face instead. He leans in instantly, guiding your fingers to his cheek, his jaw, the small smile forming there. You trace his features the way you’ve started doing more often now. He never flinches, never pulls away. Sometimes, you swear he leans into your palm like it’s the only thing anchoring him to Earth.

“I’m okay, you know,” you murmur. “Even when things are hard. I’m not scared—not when you’re here.” Mark pulls you into a hug then, arms warm and tight around your waist. He kisses your temple, your forehead, the tip of your nose.

“I’m always here,” he says quietly. “Same place. Same guy. Same spice rack.” You snort. “Thank God.” And when he laughs against your skin, you feel it in your bones. Safe. Whole. Home.

SINISTER MARK

The air smells like blood again.

You can’t see the red, but it clings to him like heat—thick and metallic, even beneath the sharp scent of soap. He’s been scrubbing, maybe too hard. The water heater clicked on twice in the last twenty minutes. But no matter how many times he washes his hands, you still smell it. Still know.

“Did you kill someone?” you ask softly. Silence. You hear him stop in the doorway. His breathing changes—calm, but measured. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll ask again.

“Mark.” He exhales, slow and steady. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“No,” he says, and his voice is firm now. “It doesn’t. You don’t need to carry that.”

You shift on the couch, pulling your legs under you. “I don’t need you to protect me from your truth, Mark.” He’s across the room in an instant, kneeling in front of you before you can flinch. Large, gloved hands rest gently on your thighs. Not possessive. Just… anchoring. Like he needs to feel you under him to keep from flying off the edge.

“You don’t see what I see,” he murmurs. “And that’s a gift. This world is ugly. It’s cruel. I burn it every time I leave this apartment. And I will not bring that into your head. Not while I can help it.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his shoulder. The suit is damp—he didn’t finish drying off. You touch higher, to his throat, his jaw. No mask tonight. Just bare skin and a tension that runs deep under the surface. Your thumb finds the edge of his lip.

“You’re bleeding.” He grits his teeth. “It’s not mine.” That’s not better. Not really. But he says it like a reassurance. Like it should make you feel safe.

“Mark…”

“I can’t see for you,” he whispers, voice low and strained. “I can’t fix this. But I can make sure that nothing ever touches you. Not war. Not crime. Not even grief.”

You feel his forehead drop to yours, his breath hot and desperate against your mouth. “I know you hate when I hide things. But this is all I have. Control. Power. And you—” He swallows hard. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel human anymore.”

You run your hands along his face—cheeks damp, eyes burning behind closed lids. “I don’t need you to be human,” you whisper. “I just need you to be here. With me.”

His hands tighten slightly on your legs. Just enough to feel. Just enough to ground. “I’m here,” he breathes. “Always. Even when you can’t see me… I’ll make sure you’ll never need to.” And you believe him. Not because he’s soft. But because he’s yours.

MOHAMK MARK

You only sigh once.

Barely.

A quiet little breath as you sit back on the couch, cane leaned against the side table, shoes kicked off half-heartedly after a long day.

And he’s there.

Instantly.

You don’t hear him land. No sonic boom. No cocky entrance. Just the sudden shift of air and the familiar warmth of him as he crouches in front of you, arms on your knees.

“Hey,” Mark says, voice low. “You okay?”

You blink. “How do you even do that?”

“What?”

“Drop in like a ninja every time I make a sound that isn’t a full sentence?”

His hand comes up and gently cups your ankle, thumb rubbing a slow, grounding circle near the bone. “You sighed,” he says. Like that explains everything.

You try not to smile, but it slips out anyway. “You’re gonna drive yourself nuts if you keep checking on me every time I breathe.”

“Worth it.” His thumb stills. “…But seriously. You good?”

You hesitate. Because yeah, you’re fine. Mostly. It’s just that today your phone read out the wrong bus number, and someone grabbed your elbow too hard trying to “help” you cross the street, and your favorite barista didn’t recognize you because you weren’t facing her right away.

It’s not a bad day. It’s just—heavy.

You don’t answer right away, and Mark shifts, his hand sliding up to hold yours instead. You can tell he’s nervous. Not afraid. Just wound tight in that way he gets when he wants to help, but doesn’t know how yet.

“I’m here,” he says. Quiet. Honest. “Even if it’s just to sit. Or… punch something. If that helps.” You laugh softly, squeezing his hand. “Don’t punch anything yet. Just stay.”

“I can do that.”

You feel him rise from his crouch and sit beside you, not touching at first, but close. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. You tilt your head toward him, and he takes the hint—pulling your legs into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Did you eat?” he asks, thumb brushing your shin like a habit.

“Yes, mom.”

“Rude.”

“True.” He lets the silence stretch then, not because he doesn’t care, but because he does. He’s learning not to fill space just to feel useful. And it hits you again—how this version of Mark, the one with a chipped tooth and knuckles always healing, can be so gentle.

“You sighed,” he says again after a minute, like he’s still not over it. You lean into his side, cheek resting against his shoulder. “Yeah,” you murmur. “But I’m okay.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, soft and certain. “Just making sure.” And he means it. Every time.

OMNI MARK

You know he’s watching you.

You can’t see him—not even the faint blur of movement or the vague shadow of someone tall enough to block the sun. But you feel him. Like the weight in the air shifts whenever he’s near.

He’s always just far enough not to count as hovering. Silent. Respectful. But he’s there. Always.

You open the fridge slowly, fingertips trailing along the handle the way you practiced. You reach for the container of milk. It’s exactly where you left it.

Good. Still following the system.

Still trying not to need him.

“I’m not made of glass, you know,” you say aloud.

There’s a long pause before a low voice answers from somewhere behind you—smooth, deep, and perfectly still.

“I know.”

You shut the fridge and lean against the counter. “You breathe quieter than a ghost.”

“I try not to interfere.”

You scoff. “You’re literally a living missile with super-hearing. You exist as interference.”

His footsteps are soundless, but you feel him step closer. Not too close. Just enough for the hairs on your arm to rise from the air shift. Just enough for the tension to roll off him in waves.

“I didn’t want to insult you,” Mark says quietly. “By fussing. Or acting like you couldn’t do things yourself.”

You tilt your head toward his voice. “But you’re still watching me.”

A beat of silence.

“Yes.”

You smile. “How often?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Every day. Every moment I can.”

You swallow. You don’t want to be pitied. You’ve told him that. And he’s never tried to coddle you. Never grabbed your arm too hard. Never spoken slow like you were broken.

But still—he’s there. In the wind that settles too fast when you’re on the balcony. In the door that swings open right as your hand reaches for it. In the faintest breath at your back when you misstep near a stair.

“Doesn’t it drive you crazy?” you ask, softer now. “Not stepping in? Not catching me?”

“Yes,” he admits. His voice is hoarse now. “Every time.”

You reach out toward the sound, and for the first time, he doesn’t retreat. You touch warm skin. Fabric stretched over steel muscle. He lets you.

He always lets you.

“I don’t need to be saved,” you whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs, folding his large, calloused hand over yours. “But I need to be near enough. Just in case.”

Your fingers curl together slowly, his touch impossibly careful for someone who could crack planets in half. You smile, tears prickling your eyes. “Then stay. Within reach.” His thumb brushes your knuckle. “I never left.”

VILTRUMITE MARK

You hadn’t even made it to the bottom step.

One misstep—your foot nudging against something small, hard, plastic—and the world tilted. No balance, no frame of reference, just that sharp jolt of panic as gravity pulled you forward.

But you didn’t fall.

Two arms wrapped around you so fast the wind cracked behind your ears. You didn’t even hear him move—just felt the air vanish from your lungs as Mark caught you. One hand at your back, the other bracing your legs. A perfect save.

You felt him breathing hard against your hair. He hadn’t said a word.

Not yet.

Then you heard it.

“Which one of you left this here?”

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. That low, furious rumble was enough to stop a Viltrumite mid-flight.

The kids froze.

“…Wasn’t me,” the youngest whispered.

“I—I think it was mine,” said the older one. “But I didn’t mean to, I just—”

“I don’t care if it was an accident,” Mark growled. “You clean up every single toy on these stairs. Now. You don’t ever leave something where your mom could trip again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

They scrambled, no argument, no backtalk. Just the sound of panicked cleanup and tiny footsteps fleeing down the hallway.

You stood on the landing, leaning into the wall, heart still pounding. Mark was still standing right next to you—tensed like he was ready to punch gravity itself in the face.

You leaned into him gently.

“Mark,” you said, soft. “It’s okay.”

His jaw clenched. “No. It’s not.”

You turned toward his voice, and he looked at you like you were the last thing in the universe worth saving.

“I should’ve seen it sooner,” he said, voice low. “I should’ve scanned the stairs. I should’ve picked it up. I had plenty of time. And if I hadn’t caught you—”

“But you did catch me.”

He was quiet, but his fists had curled tight at his sides.

“You’re my whole world,” he said, barely audible now. “And I could’ve lost you because of a stupid toy.”

You reached out and found his face. It was warm, tense—his brow furrowed, lips pressed in a hard line. You stroked your thumb along his cheek.

“I’m not made of glass,” you whispered. “You don’t have to break yourself every time something slips.”

“You’re not glass,” he said, finally resting his forehead against yours. “You’re the sun. I just—I can’t lose you. Not even for a second.”

You smiled faintly, wrapping your arms around his waist, his heart pounding beneath your palm.

“You didn’t lose me. I’m right here.”

And he held you. No flight, no fury—just stillness, and the quiet promise that he would always be fast enough when it counted. Even if he hated how close it had come.

PRISONER MARK

You smell lilies the second he walks in the door.

They bloom bright in your mind—sweet, delicate, heavy with perfume. You smile without turning, already holding out your hands.

“Again?” you ask.

“Mm.” His voice is low. Distant. “They made me think of you.”

You take the bouquet, fingers brushing waxy petals, careful not to crush them. He always brings something fragrant—lavender, jasmine, orange blossom. Things that push out the metallic bite that clings to him when he’s been gone too long.

He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t kiss your cheek like he usually does. You can feel the tension from across the room.

You sniff the air, subtle, trained. There it is—iron.

“You’re bleeding.”

“No,” he says too quickly. “Not mine.”

You don’t ask whose. You learned a long time ago that he won’t tell you. Not really.

Instead, you gesture toward the vase on the counter, and he moves automatically. You hear the water slosh, petals shift, and then feel the brush of his knuckles as he places your hand around the cool glass.

“Thank you,” you murmur, pressing your nose to the flowers. “They’re beautiful.”

He grunts softly, but his fingers linger on yours. His hands are rougher than they used to be—scarred and calloused from the kind of work he promised he’d stopped doing.

But you know. You always know.

“You don’t have to protect me from it,” you whisper.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “I do.”

You tilt your head up toward him, reaching until you find his jaw. Unshaven. Tense. He’s still wearing the half-mask—mouth exposed, the rest hidden. He always leaves it on now when he comes back from “trips.”

“Did they deserve it?”

He freezes.

“…Does it matter?”

You sigh. Rest your forehead against his chest. “Only if it’s eating you.”

He holds you then. Carefully. Like his arms are still sticky with something you’re not supposed to feel. You smell soap, lilies, and blood. He smells like war. Like love dressed up in violence.

“I just want to bring you soft things,” he murmurs. “Things that smell good. Things that make you smile. Not… this.”

You don’t answer. Just hold him tighter.

Because the truth is, you already know what he’s doing. You’ve known for a while. And maybe it’s selfish, but you don’t stop him. Because he always comes home to you with his sins scrubbed raw and flowers in his hands.

And when he wraps himself around you at night, whispering that you’re the only good thing he has left?

You believe him.

[agape-emo-eros]

@presidentofthelipglossclub' tags:

#this is always my biggest problem w racism allegories #zombies zootopia even the bad guys #although bad guys was def better bc they acknowledged prior circumstances #but still. they were criminals. and so was diane. i think one of the only good ones (off the top of my head) is elemental #bc it explored the realities of racism and it's subtitles #AND it established that actually people BELIEVED fire elements were dangerous tobe around ESPECIALLY for water but then that wasn't true! #which was such a good representation of how racial bias causes people to believe certain demographics are dangerous when they're not!!

Disclaimer: I am white so this is just my take that may or may not have some merit. This is just me trying to continue an interesting debate. I agree with what has been said so far.

I think this whole "pray vs predator" thing is an attempt to battle the "perfect victim" narrative, where marginalised people are only deserving of help/accommodation/equal rights IF they have never hurt anyone. Animated movies are still aimed primarily at children who might due to their upbringing/environment actually believe that certain demographics ARE in some way fundamentally different. This stories are supposed to convey that even if they are different they are above all else people and that matters more. I by no means think this is ideal, especially as a racism allegory.

But isn't necessarily a direct racism metaphor. I also see some of this stories as potential metaphors for the fear of poor/homeless people and autism/sociopathy/other "scary" neurodivergencies, xenophobia and religious intolerance.

I know for myself that I can get overwhelmed by things others might not even notice, it is a fact of my biology/neurology, while that usually doesn't make me angry or aggressive there are those that do have deal with such tendencies. And they are no less human or worthy of respect for it.

In Zootopia the main villain triggers predators' instincts are in order to demonize them and take away their rights. Most minorities are constantly bombarded with infuriating information and many campaigns are designed specifically to upset those who fight for equality in order to discredit and dismiss them. I do not think this is a worthless message. But like all metaphores this one too has it's limits and by tackling a topic that is common to many types of marginalisation the creators muddled the waters a bit.

They could have relatively easily corrected some of the weak spots by showing what happens to prey animals when shot - maybe they go insane just the same as predators or maybe they hurt more people in their irrational fear. It would be a great representation of how, for instance, terfs hurt already marginalized minorities in their fear of men. This would in no way go against the already established lore, just continue the already presented themes and subversion of the usual symbolical understanding of predator and prey animals.

Hello, science fiction writer. Before you is a word processor and your vice of choice. You have 3 days to write a 10,000 word story with a racism allegory. However, if you write a justification into the story where the marginalized group was historically dangerous, i will light all your hair on fire with this cigarette lighter. Clock is ticking.

[excusetowrite]

Let Him In (2)

Part One Part Two Part Three

Summary: On a sweltering southern film set, our young actress discovers that the hardest part of her role isn’t the intimacy written in the script—it’s the desire building between takes. With every lingering touch and look that lasts too long, her co-star Jack pulls her deeper into a dangerous game of blurred lines and buried desires. And when the cameras roll on their most intimate scene yet, she’s left wondering if she ever really had a choice—or if the performance became something far more consuming.

Warnings: Minors DNI. Lots of themes of obsession and possession here. Flirting, tension, talks of smut, and a very very heated filmed scene that you'll have to read for yourself. Nothing too out of the ordinary for this type of fic, hope you enjoy part two. And yes, there will be more >:))

The Taste of Pretending

At first, I thought his Irish accent would be the death of me, but I quickly learned I also have a thing for Southern men. Jack was kind-too kind sometimes. And whether he liked making me nervous or just cared too much about his craft, the effect was the same: I couldn’t breathe around him. We spent a long time that first night going over our scene for the next day and though I fought my mind from roaming Jack was nothing but respectful- and charming, and dreamy, and distracting. He fell into character in a way that shocked me and for me it was easy to pretend to be infatuated with him because it wasn’t so far from the truth. 

The first scene was on the log with Mary. I didn’t have many lines, Imogen in general doesn’t have many lines after she’s turned. All I had to do was sit there, on his right, his arm possessively around my waist, then later when the scene turned more intense gripped on my thigh. Imogen stares at Mary as if in a love-sick trance, only speaking up when spoken to directly. We filmed that scene many times that day and from many different angles. Hours of close intimate contact, some takes more, some less, but always constant. 

The next few weeks were more of the same. We filmed most of the outdoor scenes and fight sequences—those were tough. One night, we had to cut because of an alligator in the water, and after that, Jack kept very close. Hiding my attraction was incredibly hard especially when the work was already so intimate. I caught myself staring at him- his arms, his chest, his waist, lower. No better than a man. At least I could blame it on method acting- pretend that my lingering stares and flushed cheeks were just part of the role. When we would wrap for the night he would walk with me to our trailers after we got out of hair and makeup, sometimes asking to come in to work on something and sometimes I think he could tell I was just too tired. The nights were long, and most of our sleep schedules were completely ruined by that point. 

There came a point when I noticed that some of the times I invited him in we talked less and less about whatever we were working on the next day, around this time I also noticed his roaming eyes. I was partial to nightgowns and it wasn’t like I wasn’t already treating him like eye candy. Our scenes were becoming dangerously easy to shoot. I wanted to believe it was chemistry, but deep down, I knew it was something else, something harder to turn off when the cameras stopped rolling. One particular evening we were sitting across from each other sharing some drinks in my trailer, supposedly giving each other notes, when he let me go off topic. It was so easy to talk to him, and he seemed like he wanted to listen, and my drink had me feeling a little tipsy, so I talked. Rambled, really. He would interject curiously to keep the conversation moving but really I think he just wanted to hear me. That's when it came up that I used to write.

“Oh that’s awesome, a woman of many talents. What’d ye write about?” he asked as his lips perked up at the corners. 

“Fanfictions,” I blurted, regretting it the second the word left my mouth. “That was a long time ago though, I stopped when I was sixteen or seventeen maybe.” 

His laugh was low and knowing, not mocking—more like he’d just confirmed a long-held suspicion. “Of course ye did,” he teased, eyes sparkling over the rim of his glass. “Let me guess... scandalous ones?” 

There was no stopping the heat that rushed to my cheeks and my comfortable demeanor immediately fell away as flashes of my stories of him rushed through my mind. Involuntarily I crossed my legs as embarrassment, and slight arousal overtook me. He could see the shift and his eyes and smile widened in a way that reminded me so much of Cook. I tried to take the humility on the nose as I shrugged and we laughed. 

“Who was lucky enough to earn the perverted attention of teenage you?” he asked as our laughs calmed. 

I leaned back into the cushion, his eyes jumping for a split second to the rising hemline of my nightgown. His gaze flicked lower, and I swear I felt the path of it like a physical touch. My skin prickled under the thin fabric. I shifted, suddenly hyperaware of how every small movement seemed like a silent confession. Lifting my drink to my mouth I responded, “That—I’m not sharing,” I shot back, trying to sound confident even as my cheeks burned. “Some things are better left buried in the dark corners of the internet where I left them.” Sure, he could know I was a horny teen—I mean, who wasn’t? The rest stays a secret. 

His smile turned sharp. “Dangerous to leave things buried, love. They’ve got a way of clawing their way back up.” For a beat, the air felt heavier, like the moment just before a storm breaks. He leaned back in his seat, legs stretched out, his eyes dragging over me slow and deliberate. I suddenly became acutely aware of how thin my nightgown really was. He eyed me curiously and smirked before moving back to our scripts.

That was the first night I crossed a line. An imaginary line that only I knew about, but a line nonetheless. By the time Jack retired to his own trailer it was early morning and I was just a little more than tipsy. The alcohol made it harder not to look at him, to think about him, and the time I spent sitting there became incredibly frustrating. As soon as he was gone and I was in my bed alone, I did it. Reading it was bad enough. Finding release to the stories and photos of the man in the trailer next to mine made me feel wrong, but also more excited than I had been in a very long time. 

—

I’m proud to say that I’ve held my own as an amateur in this cast of actors by trade. I was also happy to have built a genuine friendship with my co-stars, especially Jack. We were always together on set of course, but I felt myself gravitating towards him off set as well. An intrusion he did not mind. 

The flirty game of a friendship we had was fun, but the first time I noticed a real shift was when we filmed the scene trying to get into Club Juke. Remmick and Imogen, Joan and Bert, two white couples just trying to sing some music and have a good time. Like always Jack- Remmick’s arm was around my waist and on one particular take Michaels character Stack looked over me in a different way than the previous takes. More intently, with more intrigue. We all tried different stuff many of the takes we did and this was no different than that, just an option to pick later. Completely improvised. 

What was also improvised was the flash of anger that crossed Remmick’s face, just for a split second, blink and you’ll miss it. And the charming smile was back, but not before his grip on my hip tightened to almost an uncomfortable amount. The mood shifted—subtle but sharp, like the snap of a wire pulled too tight. No one else seemed to notice, but I felt it in every nerve under his hand. Still I stayed in character. Still I looked at Jack starry eyed and tried to capture a reason on his face but the character had taken over him again. It was the way his fingers dug into my hips—not enough to hurt, but enough to leave the ghost of pressure behind. His grip said, mine, even if no one else could see it. And the way he looked at me—dark, focused, like he was memorizing every inch—made me feel owned in a way that wasn’t in the script. We finished the scene and that was the end of it, though when our characters walked away slowly I couldn’t help but notice how tense Jack was, how the arm shrugged over my shoulders was not loosely hanging but wrapped possessively. 

Later that evening when I left hair and makeup he was already waiting for me. We walked in near silence this time. The air between us felt heavier than the heat hanging over the set. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his head ducked just enough to make me wonder if he was thinking as hard as I was trying not to. Every few steps, our arms would almost brush. Almost. Neither of us closed the gap. As we approached our trailers I went to ask him if he was alright but before I could he turned and asked, “You know what we’re filming tomorrow, right?”

I racked my mind for a moment before my cheeks flushed, yes, our next scene was the one where he turns me, and during a lustful act to say the least. I had been putting off mentally preparing for that day and for the separation I’d have to manage in my head between my own attraction and Imogens and in doing so the day snuck up on me. His words felt like a warning and a promise all at once. I nodded, but my throat had gone too tight to say anything clever back. And wasn’t that just the problem? I never had the right words around him—not when it mattered. He returned the nod as I began to walk up the steps to my trailer, eager to be out of the uncomfortable situation. 

“Will you ever tell me?” he asked up at me. I turned to look at him, confusion furrowing my brow. “Who you wrote your smut about?” 

I laughed lightly and shook my head, again turning to go into my trailer. I stopped at the top of the steps and turned, just enough to look down at him. He stood there, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or go. For once, I wasn’t the one squirming under his gaze. He was the one hesitating. Waiting. 

“So, I take it you don’t want to invite me in to practice tonight?” he asked. This time when I turned to look at him he was smiling, but I could tell he was nervous. 

I let my eyes drag over him slowly- deliberately. His jaw tightened. His shoulders tensed like he was bracing for a blow or something much worse: rejection.

“Do you want me to?” I asked, voice light, teasing. But it was the kind of tease that knew exactly how much weight it carried. His mouth parted- no sound. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and God, it was almost too easy now. I watched the nerves flicker across his face like he wasn’t used to being the one left standing in the heat of his own want. I asked. I don’t think he was expecting that response because his smile fell away and for the first time he was the one looking at me nervously. “Hmm,” I hummed, stepping back toward the door, letting the screen swing half-closed between us. “I think I’m better at improvising that sort of thing.” Then, with a smile just this side of wicked, I added, “Goodnight, Remmick,” and closed the door behind me, leaving him out there in the thick, humid air with nothing but his imagination to keep him company. 

Later that evening in the comfort of my own bed I did it again. Masturbating to someone you know personally will always be weird, and I am not recommending doing it. But there is something about it that gets me very hot and bothered. Especially knowing he’s right next door, and especially after trying to prepare myself for the next day.

—

  The next day was a closed set. Only us, the intimacy coordinator, director, and needed techs. We had already filmed the scene leading up to it days ago. Imogen, walking home from her job in town late at night, unknowing of Remmick watching her from the woods. He could smell her blood and it smelled like his own, he liked that- took that as a sign. That’s what the script says at least. Of course they stumble across each other and he offers to walk her home like a gentleman, it’s dangerous on these roads at night for a pretty lady to walk alone. Imogen isn’t used to the attention, especially not from a handsome man. Her fathers protective and the only interaction Imogen usually gets is from customers at her job, customers who do not like her Irish born father. 

It’s a long walk of course and Remmick asks for a drink of water when we reach the porch. Imogen considers for a moment, her father would not approve, but her mother and father were out of town right now. And Remmick was very, very convincing. So she does what any other girl in her position would do. She lets him in. 

We ran through the rough blocking with Ryan and the intimacy coordinator a few times before we started filming for real, and that was intense enough. Starting in the small living room and moving to the kitchen, the counter, the table. I could do this. This is going to be easy. I’m a professional. Before I know it we are on our marks and someone yells action. 

It’s easy to fall into Imogen especially after all this time, easy to remember my lust as I look at him standing in front of me, and equally as easy to anxiously turn and rush into the kitchen to start filling a glass of water. My back is to him but I know he’s approaching. Predator and prey. 

“So, pretty girl like yourself lives out here all alone?” he asks as he enters the kitchen. 

I turn to look at him, his grey contacts are in but I pretend like I don’t notice. “No,” I respond as I hand him the glass of water and continue, “My Ma and Pa are usually here but they’re gone right now.”

He nods his head knowingly and drinks the water, a smile spreading across his face as he starts to approach me. My back hits the counter as he enters my space to set his glass behind me and I- Imogen- suck in a breath. He smells like Jack, like cologne and tobacco. I close my eyes at the realization and hope it fits for the scene. How many time had I imagined that scent late at night? He doesn’t move out of my space. Remmick takes space; he doesn't retreat from it. 

His voice is low as he says, “Hmm, don’t they think that’s kinda dangerous? Leaving you out here all by yourself?” He shrugs a little, the distance between us nearly closed as I come to meet his eyes. I can’t tell who I’m looking at. Jack, or Remmick. 

“I can take care of myself,” I say as I turn my head to the side sheepishly. I know he’s hit his cue to stare at my unknowingly exposed neck when I hear him suck in a sharp breath. 

“Oh, I bet you can.” The scene moves at an agonizing pace, and I can feel the tension rising—between us, in the room, in me. It only breaks when I finally look up at him and for that split second I see him, not Remmick but Jack, before the obsession returns and he closes the distance, lips crashing into mine. 

Being kissed like this feels like possession, feels like melting into him, feels like full surrender. It was hard and fast and heated. His hands grabbing and roaming my middle. Suddenly I’m lifted off the ground by strong arms and set firmly on the counter earning a gasp even though I knew it was coming. He’s standing between my legs now, just close enough to be professional and just far enough to be frustrating. Still we devour each other. His hand goes to my hair and nestles for a moment before pulling my head to the side, exposing my neck to him. 

He kisses down my flesh sloppily, nibbling and sucking in all the right spots. A moan escapes me, a real one, but no one will know. I’m an actress, I’m supposed to be acting. Still at this I feel him groan into my skin before continuing his assault. 

He doesn’t bite, not how Remmick is supposed to. Instead after we know they have more than enough film he pulls away and sucks in a deep breath, composing himself. His hand is still rooted in my hair and his eyes lock onto mine as he says, “I want to taste you.” It’s the closest to a question that he was going to get. I nod my head eagerly and he smiles greedily, as far as he’s concerned he already has me. And as far as I’m concerned he does as well. 

He returns to kissing me, gentler this time, hands sliding up my exposed legs and under the hem of my skirt at an agonizing pace. There's lube spread across the inside of my upper thigh and as soon as I feel him run his fingers through it my eyes widen and I throw my head back in a gasp. Remmick smiles and watches me greedily, finding pleasure in knowing he already has this control over me. We act it out for a few more beats before he finally removes his hand and lifts his glistening fingers for me to see. 

“All this for me?” he asks, lifting his finger to his mouth. He sucks on it slowly, eyes closing, brow furrowing like he’s savoring a delicacy. I watch him, hungrily and enthralled, then when his finger finally leaves his mouth he's dead calm as he lifts his pointer and middle to my lips. “Taste,” he orders. So I do. Slowly at first, then more greedily. The lube is strawberry flavored, but I can taste him as well. Sometimes there is no movie magic for these sort of one shot scenes. He just stands there watching me, heavy breathing and eyes blown out. When he finally removes his fingers with a pop he doesn’t hit his line immediately, for a second he just blinks, as if for just a second he forgot. But then he shakes his head. “Not enough,” is the only warning I get before he's kneeling before me and hiking my dress up, head dipping between my thighs. 

Of course it went no further than that but we still had a job to do. He started miming the intimate moment, just inches away from where I wanted him the most. I threw my head back and moaned, brow furrowing, one hand bracing myself on the counter while the other flew to tangle in his hair and I gently began pulling. This earned a growl from him and he moved more feverishly. I felt him rub his lips and chin across the lube and I could have sworn I felt it, soft kisses moving along the inside of my thigh where the lube was placed, a trick of the mind- heat of the moment. It helped me perform either way, helped me be more believable. His hands held my hips firmly in place, legs hiked over his shoulders, if I wanted to move I couldn’t- I didn’t want to. 

I gently squeezed his head twice—just barely. The cue we decided to use when I’d act like I was reaching climax. And boy, was I acting. I’ve never seen him move so quickly, one second on the ground before me and the next he was up again and lifting me off the counter earning a genuine gasp from me. 

“Not yet,” he said, his mouth and chin glistening with more than just the lube on account of the drool-inducing mints. “Not until I say so.” My legs wrapped around his center and arms around his neck as he turned and walked me to the table, holding me with one strong arm as the other brushed everything off of it in one swift motion before setting me down and standing before me. 

My hands moved hastily to grasp at the buttons of his shirt, but he stopped that with one swift motion yanking it over his head and slinging it on the ground. Chest now bared to me I made quick work of curiously roaming and kissing his newly exposed skin. His head dipped back and he let out a moan. I may have been leaving marks, but I didn’t care, and he must not have either because he didn’t stop me. Just left me to make sloppy work across him while they got their shot. 

Then, more calmly than any man should have been, he grabbed either side of my shirt collar and ripped my blouse open, loosely sewn buttons flying everywhere, leaving me in just the bra. He moved fast on the newly exposed skin, kissing and sucking, nibbling and- biting. There was only one place to go from here and we were fastly approaching that cue. 

His hands hiked my skirt up before fiddling with his buckle. My arms wrapped around his neck, our brows pushed together, eyes locked as we acted out passing that final precipice. We both let out groans of satisfaction before he started to move his hips, hands gripped on my waist. Of course there was fabric between us, but every few thrusts he got just a little too close, brushed up against where I wanted him the most ever so slightly, earning real moans and groans from me- but they were frustration not pleasure. I hope the camera can’t tell the difference. 

I had to move or I was going to explode, so I did. I improvised, laying back on the table, arms stretched above my head, body revealed and vulnerable before him. He didn’t miss a beat, and when I opened my eyes to glance up at him, his brow was sweaty and furrowed with pleasure, mouth hanging open, letting out lewd noises I’d only dreamed of. His chest still glistened, blooming with fresh marks just how I’d left it. His eyes locked on mine, and we shared a few glorious, intimate beats holding that eye contact. It almost felt real. Almost.

Then they yelled cut.

He stopped and backed away immediately, eyes darting anywhere but me. The sudden lack of warmth felt wrong. I felt vulnerable. I sat up and pulled my blouse closed with both hands.

“Was that good?” I called out toward the lights and cameras. The response was an enthusiastic yes. They just had to switch Jack's contacts and put in his prosthetic teeth for the final shot. No blood this time- leave that to the viewers’ imagination. I was told to stay put while they got him ready. He didn’t look at me as he walked away. Didn’t look at me when he came back, either. Eyes red now, the simpler set of sharp teeth in.

He got into position between my legs again, and we waited a minute while they reset the shot. Even this close, inches away, he avoided my gaze. Anxiety twisted low in my stomach and climbed, cold and tight, into my chest. Sitting bare and exposed in front of him, and he wouldn’t even look at me. He’d had no problem looking at me a few minutes ago when he was pretending to fuck my brains out.

“Did I do something wrong?” I whispered, the space between us so small no one else could hear.

His head snapped toward me, eyes wide. “No, no,” he said quickly, in his regular accent. “Just trying to stay in the right headspace is all.” He offered a weak smile. It didn’t make me feel any better. But it didn’t matter. They called for us to get back into position.

I laid back again, and before I knew it, Jack was gone—once again replaced with Remmick’s hungry gaze. So I tried to do the same, to put on the mask that was Imogen just as easily as he did. We picked up right where we’d left off- just a few seconds while they captured the transition. But my mind wandered, anxiety still lodged in my chest.

“Come here,” he commanded, loud enough for the boom mics to catch. I saw his eyes, his teeth, but Imogen’s lust had blinded her, or maybe made her unafraid of the man in front of her. So I rose to meet him.

His arms wrapped firmly around my bare waist, mine went around his neck once again—but that was all I could manage. I was struggling to find the rhythm again, to pull myself back into the aroused state I’d been in just minutes before.

He didn’t falter. He just gripped me tighter and whispered in my ear, low enough that no one else could hear:

“What’d you write about me?”

I gripped his neck harder, and a moan escaped my mouth as images flashed through my head. The stories I had written. The ones I had only imagined. The heat I felt each night in bed, thinking of him- him, the man in front of me.

I was back- lost in it. Moaning, head thrown back, eyes rolling. Then my brow pressed against his again as the camera moved behind him, angling for the final shot. While his face was still out of frame, he whispered:

“I knew it.”

He smiled, sinister with the teeth and contacts, and it only made me act harder.

The camera captured the shot of us, hungry, locked in each other’s gaze. We both began to speed up, reaching our fake climaxes. It was so easy to pretend. That’s when she does it- when I do it. I tilt my head to the side, baring my throat to him, offering myself without hesitation, without fear.

The last thing the cameras catch is him going in for the bite. The last part I feel is his breath- hot, deliberate- right where my pulse hammers loudest. And I don't know where Imogen starts and I begin anymore.

[ovaryacted]

FIND OUT

─ Dr. Samira Mohan x fem! reader || WC: 3.2k

SYNOPSIS: You and your friend, Samira Mohan, tread the line between friends & something else. During a night out, you both get a taste of what that something else might look like.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Alcohol consumption (everything is consensual). Sort of Dom! Reader/Sub! Samira (both are switches & fems though). Girls kissing passionately! Nipple play. Dry Humping. Fingering. Dirty Talk. Flirting. Making out in the backseat of a cab. Samira has a crush on reader & vice versa. Samira & Reader are residents at The Pitt (R3s). Samira & Reader are close friends & around the same age (29). Touch deprived! Samira Mohan. Both Samira & Reader are bisexual.

A/N: I truly can't explain how this happened, but lets just say I locked in so hard I blacked out. I just want to love on Samira Mohan, so I did. MOVE JACK IT'S MY TURN! I also took some inspo from the scene in Black Swan where Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis kiss, lmao oops. I made both Samira & reader bi considering I'm bi so I could relate to it and I hope others are able to enagge with it as well! (I almost psyched myself out of posting this okay be nice). Proof read by moi. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

If someone had predicted where the night took you both, you would’ve laughed in their face.

It was supposed to be a simple night out for drinks. Both you and Samira had finally gotten a couple of days off; more like you forced the girl from going back to The Pitt when they didn’t need any help. You always told her the same thing: “If you keep going at this rate, you’ll get grays before you hit 35, hun.” She would only roll her brown eyes at you, a cheeky dimple poking out on the side of her face as she laughed it off.

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, two close friends sharing quality time with one another after their workdays ended. That was how it started anyway, through brief conversations and minor interactions with the resident whenever your shifts aligned. You could see right through her, how her job was all she had, how all she knew was the chaos of the PTMC to match the havoc of her psyche. Albeit, her gorgeous smile and kind demeanor hid it well for the most part, at least when Robby wasn’t grilling her, but when you urged her to go home to prevent an adrenaline crash, she actually listened to you most times.

Samira would bring tea in advance during the mornings you worked together, repeatedly warning you that your heart would give out with all of the caffeine you consumed on a daily basis. You simply shrug at her and chug the liquid out of your thermos, watching her as you do. It'd make her grimace, grumble even, but you’d take it so long as you got something.

“You should listen to me, you know. Try some tea, it won’t kill you as quickly.” Samira lectured, trying to bribe you with using brown sugar instead of the agave sweetener she likes.

“I’m not letting you take my coffee away from me, sorry. We will just have to accept our differences.”

“Forgive me for caring about your health. Let’s just hope I’m in the room with you when you’re tachycardic.”

Lunch times were your favorite, often opting to sit outside with Samira for a breather, sharing bits and pieces of your meal together, whether it came from home or you ordered it in advance. At night, when it was time to call it a day and repeat the cycle the next morning, Samira would be there to walk with you back to your place, or you would take her to hers. You’d give each other a rundown of the day, of the chest tube you had to put in or the new case study Samira was looking into and finally got to use in practice.

These little moments always eased your nerves after dealing with so much intensity on a daily basis, and it only took a couple of late-night walks to realize you liked Samira’s company, and more so you wanted it outside of working hours. On one particularly hard shift and a relatively quiet stroll, you knew you didn’t want to be alone, and even with the reassuring squeeze on your shoulder, a part of you craved her calming presence to tether you to the Earth.

“You want to go out for a drink? I know a good bar nearby. They make good margaritas.”

She nodded silently, offering an understanding smile, and walked side by side with you the entire way to the bar, stayed with you for the rest of the night, and even rode in the cab back to your apartment. When you woke up with a hangover the next morning, you were surprised to find Samira hovering above you, wiping your forehead with a cool compress, soothing the throbbing in your temples before the wave of nausea hit you.

“Wanted to make sure you were okay. You went a bit hard last night.”

The rest was history.

Tonight, she took your advice and said yes to your invitation for drinks at a club downtown, another location you had mentioned to her a while ago. Samira, ever the overthinker, came by your place to get ready, bringing a bag with some outfit choices, seeking out your input. She didn’t say anything when you told her to wear the halter top and mini skirt, coming towards her to hike her skirt even higher and align her boobs closer to the center of her chest, giving them a push-up effect.

“You’re a pretty girl, Samira. You’ve got legs and a face that can start wars, use them. If you flirt with the bartender, maybe we’ll score and get ourselves some free drinks.”

You told her that with a playful smile and a slight twinkle in the corner of your eye, your dark lashes emphasizing the flare. Samira watched you finish the touch-ups on your makeup, the heeled boots and leather pants you wore did everything to sell a fantasy of you she got to witness firsthand. She’ll never admit to watching the way the curve of your ass looked in the stretchy material of your pants, or how the low neckline of your top revealed the little pieces of ink along your shoulder and arms that were usually hidden under your scrubs. She occupied herself with grabbing the rest of her belongings and throwing them in her purse, oblivious to how you eyed her from afar, re-applying the last bit of your lip gloss before calling the Uber.

At the club, it was another story entirely. You held her hand on your commute and reassuringly squeezed her wrist when you started to woo the bouncer, batting your lashes at him and brazenly puffing out your chest. It seemed to work when security let you both in, leading Samira further inside and ignoring the people who bitched outside about you two skipping the line.

Some flirting with the bartender and three cocktails later, you and Samira were on the dance floor, swaying your hips to the upbeat song filling the space around you. You don’t think you’ve ever seen your friend so relaxed, so free; inebriated yes, but enjoying herself nonetheless. Samira’s face was craned up to the sky, the bass of the beat thrumming through her entire being, rushing from the top of her head to the balls of her feet. Her hair bounced with the rest of her, loose waves spinning around with every bop of her head and twirl of her hips.

You followed her lead, holding her waist and guiding her movements from behind. She laughed at the feel of you, clutching your wrist and bringing your hand to the middle of her lower body, keeping her in place while you synchronized the circular gyration of your bodies. Meshing to her back, she could feel you pressing up behind her. Tossing her head back over your shoulder, she granted you a whiff of her perfume, giggling in her ear in the process, teasing her with the ghost of a bite on the side of her neck.

Samira pivots on her heel and turns to face you, smiling wide as she throws her arms over your shoulder and around your neck, your hands taking their natural place on her hips, beckoning her to you. She was all teeth and dimples as she rolled into you, dancing chest to chest, eyes on you and tuning everything else out. Neither of you cared for the other people in the space with you, honing in on the way she felt in your hands, the material of her skirt, the open back of her halter top, the ease with which she danced with you under the dim lighting.

Closing the gap between you, whatever was left of it, her nose grazed the tip of yours, barely tasting the vodka on her breath. You watched her face, how her gaze drifted from your eyes to your mouth and rapidly returned back up. It was subtle; you’d almost miss it if you blinked too fast, and thankfully your strict attention made sure you caught it.

“I’m having so much fucking fun.” God, she was drunk, you think anyway from the way there was more black than brown in her eyes. To you, she’s never looked prettier, smiling without a care in the world under bright shades of pink and purple.

“I bet. That’s the liquor talking.” Placing a hand on her back, you sensed the faint shiver that washed over her. “You got a couple of eyes on you, sweetie. Think these guys want a dance.”

“I’d rather not, thank you very much.” She didn’t even bother to acknowledge the men in question who had been eyeing her up and down all night, opting to keep her regard on you the entire time. “I very much prefer dancing with you.”

Pride bloomed in your chest, fighting the urge to steal a kiss right then and there. You held off, your hands treading dangerously close to her lower spine, sneaking towards the waistband of her skirt.

“Good, that means I don’t need to worry about you scurrying off with a stranger and leaving me behind.” Samira laughs hard then, loud enough to filter through the music in the club. You savored the scene in front of you, taking her in as if she hung the moon and the stars, as if she were that.

Must’ve been the tequila catching up with you.

“Trust me, that’s not happening.” Her knuckles rasp along your jaw, the tip of a nail poking your chin and skimming your bottom lip, pulling away to move a loose curl behind your ear. “I couldn’t leave you behind, that’s a federal crime.”

You sure fucking hoped that was the case.

It was about 2 am when you and Samira called it a night, heading to your place and resting into one another in the backseat, tumbling into bits of cackles as your sense of direction remained skewed from the alcohol still coursing through your veins. Her head rested against your shoulder, your hand on her thigh to keep her nearby, absentmindedly painting circles into her soft brown skin. Her head lifts to look at you, doing your best to ignore the way the haze in her eyes sends a surge of warmth through your body.

“What?”

“Nothing…” Her voice trails off, leaning more into you in the backseat.

“If you have something on your mind, Samira, you can tell me. Probably the best time considering I’m seeing two of you right now so I won’t remember.” You both giggle again, the sound ringing in your ears with her sudden close proximity.

“Just wanted to say I had a lot of fun is all.” She beams shyly at you, breathing heavier in your direction and placing a hand on your side to keep her from sinking into the cushion of the seat.

“Yeah?” You quirk your face in amusement, the corner of your lips curling upwards at her eager nod.

“Yeah.” Her forehead is against yours, beaming almost to herself, boldly glancing at the shiny gloss still on your lips.

“You’re so silly,” shaking your head, your goofy expression was mirrored by an intoxicated Samira Mohan, both ends of her mouth flexing with a chuckle.

“Your fault. I forgot how many shots we had.”

“It was two big ones, but shit, I might be wrong I lost count.”

The bubble of comfort you found yourselves in extended beyond the backseat of the Uber, the hand on your side wandered up to stroke your forearm aimlessly, focusing on the tattoo on your bicep. Samira hums at the feel of your skin, following the intricate lines the ink left behind, trying to learn the story behind it and the patience you needed to endure the needle piercing into your flesh over and over again. It was strangely intimate, close enough to feel her light exhales on the side of your cheek and her heart pounding in her ribs.

“Samira.”

“Hm?”

“If you want something, tell me before I think I’m reading this wrong.” Taking a hand to the back of her neck, your thumb caressed her nape, causing her to bite her lower lip.

“I think…I want you to kiss me.” Her big brown eyes were glazed over when she met your gaze, the sight alone sending your heart racing.

“You think?” God, you could hear your pulse in your ears, or was that your second heartbeat? “Gotta be better than that.”

“Please, just kiss me.”

Fucking finally.

Tilting forward, your lips mesh together like you’ve been dreaming about all night. The kiss was messy, clumsy even as Samira’s brain caught up with the rest of her, slithering her tongue along your bottom lip to ask for permission to taste more of you. Opening your mouth, your tongue quickly found hers, swirling around it while holding her face with a hand on her jaw. She sighs happily against you, her exhale landing on your top lip while attempting to bring herself closer to you, sitting with one of her thighs between yours.

The Uber came to a stop in front of your apartment complex, forcing you to part from her with an embarrassed grin. You reiterate a hasty thank you and take Samira’s hand with a coy smirk, speed walking into the lobby of your building to catch the next elevator up. Swiftly grabbing your keys for the front door and unlocking it as fast as you could, you shut the door behind you as Samira kicked her heels off and tugged you forward for another kiss.

“Hold on, hold on. Let me…fuck…wash my hands.” She was busy staining your cheeks with her lipstick, touching any part of you she could get her hands on.

“Mood killer,” she jokingly muttered over your lips, landing a few kisses down the column of your throat and biting at the juncture of where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Old habits die hard. Plus, do you know how nasty clubs are? You’re supposed to be the smart one here, darling.”

Smooching her pout, you were able to peel off your boots along the way to the kitchen, rinsing off your hands with Samira next to you doing the same. Impatient as ever, she dragged you to the couch once the paper towel flew out of your grip, sitting you down and crawling into your lap with your arm wrapping around her waist. She practically climbs over you, needy lips finding yours again and humming at the feel of you, her palms riding up your chest and landing on your shoulders before running through your hair.

A moan punches out of her, instinctively shifting her hips over your thighs as her skirt rides up her body, revealing more of her to your greedy hands. Littering kisses down her neck, you went to undo the knot of her halter top, jerking the material down to expose her breasts to your eager sight. Kissing along her collarbone and sternum, she arches towards you, presenting more of herself without shame. Deciding to provoke her a bit more, your lips glide over the swells of her breasts, grinning at her unsteady exhales, a sign that she was anxiously lusting for more with every smooch you give her.

“Stop teasing me.” She almost sounded like she was on the verge of tears, desperation laced in her tone the more you dragged this out.

“Can’t I have a little fun with you?” You quipped, eyes widening a bit when she took one of your hands and placed it on her ass cheek under her skirt, guiding you over the thong she wore underneath.

“Touch me.” She damn near growled against your lips, a hunger unfamiliar to her overriding her senses.

“Yeah? You need me to make it better, Samira?” She nods, gasping the second your free hand reaches up from between her inner thigh to stroke her cunt through her panties, marveling at the wetness already soaking through the cotton. “Need me to touch you right here, hm?”

“Fuck, yes, please,” she cried out, bucking her hips to grind into your hand, bumping into your fingertips at the right angle that would give her aching clit more of that delicious friction.

Not wasting another second to toy with her, you plucked her thong to the side and gravitated to her slick pearl, the first contact of your fingers against her forced a whine out of Samira as she closed her eyes and deepened the curve in her back. She didn’t care how desperate she sounded, her whimpers and breathless keens turning your living room into a choir for you to enjoy, reveling in every mewl she willingly offered you. Rubbing circles over her clit, her hips bucked into your hand, oblivious to your lips inclining back to her breasts, wrapping around one of her nipples.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Samira clutched at your head, keeping you in place as your tongue flicked over her saliva-covered breasts, clenching around nothing with her arousal dripping down your fingers.

You don’t think you’ve ever heard her curse so much before, groaning around her perky nipple and nipping at it lightly, moving to give the other neglected breast equal attention. Keeping your thumb on her sensitive nub, you plunged a digit inside her, noting the loud moan turned to a whine when you burrowed another, curling them to the roof of her entrance.

“How does that feel, pretty girl?” You mumbled, grasping her hip to keep her steady above you, keeping your eyes on her the entire time.

“So good, so damn good.” She was lost in the pleasure, stars fired under her eyelids as she fucked your hand, chasing her own pleasure. “God…I’m going to cum.”

“Yeah?” You upped your ministrations, pressing your thumb harder against her clit and pumping your fingers with more force. “Come for me, ‘Mira. Want to feel you around me. Just let go, baby.”

A few more drives of your fingers and Samira’s cunt tightened around your digits as she fell into release, crying into your mouth when you snatched another bruising kiss, swallowing all of her little noises for yourself. She came much faster than you both anticipated, but you didn’t mind, not when she slumped against you and struggled to catch her breath. Her head rose to peer at you chuckling below her, slipping your soaked fingers out of her twitching entrance and clasping her shaking thigh.

“What’s so funny?” Samira blinks slowly at you, cupping both of your cheeks and holding your face in her palms.

“Just didn’t think you’d sound like that. You’re loud.”

“Shut up.” Heat creeps up to her face and you laugh harder, squeezing her ass affectionately.

“I don’t mind.” You kiss her slowly once more, biting her bottom lip playfully and coaxing a huff out of her. “Kinda want to see just how loud you can get, if you’re up for it.”

Samira was never one to back down from a challenge, humming in competitive intrigue. A lone finger moves over the neckline of your top, tracing over the lining that still kept the rest of your body hidden from her curious eyes. Tugging at the side of your top, she stares down at you, smirking as the same ravishing throb she felt before beats between her legs.

“Show me what you got.”

It was going to be a long night.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

Mood:

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU FOUND ME

➛ EPILOGUE

a/n: what do i even say after months of writing this story. after it's lived in my head for so long. i wrote a small thank you letter that will come after this, but i just wanted to say this has been the best fucking time i've had writing a fic i never thought might get finished. i have loved logan and honey and laura and wade from the very start. i have cried writing this and laughed (way too hard at my own jokes) and it feels painful to finally say goodbye. but i hope i've done it justice. i hope it's lived up to your expectations. to all of you who love this story, thank you for the ride. it's been one hell of a memory.

summary: when time stands still and love clambers through the door left open, things begin to finally click into place. in the midst of chaos - of a life you never thought might have a final note - you find that you've had all you needed all along. a family to share that final page with.

word count: 2.8k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, endings + beginnings, logan being in love, time, wade's relentless commentary, laura kinney being an icon, fluff, romance, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), alcohol consumption, promises, tears from the author cause i am sad af to end this, happy endings.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

“Places people! If you fuck this up I swear to me I’ll gut the fuzzy bear sitting on the bar.”

“You just wanna take it home,” Laura snapped, setting the final nail into place—the wall coated in dried putty from attempt number one and two and…six.

“What?” Wade scoffed. “I don’t want it. No matter how cute and cuddly and…shut up. Sugar bear! How are we doing with food?”

“Vanessa said she’s on her way with the shwarma,” Peter called. “Although I don’t know why we couldn’t just order pizza-”

“Please. Pizza doesn’t scream romance the way shwarma does. And that’s what we need. Fist fucking, knuckle biting-” Laura groaned, chucking the hammer at the walking annoyance who unfortunately knew how to fucking duck. “Romance!”

“It’s good to see you like this. Happy.”

“I wasn’t happy?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I made you a promise. I couldn’t keep it.”

“Maybe this time around you can.”

Sunlight broke through the drawn open curtains, casting warmth along the new and clean comforter. A gift left behind after you disappeared—the sticky note pinned to the soft fabric enough to let you know whose handy work it was. Contentment stirred in the base of your stomach, eyes unwilling to open as afternoon crested over the city—pulling you back to the present moment.

You could feel the time pulse in your wrists, the dimensions of the universe swathing around your bare body. But the heat pulling at your legs and streaking up your spine was different.

Shifting a breathless moan spilling past lips that tried to form his name. Buried beneath the covers you felt his tongue slide between your cunt, sucking each lip into his mouth with a muffled groan—hands kneading at your legs.

“Logan,” you gasped, hand pushing away what covered him.

He hummed in response, grinning at the feel of your hands curling into the unruly brown hair—his hold on your legs pushing them up and towards your chest. Spreading you just enough to delve his tongue into the fluttering hole. Your moan would no doubt be heard by the neighbors next door. Which would bring yet another complaint down on your head; claims that you were disturbing the peace by being fucked too well.

Every simplistic worry and overdrawn out thought dissipated the second he thumbed your clit, slurping loud with a harsh moan until you burned for him. Turned to ash beneath his needy touch.

Light coiled around his body, connecting your limbs to his. Vines that stretched to the skies; always meant to bloom in the late afternoon. Forever tinged by the hues of your love.

“W-Wait,” you breathed, tugging him free from your dripping cunt—his chin smeared in the slick he was starving for. Just a taste more, something to keep him from going hungry. His eyes were drooped, a flush forming along his cheeks, and the sight shot a hole through your chest.

He looked gone.

“Want you to finish,” he got out, thumb still running along your slit, pushing that sticky tang he’d grown addicted to everywhere he could get it. “Taste’s like fuckin’ heaven.”

“I need you.”

His lips twisted into a smile, eyes flashing dark. “Don’t worry bub. I’ll fuck ya good after I finish breakfast.”

Whatever complaint formed on the tip of your tongue slid down your throat as his mouth sealed over you. Sucking your clit hard enough to have your eyes rolling back, a shout of his name rippling in the air permanently tinged blue. He could feel the energy beneath your skin. The trembling burst of what now flowed with ease. Your scent was thick and heady, stuck to his senses like a perfume he never wanted to rid himself of.

His moan was lost into your slick, the mess pooling down to your ass begging him to clean it up with his tongue. A job he’d happily do with light in his eyes and devotion puncturing his heart. His thumb pressing down on the hole he had yet to claim sent the wave crashing over your body. A high pitched sob cracking in the air like a fucking whip—twining around his cock that leapt at the sound.

“Fuck,” he bit out, climbing up and over your still shaking body—his fist pumping tight over his already leaking cock. “Not gonna fuckin’ last this time honey.”

With an obedience that nearly fractured the last working bits of his mind, your legs fell open—a breathless smile crossing lips he took with a groan.

“So good for me.” His voice was lost as he sunk into your wet heat, the walls of your cunt clamping down hard enough to blind him. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Oh-” Nails punctured his back, scratching lines he wished would become a permanent scar. You were the only one—the only soul alive—he’d allow to hurt him. To cause enough pain he would feel it years down the line.

“Love you,” he rasped, hips pounding down into you and splattering wetness along his thighs. “Ya hear that?” A hand clamped around your throat, drawing your lips to his. “I love you.”

You moaned, thighs shaking around his hips. “I-I love you.”

Logan felt it along each muscle, his body tensing as he came with his tongue against yours. Time slowed, the clock stopped ticking, and the pleasure in his spine ruptured down to his toes. He kept fucking coming. Filling you slowly, warming your insides with everything he had to give, as you moaned wantonly beneath him—body glistening with sweat and eyes flashing gold.

Without even realizing it you were prolonging everything around you. Ceasing the tick of seconds to keep him inside you for as long as possible.

He’d never felt anything like it.

Tension melted off his body when you finally came to—the tick, tick, tick of your kitchen clock starting back up while his cock softened inside you. Cum steadily leaking out and around him. The scent caused his entire mouth to salivate, a mixture he’d never tire of, but your smile drew him back immediately.

“Good morning,” you sighed, voice dripping with ecstasy.

He grinned, nose pushing against your cheek. “Afternoon honey.”

“What a way to wake up.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” he chuckled.

City life echoed beyond the glass, stirring you to get up and join in on the noise. To fall back into a routine you once knew. Only now things were different. Only two days had passed since your return—nearly every moment spent in this apartment—but you couldn’t return to what you once knew. The job, the dull colored hue of everyday tasks, were things of the past. Pieces of yourself you learned to mourn in your time spent with Logan.

“Wade’s being a fuckin’ shit,” he groaned against your neck.

Absentmindedly your fingers twisted around the hair at the side of his head, eyes fluttering as he twitched inside you. “What’s he up to now?”

“Demanding we show up to this party he’s throwin’.”

“Uh oh. Wade and parties.” He snorted, lips sliding along your throat. “Although we do have a great track record of innocence last I checked.”

“Innocence huh?”

You smiled. “What’s the worst that could happen? You take me in his room this time?”

“Don’t fuckin’ tempt me.”

There was something tempting about watching him break above you—hazel eyes glimmering black at the thought of sinking into you and keeping you quiet. What an idea. To be at his mercy anywhere he wished. Logan’s arm circled around your waist, hauling you close enough to dig your way into his skin, as his cock grew hard for the second time.

“Something tells me I should,” you purred, sharply tugging his dog-tags. “Better tell Wade we’re going to be late.”

“Six. Fucking. Hours!” You heard his voice before you saw him, perched atop a table—a whiskey bottle in one hand and a grotesque stuffed bear in the other. “I would say I’m impressed but you’re teetering a bit too fucking close to mine and Nessa’s record.”

The lights strung along the bar’s ceiling caught your attention first, glinting like fireflies in the lowlights of a place you’d seen but never entered. Vanessa sat at the bar, Peter chattered away in the corner, Laura lounged in a chair—her feet propped up on the table beside Wade—and even Althea was dragged into the throes of a party you should have expected. A sloppy hand painted banner hung over the bar (in Wade’s handwriting no less): WELCOME HOME SWEET AN-

“Yeah I ran out of space,” Wade sighed. “Sorta had to squeeze it in there. But I’m used to that by now. Isn’t that right baby?”

Vanessa groaned, laughing into her drink. But you could see the love in her eyes, the promise of forever written in her heart. The same look Logan fixed you with every morning since he met you—his mind planning a life together from the very second. You felt his hand clutch your hip to tug you through the bar. Past everyone who showed up—some you knew, others yet to introduce themselves—but a family nonetheless.

“Mom,” a voice meekly said from behind him. You didn’t need to see her to know who was calling you, gifting you the title that had been branded on your skin. And you took it with pride, spinning to catch her as she threw herself into arms that would always be there to catch her.

“I got your gift,” you mumbled into her hair.

She smiled. “I’m glad I found you.”

Logan’s breath hitched—his body angled towards the bar. Allowing you two a moment of peace. A memory that clung to the blue that enveloped you both. Forever protecting what you refused to lose.

“I’m glad you found me too.”

“Not to break up the mamma mia vibes, but we’ve got some partying to do.” Wade’s chin landed on your shoulder, Laura sneering at the close proximity of someone she pretended to loathe. So much like Logan.

This is what you missed the most. Joy found and scraped at the very bottom of a barrel that held nothing but fucking pain. Something to live for. Even as the world ripped you to pieces. Logan was involved in a conversation—the man unfamiliar to your memory—and Wade was more than happy to drag you towards the group. Always a host (or attention seeker). You couldn’t be sure at this point.

Wade coughed, handing over a bucket with paper beaks. “Pin the tale on the platypus! Sorry Log they were all out of badgers.”

“Wolverine dumbass,” Althea snapped.

“Only when he’s in sweet angel-”

“I’d shut the fuck up if I were you,” Logan snarled.

“Six hours of the horizontal samba and he’s still acting like someone shit in his Cheerios.”

You smiled, yanking free a beak. “He didn’t have Cheerios for breakfast.”

Logan groaned—Wade’s laughter piercing his right ear. He had half a mind to ram his head through the bar, the half bottle of whiskey barely enough to keep his claws to himself. But you were glowing in the darkness, your laughter etching your name just a bit deeper in the deep caverns of a mind he rarely touched. Memories of pain turning to gold before his very eyes.

Wade peeked over Vanessa’s shoulder, his lips twisted into a grin that spelled trouble. “Logan you have other friends? And here I thought what we had was special.” His head swiveled. “Besides whatever those white men Ryan and Hugh have going on.”

“Fuck off,” Logan snapped, reaching for his half empty glass.

Two glasses clinked against the bar, a towel tossed beside them. “What’s with all the dramatics?” Travis questioned, pouring himself two fingers of bourbon. Aged. Smokey. A far better taste than what he was drowning himself in.

Logan grinned, heart fluttering—he hadn’t feltsomething so right in so long. “I just like to see her smile.”

“Keep it that way,” Travis agreed. “And life will be bliss. Take it from an old fuckin’ man.”

“I will.”

As if called forth by his gaze burning along your back, you sidled up to him, tucking into his side with a breathy giggle. “Wade’s claiming I cheated.”

“You did fucking cheat! You and that spork kid of yours.” A high pitched shout pierced the air, Wade’s shriek accompanied by Laura embedding a claw in his leg.

Logan couldn’t recall a time he’d been this proud. His daughter finishing the job he was too relaxed to get up and do himself.

“Hey,” you sighed, tipping your chin up—eyes glittering in the string lights. Stars lost to the depths of irises he’d happily stare into as time aimlessly passed him by. “I wanna show you something.”

He grinned, hand cupping your hip. “Already?”

“Not that.”

So he allowed himself to be dragged out of the bar—without complaint—and into the shadowed parking lot. It looked different at night. Empty of cars and lit by a single streetlight. Yet he could recall the time as if it happened moments before, the day solidified as one of his favorites. You wandering out of the grocery store altered the hell he was more than happy to wither in, barely fighting for breath.

You saved him. Only for him to save you right back.

“I believe it was right here,” you said. “When a stranger came up to me—out of nowhere— and told me I smelled different-” He laughed, pulling you close beneath a light littered by flies. “And changed everything.”

The small box nearly burned his hand as he dug it out of his pocket. Black and satin and tied with a yellow ribbon he found in the back of Wade’s drawer. He was too afraid to ask what it was for, but for you it would work. For you he’d endure every moment of Wade’s intolerance and parties he’d rather stray from. If only to see you smile for the rest of his life.

Your eyes went wide when it fell into your palm, heart stuttering and scent growing thick in the frigid air. “It’s not what you think it is. Unless that’s exactly what you want it to be honey. But well…fuck I’m not really good at this type of shit-”

It flicked open with a small creak, silver nestled into blue velvet. “Logan,” you breathed.

“I said forever. I meant it.”

“When did you…where-”

Crimson flushed across his cheeks and a hand tugged at the back of his neck. “I asked Laura who asked—Peter I think—and uh melted down one of the tags.”

“It’s…made from your dog-tags?”

He nodded, body humming with the weight of his next words—the promise set in metal left from a legacy he was finally proud to uphold. “I love you honey.”

A ripple extended through the universe, pulling from what surrounded you and forming a familiar glow of sunlight. You rushing past, him chasing after you, Wade intervening. He watched it all play it out behind you as he slipped the ring onto the finger it fit best. An inevitable vow, a promise engraved in cosmic matter and weaved by time.

He kissed you there in the darkness, breathing in your honey-like scent that called to him the day he found you. Even lost in a home never meant to house his soul, you made him feel wanted.

You brought him back to life.

The bar was chaos by the time you returned, paper beaks scattered on the floor, a broken chair stuffed into the corner and a song you couldn’t recognize blaring on the speakers. Laura was tossing darts with an older man, a smile finally gracing her face. Peter was deep in conversation with Althea and two others and yet all their eyes snapped to attention as you waltzed in, Logan attached to your hip—his mouth stuck to your neck.

“I fucking knew it!” Wade screamed, leaping forth. “Dibs on being the officiant.”

Logan groaned. “Wade-”

“I mean who else can say that Jesus married them. Can I get an Nema?” He grinned. “Can’t afford to get copyrighted by Hollywood. The budget is barely holding it together.”

“Get in line,” Laura bit out, meeting you at the door.

You allowed her to drag you behind her, Logan following close behind as everyone fell back into their own groups. Life settling for the first time since you met him. And for the first time…you felt it. That unfamiliar warmth pull at your chest, call you into the bliss that welcomed you. Time. Now at your side.

Forever and a day encased in the beauty of your family.

THE END.

note: am i crying as i format this? possibly. if you've been here since i posted chapter one then thanks for sticking it out with me. and if you've just discovered this fic, i hope you enjoyed their love story. it's been fun. onto the next.🖤

[reijisteacup]

Ayato Sakamaki Head canon Alphabet

NSFW Head canon Alphabet

Warning: This is for 18+ only; minors do not interact

A - Aftercare

Ayato acts like he doesn’t care about aftercare, but he actually does in his own way. He won’t immediately be all sweet and cuddly, but he’s incredibly touchy right after — throwing an arm over you, gripping your waist possessively, maybe even licking over any marks he left like a territorial dog. He talks a lot — teasing at first (“You totally lost it, Chichinashi~”), but if the session was intense, he gets quieter. He’ll lazily kiss your shoulder or belly, hold you against him and absentmindedly run his fingers through your hair until you fall asleep on his chest. It’s rough affection, but it’s real.

B - Body Part (Their favorite body part on themselves and their partner): On himself? Definitely his abs and arms. Ayato is proud of his body — lean muscle, defined from basketball and centuries of dominance. He likes flexing when he's got you pinned beneath him, watching your reaction. On you? Your waist and neck. He loves gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises and watching your face twist when he presses deeper. Your neck, though? That’s his feeding ground — bite marks, hickeys, teeth impressions — he wants everyone to see you're his.

C - Cum (Where they like to cum): In you. Always in you. Ayato’s territorial. He wants you dripping with him, marked from the inside. Bonus points if he gets to stuff it back inside you with his fingers afterward, smugly growling about how you “can’t waste Ore-sama’s love.” He’ll do facials or on your chest if he’s in the mood to tease or punish, but his instinct is to claim.

D - Dirty Secret (A dirty secret they have): Ayato gets painfully turned on when you cry during sex — not from pain, but from overstimulation or pleasure. The moment he sees tears slipping down your cheeks while you're still begging for more? He loses it. It satisfies his craving to dominate, and deep down, it makes him feel like he's the only one who can wreck you that perfectly.

E - Experience (What experience do they have): Plenty. He might not be as openly slutty as Laito, but Ayato’s had his fair share of partners — mostly conquests to feed his ego. Still, none of them mattered. When he really falls for you, the sex becomes different: not just a power trip, but something deeper, rawer. That contrast makes him even more intense.

F - Favorite Position (What position they like): Missionary — his version. Your wrists pinned, legs over his shoulders or wrapped around his waist, his chest nearly flush with yours as he pounds into you while watching every expression twist on your face. He loves being close, able to kiss you, bite you, growl in your ear — full dominance with full view. Bonus if your eyes are rolling back and you’re drooling a little.

G - Goofy (How goofy they are during the act): He can be a little goofy — especially when teasing. He’ll smirk and make cocky remarks, flex dramatically, call himself “Ore-sama” mid-thrust just to see you groan or laugh. But when he’s serious or emotionally driven? That playful attitude drops, and you get a completely different beast.

H - Hair (Are they well groomed?): He’s decently groomed. Ayato keeps things trimmed but not completely bare. He doesn’t obsess over it, but he knows it looks better clean. On you, he doesn’t care — hair or no hair, he’s still going down on you.

I - Intimacy (Are they affectionate during these moments?): Yes, but it comes out through dominance and obsession more than soft touches. He praises you possessively: “You’re mine,” “No one else gets to see you like this,” “Say my name, again.” When he’s especially into it, you’ll feel him clutching your body like he never wants to let go. If you say you love him while he’s inside you, his thrusts get deeper — more desperate.

J - Jack Off (Masturbation): He does, but not frequently. Ayato would rather use you. That said, if he’s stuck alone and frustrated (or if you’ve been teasing him too long), he’ll mutter curses about you while jacking off — probably using something you wore or a video of you he secretly recorded.

K - Kink (What are they into?): Possession. Marking. Light bondage (handcuffs or ropes), neck biting, overstimulation, orgasm denial (only when punishing you), spanking, and especially breeding. Ayato has a primal drive to own you — body and soul. That means stuffing you full, making you scream his name, and making sure you can’t walk right when he’s done.

L - Location (Where they would like it?): Everywhere. Seriously. Classrooms, his bed, your bed, the bathtub, the kitchen counter. He especially loves semi-public spots — sneaking into empty school rooms, fucking you against the wall while covering your mouth to keep you quiet. The risk of being caught makes him harder.

M - Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going?): Your voice, your expressions, and your defiance. You back-talking him? Turn-on. You acting bratty or pretending you don’t want him? He’ll prove you wrong real quick. Bonus if you’re wearing something that shows off your thighs, neck, or back. He’s weak for cute panties too — but only so he can rip them off.

N - NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs): Ayato doesn’t do degradation that crosses into dehumanizing. He’ll call you names playfully (“slut,” “doll,” “brat”) but only if you like it and he knows it’s in good fun. Anything that truly hurts you emotionally — or scenes where he doesn’t have your full attention — are a no-go. Also not into anything involving bodily fluids outside of blood and cum.

O - Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.): Ayato enjoys giving oral, especially when he can make a mess of you. He loves dragging his tongue over your clit and watching you squirm. He’ll pin your hips down, keep going even when it’s too much — obsessed with forcing you to cum on his face. He’s decent at receiving, but he’s impatient. He’ll often grab your head and face-fuck if you let him.

P - Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?): Almost always fast and rough. Ayato’s the type to pound into you like he’s proving something — because he is. He wants to dominate, to hear you scream, to make sure you never forget how good he makes you feel. Slow happens only when he’s emotionally vulnerable or really in love.

Q - Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex): Loves quickies — closet, hallway, broom closet at school — yes. Especially if you’re teasing him and he’s had enough. He’ll slam you against a wall, fuck you fast and hard, and then pull your clothes back on like nothing happened. Still, nothing compares to full sessions where he can devour you.

R - Risk (Are they open to experimenting, do they take risks?): Huge risk-taker. Ayato lives for adrenaline, so he loves the idea of someone almost catching you. He’s also open to new kinks as long as they don’t threaten his control or your emotional safety. Safe words? Fine. But you're still his prey.

S - Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?): Two to three long rounds easily. Ayato is fueled by your reactions and isn’t satisfied until you’re trembling and overstimulated. The more you beg, the more he smirks and pushes further. He takes pride in making you cum more than once before he finishes.

T - Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?): He doesn’t have a full toy chest like Laito, but he’s got a few things he keeps hidden — handcuffs, vibrators, maybe even a bullet vibe he’ll use on you during class. He loves using toys on you when he’s not in the mood for full sex — just to watch you fall apart.

U - Unfair (How much they like to tease?): Super unfair. He’ll edge you until you’re crying, act like he’s going to fuck you and then pull back, laugh when you beg. But if you start crying or begging sweetly? Game over. He’ll pin you down and ruin you.

V - Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make): Ayato is vocal but not theatrical. He grunts, growls, and moans low in your ear. When he’s really close, he curses in Japanese, lets out a drawn-out groan, and bites into your shoulder hard. What really gets loud is his dirty talk — “That’s right, scream for Ore-sama.”

W - Wild Card (Random headcanon): Ayato gets extra horny after winning a basketball game or feeding — adrenaline makes his blood burn, and he’ll drag you into the shower, still in uniform, and take you right then and there. Bonus if you praise him after — he’ll literally purr.

X - X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants): Ayato’s slightly above average in length, but thick — veiny and curved just enough to hit all the right spots. He’s very proud of it and will absolutely ask if you’re “ready for the best” before shoving it in.

Y - Yearning (How high is their sex drive?): Very high. Ayato has a strong appetite, especially once he falls for you. He’ll want you every day — sometimes multiple times. It’s part of how he feels close and reassured. Bonus: his need spikes during feeding periods or emotional stress.

Z - ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterward): If he's satisfied and got you all cuddled up? He knocks out quick. One arm over you, hand on your ass, breath on your neck — gone in minutes. If he's still hyped, though, he might wake you up for round two. Sweet dreams.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

Ok, so since you're in gamedev, I'm curious about your perspective on patenting gameplay mechanics, like how the Ascend mechanic was patented prior to ToTK's release. I know Nintendo aren't the only ones doing this, but how common of a practice is that in general? And do you think there's any merit to it or no?

Heyyy sorry I was having a very busy week/weekend, so I kind of left this ask to the side given this is a pretty complicated subject, but here we go!!

So... Basically, my opinion is that it's mostly a bullying method for big corporations, and what seems like a tentative to protect one's work for smaller individuals/entities that they can't realistically enforce anyway. To me, and many devs, it's considered poor etiquette at the very least, especially given the highly iterative nature of gamedev and the extremely specific application of any given idea. The fact that the boundaries of tolerance and how aggressive a company will be at protecting what they feel they own (and here something as nebulous as an intellectual concept and context-less execution) will generally be blurry at best, especially since it's super hard to parse what could be considered inspiration VS what is derivative in a game mechanic, it tends to merely discourage innovation from smaller studios in that specific field, while still having bigger companies perhaps risking a lawsuit because they have already assessed they could cushion the consequences if it does come to that.

As often with copyright laws, but perhaps even moreso here, it dabbles in the corporate justice system, and it is a system that will always disproportionately protect the wealthy, the influencial and the powerful, while leaving people without resources extremely vulnerable. Imagine being a small studio trying to patent your cool mechanic, and then a giant like Riot Games waltz along and decides to steal your mechanic anyway. Can you afford the money to stay lawyered-up for years? Can you tolerate the stress of this David and Goliath situation, or existing in the public eye, or the potential smear campaigns, etc? And if you don't want to enforce your rights due to a lack of resources, your rights may as well not exist.

So I am personnally pretty much against the practice on this basis alone, even discounting how that approach runs counter to the very community-based spirit of game design and game studies. The goal of any self-respecting game designer should be to craft the best possible experience for players. It's good to protect yourself, your living, your place in history of course, but freezing the course of that history for little more than greed... It's not really well considered by a lot of devs that I know.

[chalkscrub]

revisiting my roots as an artist - never sketching, never planning, and going straight to the inks. and also drawing traditionally again. with some digital colours

speaking of my roots as an artist, so many people say my art is cute/storybook/wholesome vibes which is funny cause i started off drawing a lot of bloody evil gorey demon things. 14 y/o me would not be happy with me for going down the route i ended up taking - i wanted to be edgy.

[guardianoflightanddarkness]

Highly disagree with this take.

The reason why Mabel's writing gets far more critizism isn't because she is a girl, it's because her actions face absolutely no consequences for it.

If anything, Stan proves that Mabel's critizism has nothing to do with misogyny. Why?

Because Stan ALWAYS faces consequences for his actions, like, from the first very scene of the show until the end:

He scares Dipper and laughs at him? He chokes and has a coughing fit.

He uses the kids to commit crimes? He ends up in jail.

He tries to scam people? It blows up in his face.

He lies to the kids? He gets caught and they get mad at him until he makes up for it.

He hides things from them? It comes back to bite him in the butt.

Heck, even losing his memory is a consequence for refusing to shake Ford's hand.

Stan is CONSTANTLY facing consequences for his actions, unlike Mabel who rarely if not ever faces consequences for anything. That's why Stan is rarely ever critized for it cause one way or another, he is constantly rolling with the punches.

Mabel isn't blamed for Weirdmaggedon, I agree, but the problem is, Mabel's actions in those episodes are still ignored and treated as if she had nothing to do with it or if she had done no wrong while Dipper carries that burden that was never his to begin with. I mean, Mabel was litterally asked by Blendin (the time traveler guy that tried to kill her and Dipper a couple of weeks prior) to steal something from Ford to trap the entire town in a time bubble, and she is totally okay with it and accepts without a question. And then later in the bubble she is aware of what's going on (she sees it through the opening and admits to Dipper and Wendy and Soos that she knows it's not real) then blames Dipper for her state of mind, replaces him with Dippyfresh, sends him to a trial she set up so he would lose and get kicked out into the apocalypse and only accepts to return once Dipper does what she wants, giving up the apprenticeship. And then NONE of her actions are called out, she doesn't even show a shred of guilt or remorse over her actions.

Yes, Stan did open the portal and he is far more to blame than Mabel ever will be, but Stan ignoring the warnings DID have big consequences: he almost destroyed the town, he broke the children's trust and put them in danger (even SOOS, who sees him as a parental figure, tried to stop him to protect the children), and Ford called him out and punched him over it and ruined any innitial recoinciliation Stan had been hoping for, and eventually caused the rift and Weirdmaggedon. Mabel's actions on the other hand are completely ignored, litterally everyone believes it was an accident and she is never exposed or admits about what she did with the rift and the narrative leaves it like that.

No one blames Mabel for being upset about her crappy day and being potentially separated from Dipper, same way as how no one blames Stan for being upset over being separated from Ford, the difference are the actions, that are not justified, and again, Mabel faces NO consequences for her actions, whereas Stan pays them harshly. Mabel stole the rift and gave it away and it's never revealed and she never even shows remorse. Stan made a mistake and got kicked out into the streets as a minor, disowned and forced to become homeless for 10 fricking years, of course the fandom pities him because the punishment did not fit the crime, while Mabel got away completely scott-free.

Also, the Wax-Stan situation is nowhere near comparable: Stan had spent 30 fricking YEARS trying to get his brother back, never giving up, and he didn't even know if he was alive, he wasn't replacing Ford or changing his personality, he just missed his TWIN, who for all he knew, he could be dead and all his work could have been for nothing. Mabel on the other hand, the second she lost Dipper and landed on Mabeland, not even 24 hours into the apocalypse, replaced him with a cheap copy that was a walking insult towards her brother's personality and a spit on his unconditional love and support towards her and rubbing it on his face. Stan is litterally called out for his actions while Mabel's actions are either ignored or played as a joke for laughs.

In Dipper vs Manliness no one ignores that Stan is also making fun of Dipper, the difference is that Stan at least tries to correct his mistake by the end of the episode, by litterally telling Dipper he had proved to be manly by standing up for what he thought was right. Mabel on the other hand never apologized for it. And sure, teasing between siblings is common as long as it's a two-way-street, lines aren't crossed, feelings aren't hurt and boundaries are respected. And Mabel NEVER does that: Mabel litterally spends the entire show making fun of Dipper even after he tells her multiple times to stop cause she is hurting him, and she laughs it off and doubles down. But the ONLY time Dipper even comes off as close as to tease her (not even that, it's a "Aaaaand Dipper wins again!" in a chess game that Mabel wasn't even paying attention to), she doubles down by directly bullying him over his height and blames HIM for it and calls him a jerk, and Dipper is the one who ends up apologizing while she not only doesn't correct or apologize for her behaviour, she keeps going. Mabel is happy to tease Dipper endlessly but she never consents him to reciprocate, ever. That's not how sibling relationships work.

Yes, Mabel is 12, just like Dipper, and Pacífica, heck, Gideon is 9 years old, ALL of them except her face consequences for their actions and learn from their mistakes.

Sure, Stan is pushing his seventies, acording to him, commits crimes, lies, steals and all of that. But he CONSTANTLY pays consequences for his actions.

Mabel never faces consequences or learns from her mistakes and remains static as a character, Stan on the other hand constantly faces consequences for his mistakes and developes as a character. That's the difference.

I've seen claims that if Mabel was a boy, Mabel Haters would not be so passionate or wouldn't care as much, and that their hatred is mostly routed in misogyny, whether full on-display misogyny or internalized.

Here's the thing, anyone who says this that 100% right and there's even proof. The proof is that a male version of Mabel Pines already exists in universe, and not only is he no where near as hated as Mabel, he's one of the most loved characters.

Stanley.

We always talk about how the senior and junior Pines twins are mirrors of each other, Mabel and Stan being alike is nothing new.

It's always bugged me that Stan has done so much more, much worse things than Mabel and yet Mabel gets all the hate and blame.

Weirdmaggedon is much more Stan's fault than it is Mabel's. Mabel was emotionally distraught, Mabel was manipulated, Mabel didn't know what she was doing, and if someone had told her what the rift was, she wouldn't have done it. Stan was warned that the portal could be destructive, Stan didn't deny seeing the warnings in Ford's journal and still chose to fire up the portal. It wasn't a "in the moment" kind of decision either, he had decades to decide that restarting the portal was a dangerous thing to do, and still did it. Still opened up that portal with his young niece and nephew in the house. People will claim that Mabel acted selfishly when she gave the rift away but Stan, he was opening the portal to save Ford, he was doing it for his family. No, he wasn't. Ford had warnings that the portal was too dangerous, Stan knows his brother well enough that he should have thought that Ford wouldn't want it open. And if Stan was doing it for his family, he would have stopped after bonding with Dipper and Mabel, because the portal could have destroyed the world, including them. He was never opening the portal for his family, he was doing it for himself. He was doing it because he wanted his brother back.

When Mabel, at 12-13 years old, thought she was going to be separated from her brother, she got upset, and expressed those emotions as she has every right to do. She doesn't have the right to force Dipper to go home with her, but she has every right to openly express to him that she doesn't want him to stay and doesn't want to be apart from him. In fact, that's exactly what she should do! That's how you have healthy relationships with people in your life! By being honest with them when things upset you! And she's labeled as selfish for just having a very normal reaction for someone her age and in the mental state she was in. When Stan, at 17-18 years old thought he was going to separated from his brother, he was also upset, but instead of expressing those emotions and communicating with Ford, he lashed out and broke Ford's project, on accident, yes, but their entire conflict could have been avoided if Stan had immediately gone to Ford and admitted that he might have accidentally broken it. And when Stan was called out for having broke it, Stan basically told Ford it wasn't a big deal, because now they could go treasure hunting. And despite all the clear wrongdoings by Stan, the fandom pities him So...we're expecting a 12-13 to handle the same kind of situation better than a 17-18 year old? Got it. Even worse, I'd argue she already did handle it better than Stan did, and yet she's still despised. Shout out to @jubileebloom, who said in the notes of this post of mine: "#also#the fandom when Wax Stan: awww Stanley misses his bro so much. what a good brother :')#the fandom when Dippy Fresh: omg I can't believe Mabel replaced Dipper like that. with a version that won't talk back. what an awful sister#just. just saying." Thank you! I hadn't even considered that one! I recall seeing people getting upset at Mabel for making fun of Dipper in Dipper vs Manliness, specifically Mabel, as though Stan didn't do the exact same damn thing. It was written off as basically "well Stan is Stan, but Mabel is his sister!" Yes exactly, Mabel is his sister, making fun of your brother is sibling 101, Stan, however, is the adult in Dipper's life at this point

I feel like there's more, specific, examples. Feel free to add

Every small mistake of Mabel's is heavily scrutinized. Of course she's making mistakes, she's fucking 12, she's learning, in many situations she may not know any better.

Stan is 60+ years old, committing crimes, putting his family in danger and is damn well old enough to know better, and yet is basically labeled as a precious cinnamon roll.

[seawitchkaraoke]

y'all have got to learn the difference between actively harmful malicious shit and imperfect allyship bc i am so tired of the people that actually try to do good getting torn down and yelled at for every even slight perceived misstep while the people who do not give a rat's ass get to just keep doing their thing bc oh well we don't expect them to know any better

[mysicklove]

sigh, me and my big mouth got me in trouble again.

[moreaujeans]

im signed up for an online english course with a professor who has actually some of the worst rate my professor reviews i have ever seen most of which talk about how she never replies to emails and/or didn’t start putting in grades until like the last two weeks of class and she’s currently refusing to even open the course until wednesday… head in hands