#they can be! there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that!!

[controld3vil]

the one

pairing: aegon ii targaryen x targ!reader

synopsis: thrown into madness, not one person can comfort the king of his thoughts. his sister wife left to deal with her grief. his mother for chooses not to heed his needs. his brother, gone in silver of the night. yet you, left forgotten stand in front of him, teary eyed.

notes: i gasped loud this episode!!

content warning: spoilers obvi for s2ep2, themes of grief and inferiority, targcest; if you are uncomfortable, please do not interact.

The death of Jaehearys exhausted you.

Nothing prepared you for the shock and emotional consequences. It felt as though a giant sea storm had swept away your emotions and feelings of sense. Because in a way, you felt numb and unable to comprehend what you were feeling. It was either too strong or your denial in it that made you feel out of it. In the confidence of your home, the grand kingdom of your father and his grandsire before, suddenly you feel apprehensive about where you resided and the castle itself. Who to trust and not as a moment noticed in your head as your mind spirals down a rabbit hole. 

Your nephew, a kin of your own, was dead. 

He was murdered in cold blood. In the sanctum of your home, in the privacy of the royal rooms. It was your fault you were not by Helaena’s side. Oh, your poor sister, the turmoil she must’ve endured in the small moments last with her son. A small piece of purity and semblance he brought into your little life and a beacon of what you strived for every day. Yet now, it has all turned to blood and dust. Used and tossed away like the sacs of bodies they would throw off dead soldiers in the aftermath of a tiring battle. 

There you sat with a half cup of wine, undrank. You dared not step out of the chambers of your comfort. Not for long, your presence would be reminded of the council. You insist on every meeting that your presence would bestow better acquisition. In most eyes, the men divert their gaze from you.

In contrast, your wretched mother opens her mouth agape with hardly any words being supported. Your grandsire contrasts, always with an excuse that you should be needed elsewhere other than the higher discussion. How benign of you, dear granddaughter. But you are unfit for a position at court.

Otto Hightower would never speak those words directly. But you know in your heart and his intuition, the words are nearly there. You don’t need an interpreter to translate what is said by the councilmen. Even if they are unaware, you understand all that is said. A tragic incident, Your Grace. The Kingsguard are doing their best to inspect all the members in the castle as we speak.

“I will have it! They will pay for this!”

The dried tears that swept down your cheeks felt sticky and annoyingly guilt-ridden of the events that had happened. You would not allow them to witness them. They were not worthy of your sadness. In grace, you hiked your dress over your feet to climb up to the doors. From where you were, you could discern the murmurs of Aegon and his hysterical yelling, absolutely mad with anger and rage. Respectfully so, the loss of his child was an unexpected and stressful one. 

When the chambers open, the rest of the councilmen stop for a moment. Before you begrudgingly make your way to the center. “Gentlemen,” You are at fault in giving away your tearful expression, the candlelight's of the chandeliers do your angelic features justice. And no noble would dare to speak upon its beauty and sorrow. All while, your lady in waiting, trails timidly behind you, head pointed down in respect. “Your Grace,” You address, and finally for a blind second, a glint of relief flashes on Aegon’s face. Finally, he must think, someone he trusts abides in the room.

“Princess,” The Hand levels his chin, leaving a steady foot of your unforeseen appearance. Beside him, your mother lays agape in both deary and fortification. 

The Queen stumbles on the syllables of your name, quietly. As if she was citing a wrongful plea of desperation. “Is- Is Helaena?” Of course, the last she saw you was in her bed chambers, coming in to console your sweet sister and her child. Alicent was running amuck, pulling on the fabric of her dress to prevent you from witnessing her privacies before. Luckily you didn't have to witness that. 

“She is with Ser Arryk and Jaeheara.” You breathed out, soft and mellow. You can tell by the exhale of your mother and grandsire's shoulders that deflating meant that their worries were at least accomplished. And a slight corner of your eye, your brother too relaxes in caution, aware of his wife and daughter’s whereabouts. 

“Good good,” Alicent frantically nods as if trying to reassure herself that her child and granddaughter were safe. Ser Arryk was a noble knight, one who betrayed his twin to stay beside the king’s side. That alone was enough to prove his loyalty and servitude. “Thank you, my daughter.” You swallow with a gaping hole in your throat. The whole room felt the compacting of the many eyes directed at you and the Queen Mother. 

“And what might be the reason for your intrusion on this council meeting, princess?” Otto’s voice somewhat triggers a fight or flight response in you. You’ve dealt with similar situations before, wanting to be included in the war business. However this was different, the council was discussing matters of potential betrayal and the killing of your kin. You suddenly felt targeted for the offense of interrupting something crucial and overriding. 

However, you know you should have a say in this matter. “Shouldn’t I be present when the death of my nephew has been informed to me merely hours ago?” There was a snap in your voice that many of them knew. Though some such as your mother and brother were accustomed to that sound more often. 

“Perhaps it is best if the princess were with the Queen to rest away comfort and grief,” Maester Orwyle suggests only to infuse your temper. 

In a quick turn, your lilac orbs strike an alarming resemblance to vexation and hostility. “Why?” Your tone was sharp and accusing just as it was. The Queen Regent could only watch and stare mutely at your grueling pettiness. Lord Tyland and Ser Criston Cole dare not to look at you but at the maester. While Aegon, all the more slightly frustrated at Maester Orwyle’s comments, stops and waits for your dreadful retaliation like a venomous viper. Otto couldn’t look more disappointed in you. 

“The death of your nephew is a tearful one, princess. And maybe you should stay within the quarters with the Queen for safety.” The maester does not falter in his reasoning, knowing how quick and ill-tempered you are similar to your brother was to retaliation. But his expression flickers in doubt shortly after you are seen to lay your palms on the edge of the end of the table. It’s hard wooden material, clenched tightly around your hands as you glance up at the councilman with fury in your eyes. 

“I am more capable than you think of me, Maester Orwyle. And I would be damned to sit in silence and pity for this horrendous murder!” You snarl, a frown forming at the edges of your lips. You were livid beyond this. Only when you want to be present in the decisions regarding your kin, did the council decline your way. It’s insulting. “My nephew should be avenged! To whoever ordered the murder!” 

“I wholeheartedly agree,” The Hand’s inclusion is an attempt to bring a truce between the others who felt your presence as much of a disturbance. “But we should not be hasty and leave every opportunity out in the open.” 

“This is my son we are talking about,” Aegon’s hand came down with a thump on the table. He’s since calmed down but you know there is still rage in his heart. The fuel of it burning and churning for the desire to find and kill whoever brought out the murder. “We must search the grounds for traitors, find anyone who leaves the Red Keep, and capture them immediately!”

“Of course, Your Grace but we should consider what this would be for Rhaenyra,” Alicent reminds the room when she scans everyone’s thoughts and faces. On the other hand, you stand uncomfortably, with the sense of your legs growing numb. 

“That bitch queen of bastards will pay!” The King screams, pointing with an accusative finger. “She is on her throne, laughing at me for this! For the death of my son, I want her dead!” It’s like a fire has been lit in your brother’s mind. It flashes and flickers rapidly as he manages to strike and spit out outrage of his growing vengeance on the Black Queen. However quick his temper simmers and rises.

The coming morning of Jaehaerys funeral drags his body to the Sept to be burnt in Targaryen tradition. More importantly, it is to sway the people’s opinion of Aegon’s claim and blame Rhaenyra for the tragic death. Spurs of propaganda flourish in the crowds as the chariot drags the casket of the fresh body, followed by the Queen and her Regent. What felt like discomfort and suffocation for Helaena only her no semblance through the entire morning. She is grieving and mourning in her own way. No one can understand the loss of a mother of her children. It is the tragedy she has felt for the first time and it stings her to her stomach. For most of the ride, Helaena could not breathe or look at the folk people, afraid of what they might do. She’d never left the Keep like this before, presented all fragile and glorious as the new Queen officially. 

Even so, she knows you are more suited for the role. Helaena has thought of it many times where you should’ve been wife to Aegon instead of her. She knows why her mother and grandsire chose her. It was because she was compliant and willing to do her duty as a lady wife. While you had no sense of duty. More or less, so did Aegon but at least she would elevate his image as King with her kind personality. 

“Helaena,” You spoke, interrupting her thoughts amid her sewing. Your sister pauses and then looks at the piece she has been working on. It was a picture of purple lily flowers, something you had mentioned wanting to see from the grounds of the Highgarden. She thinks of you and subconsciously starts to sew a new patch of thread. She’s sweet to you like that, and you forever cherished that side of her. And it's a shame her softened voice always now came with a stutter and droop of a sob. 

Helaena wakes up from her daze and greets you with a warm yet sombreros smile. “You are well?” The question itself leaves bitterness off of your tongue because you should be asking her that. You know Helaena isn’t one to openly express her emotions and thoughts proudly. As her sister, you honor that but also can become the maternal figure she needs within seconds. 

“I should be asking you the same,” You smile, looking smug and all. And your sister’s droopy eyes slowly lighten with glee. Her small frown turns upside down and suddenly you feel your heart fill with warmth and joy. “What has the Queen been sewing all this time?” 

“Purple lilies,” She gently shows you her work and focuses on your excitement. What she appreciates is your fascination with her skill with a thread and needle. You had no talent in it, much to your mother’s display. But you would gladly watch your sister sew for hours for the fun of it. “I remember you mentioning them a while ago. And I thought it would be pretty to make for you,” 

“How thoughtful of you,” You plead with your gentle eyes, resting a hand on her thigh. You looked like you were going to burst into tears out of happiness for her nonsensical act. You act differently around her and the children, sometimes Helaena thinks you have two personalities. One with her family minus Aegon and another with everyone else. You were mushy and caring, nothing like yourself hours earlier in the morrow in the councilroom. She had heard you burst into a meeting, enraged by them claiming you as a disturbance to their discussion. Like the stubborn person you were, she knew you would rather stay and argue with them for hours. And that you, for her boy. 

The Queen hums, delighted by your soothing presence in her slightly dimmed room. The room had been cleared of children's beds and toys. Now it lies barren with little to no furniture. The curtains did not change, they were arranged simply to allow some light into the chambers to let the children wake. But now, there would be none and it is left abandoned. 

“How is Jaeheara?” The whisper of your voice is the only thing she’s heard after minutes of silence. Helaena does not reply immediately, knowing her thoughts are too invasive and terrifying to think about. The black gown she still has on feels tight and makes her uncomfortable. She doesn't want to remember the funeral. It was too much for her to reminisce about despite being hours earlier. 

She makes another loop with bright purple stringing onto her needle. “She is well and is accompanied by a Kingsguard during her lessons,” She makes sure to include the Kingsguard, knowing you have been adamant about the protection and security around King’s Landing. As of late, it felt as though the castle did not feel like home anymore. It became somewhat of a hollow skeleton of a dungeon. With many escape routes and corridors, people would walk in and out without notice. It terrifies her and knowing you, you would rather be killed than have another child murdered. 

Her response pleases you however Helaena is aware of something else on your mind. She can feel it without looking at your face to know. It’s your inseparable bond as a sister that you sometimes were astounded by. Helaena calls it a bond and maybe she is right. Your eyes are focussed on somewhere else and it gives her a moment to look at you. Your brows furrowed with a subtle curve of a scowl makes her believe you were having negative thoughts. Were you feeling guilty about Jaehearys death?

“What’s wrong sister?” Despite her knowing the reason, Helaena wants you to admit your remorseful thoughts. The veil that covered her face was no longer present and she could face you without barriers. Her lilac eyes look at you, softening at you. 

“I can’t help but think I am guilty of Jaehearys death,” You sound vulnerable, no other person would witness this side of you. Because you shielded this side of you. Your display of weakness was only meant for people like Helaena, close to you, unjudging and caring in your coping. Yet sometimes you think of your sinful thoughts of guilt to be an act of punishment. You sometimes felt you were meant to feel this way for not being present with the Queen and her children when it happened. Why couldn’t you be a good sister and protect the ones you loved?

“You should not be,” Her small palm cradles the side of your jaw, making your stare connect with her. Helaena is quiet and gentle in her expression of words. What she says always has an impact. She is a woman of few words and it makes her speech inspirational. “I- For anything, it was my part as a mother, for letting my child be murdered in cold blood-”

“No of course not!” You were quick to retaliate to her pleas. She could not be responsible for such a horrific act taken against the crown. “Helaena, you did your best to protect your children.”

“Yet I was asked to choose,” The bottom of her lips quivered, and eventually hot tears filled her waterline. “And I had no other choice!”

“You were held at knifepoint,” You grasped the hand that held your jaw. Gently and slowly to make sure and emphasize her attention to you. “I would’ve bursted into the room and offered myself if I could’ve. But you did the best you did as a mother to protect your children.” You gave her another tight squeeze. 

“I had no other choice,” Her sobs slowly brewing. And the tears flowed and there was nothing you wanted to do other than comfort your dear sister. She was grieving like any mother. You would be present for her and give Helaena all of the world, to give away her sorrow. However, it is inevitable and you best offer her your condolences and feelings of heartbreak. Because you did love her children, Jaehearys and Jaeheara. The light and beacon of Helaena and Aegon's marriage. 

Helaena’s figure dwindled as she scrunched herself forward into a curling ball. The weight of her thoughts was too much. As a parent, she believed she failed the role she was meant to play. Her cries did not stop or steady in a rapid heartbeat. Any further, Helaena believes she would’ve acted impulsively if not for you, holding onto her shoulders. You were gentle against her tragic and frail body when you allowed her head and shoulders to rest against your chest. You’re silent in the comfort you gave. Because no words could pursue more than your actions. Being the more responsible and maternal figure, you became a weeping shoulder for Helaena to spout the rest of her worries and anguish. 

You wonder what Aegon and his sorrows are. 

Criston Cole was in a predicament. He failed as a Kingsguard to protect the royal family. And because of his absence, a dead prince was left at the doorstep of the king. He’s ashamed in silence because he could not make any reason for where he was during the intrusion of the castle. His affair with Alicent was more than a passionate one. It consoled him and eased for the upcoming days of Aegon’s coronation and Rhaenyra’s horrific deeds. The knight was stuck in a situation he wished would not bring to the public eye. No one can know of his relations with the Queen Regent. Not when times were suspenseful and dire as to who to trust in the castle. 

And so, after he challenges Ser Arryk to do the impossible and slay the Black Queen within her quarters of Dragonstone, he desires to focus on his plans with the king. The afternoon following the prince’s funeral, Ser Criston smoothes out the ends of his locks, recomposing his hysterical manner against the twin knight. Of, the accusations of treason against the king and the knight’s code. He should be honoring the Kingsguard words at the back of his sleeves by now. For all that has occurred to him, Criston wants to prove to the king he is capable of being essential. 

The summer breeze is faint and noticeable to those in the Red Keep. It’s open corridors and windows, it is the perfect spot for sunlight. The Kingsguard makes his way to Aegon’s chambers, where he plans to inform his schemes of sending Ser Arryk away to Dragonstone. In hopes, it would please His Majesty of the constant restless nights he has experienced. 

But he nearly misses you. It takes a second for Ser Criston to take a step back and look back at what you have been doing. You, the princess, looking out of place in the training area of the stables. Where knights and stable boys fight and practice their combat. It was a place you’re likely forbidden to be, however, it has never stopped you. The knight knows of your ambitions to fight like your brothers. You’re eager, more confident than your siblings to practice. He had suggested once to the Queen that she should allow you use of the sword. For self-defense and hobbies. 

You practically begged Alicent to hold a sword in your hands. Your cute chubby cheeks as a small child were something he remembered sometimes. You were so eager then. He could still see it occasionally when you ventured to the training area, staring at the knights practicing their moves and defenses. 

“Are you alright, princess?” Ser Criston appears behind you and you’re suddenly aware he must’ve been standing behind you for some time. He knows you come here to think and be reminded of the past. “The morrow has been rather bleak has it not?”

“Rather too bleak,” You groan, crossing your arms and rubbing your forehead in weariness. You’re aware the Kingsguard is not allowed to probe your troubles further but you rather indulge. “The day grows weary for the wavering support of the other Houses.” A quiet nod of endearment is seen from the knight as he reminisces about why they had exhibited the funeral exactly. To spread rumors and weaken the queen bastards' claim.

“It will help us in the long run, princess,” He steps forward as you turn to stare at his gentle Dornish features. Maybe in another lifetime, you would’ve fallen for him if he wasn’t a knight.

“Is that what the Queen Regent said?” A switch and it was like your tone turned to bitterness the moment you mentioned your mother. Ser Criston feels his heartache at your sentiments to the Queen. She was your mother and loved you very much. Something you can’t seem to appreciate whenever you open your mouth in front of the council. While she has complained and spouted worries of your deterring interactions, you’ve taken glory in the distance between you and your mother. Ser Criston hopes one day you will reprimand that relationship. 

“No,” 

“Tell me, why do you value her opinion so much?” He eyes at you shaking your head with a heavy scowl of disgust. Your hatred towards your mother ran cold and poisonous, under the depths of your hard-spoken shell of a heart. Maybe some part of you did care about the Queen. If there was, Criston had never been able to witness it, you’re too stubborn. And you know Alicent cherishes him deeply. 

“She has a kind heart,” The Dornish man cannot more than understand why you probe his opinion of your mother. Were you suspicious? He’s served your mother for nearly a decade and gained her trust as her right-hand protector. Yet where was he when an intruder entered the castle grounds and left Helaena traumatized and crying? 

You snarl a mocking laugh, “A kind heart?” You’re staring at the Queen’s protector with discontent and failure. “She plots and schemes to gain the people's trust over my brother’s claim. What more is she than the Hand’s right-hand puppet.” This is an alarming accusation because Ser Criston knows Alicent does not trust her father with her boys and daughters. You were an example of that. Whoever she plots with, he knows she takes into consideration who is affected the most. She was the Queen of course. Dainty and considerate of her subjects. 

“Another advantage we have over Rhaenyra, princess,” He reminds you of the whole reason why the council decided such a thing. It’s grueling yet would sway the people in their favor towards the crown than that false liar of a ruler across the land. “Understand that everything she and the council decide is to gain more allies,” 

“By simply lying to the public and creating more web of lies for us to be stuck in,” You probe and your lilac orbs glow in a dark tone. You could not stand the ploy they had used for Jaehaerys funeral. You think it was anything but honorable, to use your nephew as a cause and leeway to denounce your half-sister. Ser Criston gives you a look, only a parent would hold when their child does something to disappoint them. And even though he was not your father, he still felt utterly responsible and devoted to you as one. He has seen you grow from a child to a woman. He’s aware of your struggle in your place at court. He was there when you desperately wanted to hold a bow and arrow, practically crying to your mother on your knees. He was also there to comfort you when you accidentally drove your dragon into a terrible accident. Criston Cole felt some kind of platonic love over you, despite you never feeling the same way. ‘

Yet he couldn’t help but agree with you. “You’re right, princess. But it is the only way to convince the townsfolk of our cause. We need their support to win this coming war.” He sees your shoulders slumped, most likely growing tired of talking back and forth of their intention to false news. You hated how everyone agreed to it wholeheartedly. 

“We need more than the support of the townsfolk to win a war,” Your lips turn to a thin line, contemplating all the reasons why you had to be on the wrong side of justice. “We have dragons, that is how we win a war.” 

Nightfall was as unanticipated as it was wanted. The funeral and rumors from the council made it unbearable to walk past servants and nobles without being reminded of it. There were many times you wished to stop in front of the people and shout in their faces. There would be no denying it all. However, you were done with it. You were tired of receiving the same piece of news and rumors. It made you hereditarily furious and petty like a child. But no violence has been spilled. Instead, you could only clench your palms, aggressively and move on with a faint scowl. A puff or two would break your cover. 

Moreover, the servant girls and maids knew what made you tick. The type of gossip you hate to talk and listen about. Since you’ve lived in the castle for the entirety of your life span. So regardless of whether they spoke of today’s events or not, people knew you were not in a great mood. More or less you were agitated, imitating, and not to be consoled.

You made it your routine to visit Helaena before going to bed. When you were younger, you and your sister often paid visits to your mother and sometimes your father if present. Queen Alicent would soothe your worries and nightmares while Viserys sat in silence, unable to speak due to the pain. Yet now, that was before you and Helaena slept in the same room. She was Queen now and had a separate room with her children. It was you who made it customary to ease her worries at night and say goodnight to her children. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, her beautiful children. Even now, after everything had happened, you wanted to honor your promise to visit the new Queen. 

The granite tiles were cold. You could feel it despite wearing soft padded shoes. Your garments were loose and free from the restraints and pains you’d worn for the day. But somehow it made you feel anxious and oddly vulnerable out in the open. Of course, it was natural to feel this way after what happened. But everything, even the times you felt the most safe was now invaded by thoughts of fear and concern. You swallowed whatever security you had and moved along the balcony inside King’s Landing. The royal rooms were all the same, but you knew which belonged to whose. You knew which rooms were your mother’s, your sister’s, which had the best hiding spots, and which had the quickest way out of the city. 

Although whose room brought you the most curiosity was the one in front of you. In the distance, where you stood, a figure of green exits out of the room and disappears into the darkness. Your mother. Alicent did not seem to be in a rush to have exited Aegon’s chambers nor did she look content coming out of it. It looked as though she had mistaken his room for another. 

Hastily your paused movements began to quicken. As you tip-toed towards the doors of your king, you twist the knob and a soft creak makes you curse out of anonymity. The bed chamber was dimly lit and the fireplace illuminated a gorgeous orange dew that covered half the room in warmth. The drapes of the windows were slightly closed, making the silhouette of Aegon, hunched over more evident. He leans in a cushioned chair by the fire and you can see his unsecured locks, shape the sides of his face. 

You quickly realize your brother’s sobbing, saddening and heartbreaking. For all the things he was, Aegon did not deserve to lose a child. You understood very much as him that Alicent had planned his coronation for a long time. Yet now that it has happened, tragedies come down like dominoes in a panic. Lucerys has died on dragonback. And now Jaehearys was murdered in cold blood. Both are innocents from the result of this pretentious battle for power between Rhaenyra. It is when you shut the door behind you with a faint click, you make yourself known to the king. 

“Aegon,” It’s a whisper with no silence. Covering his face to shield his tears, Aegon does not dare to look at you. He looks ashamed and can only stare down, lost and in failure.  You understand his dismissal of your presence. No one should see their king as weak like this. Not even his closest kin and mother. Only that his mother has witnessed this scene a multitude of times over the years of watching over her son. Still, you were not the type to witness Aegon at such a low point like this. 

Nothing. You wanted nothing from him, seconds ago only curious about his profound discussion with your mother, who did not seem to speak to him at all. Something about that makes your heart churn at the Queen Regent. You walk slowly and only when you finally face him, his gaze is still on the floor, unable to lift his head to say anything. Go away! You’re making a fool out of yourself. 

Instead, you closed the gap that separated the two of you. You clasped his neck and held it firmly in a consoling manner. His weeping only grew louder the moment he felt your touch, so comforting and soft. His hands eventually wrap themselves around your waist and he rests the side of his head against your stomach.

Only you can soothe him like this. It’s discovered to be the most effective way for Aegon to calm down, your touch perhaps was the solution to it. It was never touched upon, this consolation you had with him, there were rare occasions when the prince had become too drunk to return to his quarters to have gone to yours instead. There were times when your brother wanted to hide and be away from your conniving mother and her insults. Sometimes he’d cry, drink, or rant about her inconsolable expectations of him. Because truly you are the closest to understanding that feeling. The feeling of being unwanted and as though you were not doing enough of your duty to care. Of course, you cared, you did everything for your family. Still, it could never be enough to put a smile on your mother’s face. And more evidently that of your grandsire. 

“I’m sorry,” You let out a dreary breath, rubbing Aegon’s hair. He sniffles, allowing his forehead against your stomach. He closes his eyes and lets out a sad laugh that turns into a cry. He’s lost so much in a matter of days. No one to comfort him, and his wife silently grieving in her own time. His mother forever abandoned her efforts. And his brother disappears with no explanation. Now here you were, the one he found relying on.

“I tried so hard,” He cries out, snot and tears making his speech muffled and disproportionate. “Yet everything has backhanded and slapped me in my face!” You feel a quiver on your lips when he speaks those words. Your heart burns and aches and maybe finally, you can put away your pride and be gentle. You reach behind where his hands are secured by your waist. Sliding them down to allow you to kneel to his level. With his red-shot eyes and puffy cheeks, Aegon looks like he wants to give up everything now and then. He’s never looked so weak and tiresome. 

“I know,” You shaped his face with your palms, sliding your thumbs over his cheeks. They are dried of momentary tears when he looks so desperate to cling onto anything to save him. “And as king, it is a heavy toll. Jaehearys will know you did everything you could to avenge his death.”

“It has gone to madness,” His lilac orbs staring at you with such intensity and possibly love. Torn and twisted, you know this is a wife’s duty to be her husband. Though under Helaena and Aegon’s relationship, they have never loved each other. They were husband and wife, yes but only under law. Helaena held no love but did genuinely care for his well-being. And you had shown more devotion towards his feelings than anyone had done within days. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You can start by figuring who and who not to trust at court,” You exhale, heart beating like a bass drum when you feel his hands circle yours. “Know who your trusted allies are and destroy Rhaenyra’s support.” 

“Then I need you,” He leans forward, his silver locks tangled in between yours. His gaze was wild and desperate for any kind of refusal you might have. “I need you at court. By my side, you are as essential as any of us there.” It felt as though nothing in the world mattered next only the two of you at this moment. At this important moment, you felt a surge of adrenaline and an urge to comply with his heeds. Your eyes momentarily trail to his lips before discerning back to his eyes. 

“Because I have a dragon,”

“Because you are my blood, you are a strategist and the smartest woman I know in the Seven Kingdoms,” His dried tears make him even more angelic. Perhaps in another lifetime, you two would’ve married instead and dealt with it more easily. Your mother knew it. Your gransdire did too. Despite it all, they all disapproved of you for your lack of devotion to duty. What more can you offer than your service directly to the crown? To the council? It makes you grin in pride for his acknowledgment of you. 

“Of course, my king,” And with those words, he closes the gap between your lips. Sorrowful no way but profound in a new kind of serge to overcome the tragic delay. You were right in front of his eyes all along. You, the second-born princess of Alicent and Viserys' marriage. Quip with a sharp tongue and tactics for how long you’ve studied the art of it. You were no ordinary princess. You were a fighter, a warrior who well enough wanted blooadshed as much as him.

[gallusrostromegalus]

I am constantly procrastinating working on my original fic by writing fanfic. Any advice for how to refocus and finish my novel?

Well. The novel probably needs a nap.

Procrastinating is a symptom that something is preventing you from doing the thing you "should" be doing. Most of the time it's an unrelated, but actually higher priority task like resting after an illness (society is fucking lying about anything else being more important) or filing your taxes (actually this one is pretty important).

...but if you're procrastinating on one creative project with another creative project, you're not procrastinating: something about the novel is off right now, the fanfic is more appealing to you.

Consider the following:

You may be writing fic because it brings you more joy than the novel. If you really want to get back to the novel, figure out what would make working on it more enjoyable. Engagement from a beta-editor? Skipping this really boring scene and coming back to it later? Adding more smut?

You may also be writing fic because it's got a lower spoon coat than the novel and you need to conserve your spoons right now. Any extra stress in your life? Moving? Toothache? Recovering from Covid? Annoying roommate? Sick family member? It's an election year? ANY of those could soak up extra spoons and make your novel too expensive for your spoons budget. Let it take a nap, and come back when you're feeling better.

You may be sharpening your artistic skills on a lower-stakes project before going back to the novel. This is pretty normal- even Michaelangelo took breaks to work on other pieces while sculpting The David, both for a change of pace and so he could try something out without fucking up the big block.

Fortunately, you're writing, so you can always try writing the challenging scene a dozen times in different docs or save the parts that were good but don't not in a spare parts bucket doc.

Or keep working on that fic, it's helping you learn on a subconscious level.

You don't love the novel right now. This is alright. This is usually temporary, and the solution is the same- put it aside and work on something else.

Maybe you are just bored of the novel. That's fine and normal, you just save all the documents to your hard drive and come back later. When the fic inevitably gets boring too, you'll come back to the novel and either go "oh hey this kicks ass!" And return to it with renewed enthusiasm.

...Or you'll come back to it and go "oh. This is actually a piece of shit" And that's okay too, because there's nothing more useless than polishing a turd, but that turd is still valuable as compost. You learned things writing it, and you can still rifle through the novel for good lines or scenes or turns of phrase and put those in your spare parts doc to ferment into The Good Shit in the back of your mind.

HOWEVER:

If you are experiencing a different phenomenon wherein you are actively distressed while writing the fic- either out of misplaced guilt, or the fic isn't actually fun you just feel compelled to do something, or absolutely every creative endeavor is stressing you out, you may be experiencing a serious mental or physical health issue and you should see your GP or a specialist ASAP. Pain is an indicator that something is wrong. Do not ignore your body's warning light.

That sounds really dramatic and hyperbolic but realizing I was not enjoying ANY creative work was the symptom that finally got me to sit down and go "huh. All these random pains, irregular sleep cycle, frequent migraines and weird bouts of vertigo aren't normal either, I should get this looked at." And it turned out I had dangerously low blood oxygen at night from undiagnosed sleep apnea. I have a CPAP machine now and it's AMAZING.

I really hope this is regular artistic shuffle and not a serious health concern, but if you're experiencing creative stress AND a bunch of other shit, it may be serious.

[foone]

okay this isn't a good time for conspiracy theories, not when tumblr is actually mass banning trans people, and I keep seeing people misinterpret this situation (because tumblr's communication is legitimately terrible here).

SO WHEN YOU SEE THIS SORT OF THING:

your reaction should not be "I wonder what was so bad about the content that tumblr had to remove it". Do you see how the user is deactivated?

Hey guess what: Every post of theirs that's still remaining is like this.

See? Do you think every single thing they posted was against the rules?

NO! What happened is that they got hella-banned. I don't know what the technical terms are inside the tumblr moderation system (as I am not a tumblr admin or moderator), but they apparently can ban a user or they can super-ban a user. If they super-ban them, all their image uploads get removed too.

You can imagine why tumblr would have this: It's for things like spammers and pornbots (and, given their rules, people posting porn).

The problems are:

They seem to sometimes use this on accounts where it doesn't seem like a good idea. funnytwittertweets may have been a reposting-other-sites-content account (or even a bot) but it's not like it was a spamming one. You had to follow it to get that content. It's no worse than a dozen reddits. Similarly, this super-ban button is what got used on predstrogen. I'm not trying to excuse that, I personally think it was very wrong, but it does explain why posts by her were super-removed, like the one with the tiger or whatever. What's content-violating about that picture in particular? Nothing! It was just that her whole account got super-banned.

The message for when this happens is confusing. The content itself DIDN'T violate the community guidelines, necessarily, it's that the account itself was considered to to violate them (rightly or wrongly). I think it shows up the same just because they already had that message loaded, and didn't think it was worth adding a second one for "this image was deleted because the account was super-banned".

So, my point is: When you see a post like this, don't immediately go "WHY ARE THE MODERATORS TRYING TO HIDE THIS?" and assume they have some secret anti-whatever-the-image-was agenda. First look at the account name and see if it is listed as deactivated. If it is, then that image probably got erased when the OP was super-banned.

Don't get me wrong: Tumblr is absolutely banning trans people and super-banning them and taking down images individually that they really shouldn't (admins/moderators can definitely remove single images without superbanning the user who posted them), but it's not helpful to that fight if people are accusing tumblr of things they legitimately didn't do.

[thebestsetter]

Thinking about Isagi Yoichi, the hero of Japan and biggest egoist on the field, being a complete loser when it comes to the girl he likes.

Like, he may insult the opposing team's players (and even his own teammates sometimes!) in the field, but gets all red and stutters when he needs to talk to you.

Isagi Yoichi who is absolutely delusional. If he holds a conversation with you for more than 5 minutes, you can bet he's gonna think about it during THE WHOLE WEEK. His friends can't escape his feelings either: he's always talking about you or associating things with you. Like: "Oh, she would like this!" Or "You guys won't believe it: we talked for almost 10 minutes today!" Please save Hiori and Bachira. They can't take it anymore. (Well, Bachira doesn't really care, but Hiori is really almost losing his shit.)

This absolute dork would listen to love songs while thinking about you and then get all blushy after, hugging a pillow while stuffing his red face on it and everything. And heaven forbids anyone enters his room after you compliment him! He's kicking his feet, screaming, crying and laughing all at the same time. SPECIALLY if it's a compliment regarding his football abilities. Say something along the lines of "That goal today was amazing, Yoichi! It was such a smart play!" and he's melting and thinking about it through the whole month.

Speaking of football, he'd LOVE to see you in his soccer games/practices cheering loudly for him. I mean, he's already absolutely smitten for you, but seeing you there screaming because of his goal or smiling because of a play he made just makes his obsession love for you grow 10 times bigger!!

He'd even ask his mom for advice on what to say to you! She thinks it's cute her little boy is growing up (even though he's already 17), so she tries to help him the best she can. But there's just so much mama can do. He tries to follow her teachings, but, as I said before, always stutters and trips over his words, which makes him feel really stupid and almost give up on love, since it's a "very hard and painful feeling that just hurts people" (his words).

When he finally musters up the courage to ask you out on a date (after a lot of insistence from Hiori, who is just really tired from all of this), he wants it all to go perfect. He has it all pictured in his head: he'll ask you to meet him in the back of the school after extracurricular activities so he can ask you out. He'll have flowers and everything, and then he'll say that speech he spent the last 14 days memorizing. You'll say yes with a smile in you face (he's already blushing just from imagining your smile, he really is down bad) and then you'll live your happilly ever after together.

Spoiler alert: nothing went as planned. First, the letter he wrote asking you to meet him in the back of the school got wet because he accidentally spilt water on it. So, he had to make a half-assed substitute letter to put in your desk.

Second, he forgot soccer leaves people all stinky. So, at the end of practice, he had to choose between taking a shower and showing up all drenched and late and showing up sweaty and smelly. He choose the former, after all, showing up late but presentable is better than showing up early but looking like you got shit on by a racoon.

Third, when he finally got there (you were almost leaving, thank God he caught you just in time!) and apologized for being late, he gave you the flowers. He thought nothing else could go wrong, but things can always get worse than they already are. But I don't blame him for not knowing that things could, in fact, get worse: how was he supposed to guess there were literally bees in the flowers? To get rid of them, he tried to shook the bouquet, but accidentally ended up throwing it at your face. With bees and all.

You screamed. He screamed. He grabbed the bouquet and shoved it away, looking at the ground and wishing it'd just swallow him whole. He messed up his chance, you'd never ever even look at his way again. You hated him, absolutely hated him. You wish he was dead, you were going to change schools just to never see him again, he's the worse person ever-

Huh? What is that sound? You're laughing...? You're seriously laughing?

You laughed. He got confused.

He looked up. You were throwing your head back while wiping away the tears that got out of your eyes. You were clutching your stomach because you were laughing so hard it was starting to hurt.

You laughed. He laughed.

You both looked like maniacs. Lunatics. Laughing alone in the middle of nowhere. You looked crazy he WAS crazy. Crazy for you. Not that you knew it at that time

He then decided to just shoot his shot and finally asked you out, without flowers or memorized speech. He didn't even think you'd accept, he just thought it wouldn't hurt to try.

Imagine his face when you said yes. Even with the shitty proposal and embarassing moments, you said yes. And he was absolutely delighted. You gave him your number so he could text you the details about the date, and he was seriously shaking. I'm being for real, his pupils were blown wide and he was almost crying from happiness.

He went home jumping and skipping from happiness. Now, he wasn't just a loser. He was a loser with a date, so that makes him less loserly (at least that's what he thinks).

You accepting his proposal didn't make him talk less about you. Actually, he was now talking about you more than before, if it's even possible. Hiori felt like killing himself (he was happy for his friend, of course, he just didn't want to admit).

[auteurdelabre]

SO MUCH TO LOSE CHAPTER 14

words: 13.5k

rating: 18+

tags: mentions of trauma, smut, soft!Joel peeking out, LGBTQ2 themes, mentions of skin harm. idiots in love, mutual pining.

a/n: Hey y'all - 13.5k words (yeah) a LOT happens in this chapter so I suggest you take your time reading. And if you liked it, comments are really the thing that touch me most. They make me write. When I see a lack of engagement it makes me wonder if I should bother goin' on. I think most authors feel like that you know? So consider commenting and re blogging to keep your creative artists bein' creative! I'm going on vacation in a few days so that's why I'm posting now since internet will be spotty! Enjoy!

MASTERLIST HERE

Chapter 14: Coffee-Flavored Kisses

Jennifer knocks on your door early the next morning, looking expectantly at you as you greet her. She doesn’t return your smile; instead she pulls her coat tighter around her, not quite meeting your eyes.  

"Can I grab my cake? I told some of the ladies I'd have them over for coffee this afternoon." 

She seems strangely closed-off, her mouth thinned and you suddenly realize why. 

“Oh shit, I forgot to bring it by,” you say feeling embarrassed at the oversight. “Come in, I’ll grab it for you.”

Jennifer still looks upset when you return, attempting to hand over the cake on a plate to her. She makes no attempt to take it, instead she lingers at your door, looking unsettled. Something is wrong and clearly it has nothing to do with the delivery of her cake.

"Is everything okay, Jen?" You place the cake on the stand by the door, your hand braced on the door. Jennifer takes a deep sniff, her eyes blazing.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"Huh?"

"Margaret said she saw you going to Joel's the other night with the cake you made." Her cheeks are blotchy. "The one you said you were making just for practice."

A stone settles in your stomach, making the rest of your body run cold. You swallow, blinking. Jennifer twists her mouth to the side. 

"Anything you want to tell me?"

Fuck.

Tell her it wasn’t you. That Margaret was mistaken.

Tell her that it’s not her business.

Tell her the truth.

"It was for Ellie."

Jennifer hadn't been expecting that. Her brows knit and all that tightness in her upper body leaves her. 

"What?"

"Ellie invited me over for dinner that night. I made the cake because she asked me to."

You watch as the fury leaves Jennifer's body, like a balloon deflating before your very eyes.  

"But... But why didn't you just tell me?"

"You know how Ellie is, she's private," you say, hoping the half truth is enough. "I never know how much to share with other people."

Jennifer's face blanches and she covers her cheeks with both hands. You see the regret and humiliation overtake her, washing her body until all that remains is a lingering pink at her previously pale face.

"I'm so embarrassed. I'm so stupid." 

"You're not stupid," you comfort her, guiding her to your table. You slide her cake in front of her, iced beautifully.

"I added some strawberries on top for you."

"Of course you did, because you're an amazingly thoughtful friend and I'm a total bitch."

Jennifer looks so disappointed in herself. It makes you want to hug her, but instead you take the chair opposite her. 

"Its fine, it happens."

"I just hate the thought of being lied to,” she says, glancing at the cake admiring the details. 

This is your chance. 

Tell her. Tell her everything. 

But what is there to tell? Nothing! Joel plays hot and cold. He's not interested in a relationship so what's there to tell? That he uses you for sexual release sometimes? The thought of admitting that out loud feels humiliating and it solves absolutely nothing. 

“I understand.”

"Please forgive me," Jennifer begs, looking at you with limpid eyes and a pang goes across your chest. 

"There's nothing to forgive."

///

Patrols with Joel that day start out nondescript. He’s neither unkind or demonstrative as you both ride towards Teton. You both simply do your job; you paying attention to your surroundings as you go whereas Joel is unusually quiet; his dark eyes scanning the horizon.

Your gun feels heavy on your back today and you surmise it must be because you spent the entire previous evening tossing and turning after he left stumbling towards Rancher Street. He made no mention of it today and part of you wonders if he even remembers. He looked pretty out of it and you don’t feel like reminding him. What good would it do?

Joel glances back at you, catching your eyes on him and gives you a hint of a smile before turning back. Your stomach flips uncomfortably.

You’re getting confused about Joel.

Sometimes you can’t stand him. You find him utterly horrible at times, but then there are these moments, these pockets of sweetness that make you think the former is an act. A front that he puts up to keep himself safe.

You can relate to that.

Even though your front is more passive, more quiet and withdrawn compared to Joel’s hardened exterior. You learned to zig while he learned to zag. He is loud and strong and scares people off, like a dog who barks and bares its teeth at those who encroach. You’re the cat outdoors for the first time, curious and frightened, taken to hiding behind bigger animals for protection. It was always that way, hiding behind your mother’s legs at daycare because you were frightened. It’s why Charlotte meant so much to you, because you were the one she stood behind, you were her protector.

You wonder what turned Joel into this person. Yes, he lost his daughter in a terrible way, but there’s something else there in Joel. Like a match waiting to be struck. Like he almost wants the pain. Was it there before Sarah? Or does it have something to do with Ellie?

Before Jackson City your softness had never been seen as a hindrance. It was your father who sat with you and your sister, helping you practice how to make those folded paper flowers you'd seen in a donated book. Your father who encouraged your soft side, who didn't want you hardened by life more then you needed to be.  Part of you is thankful to him for caring; the other part hates him for not preparing you better. 

You wonder what he would think of you now.

At lunch you feel Joel’s eyes lingering on your downturned face and you raise your gaze to meet his. Instead of looking away he simply continues to stare. You swallow your sandwich before raising your brows in question.

“That was real nice of you to make that cake for Ellie.”

“I love baking,” you shrug, feeling shy but pleased.  

“You always baked?”

“Since I was younger. My mom taught me.”

Joel tilts back in his chair, rubbing at the back of his neck and rolling his shoulders. He’s sore.

“You said your Mama was visiting her sister out near here during the outbreak?”

“Yeah.”

“You radioed the QZ’s around here?”

“All of ‘em,” you admit. It’s what you’d done your first months here, trying to see if there was even a hint that your mother was still alive and thriving in one of the nearby communities. Nothing had been turned up.

Joel is quiet, thoughtful as you continue eating. Your mind is stuck on something though, something that’s been skipping around in your brain like a CD with a scratch.

“I thought you and Ellie knew each other for a while considering how close you are. But you seemed just as surprised as me about her birthday.”

You’ve known Joel for not that long, but you can see it in the way he holds his mouth and shutters his lids that what he’s saying next isn’t the whole truth. He doesn’t look in your direction, fixated instead with something on the floor.

“We went through a lot,” he admits. “I was, uh, well I was supposed to take her to a group. A medical group because, you know, she’s immune. And they couldn’t help, uh, so I brought her here.”

He’s lying. It’s there in the way he searches for words, groping for them like a person blinded in the dark.

“And the truth?”

You mimic his words from Ellie’s birthday. If he catches it, he doesn’t say anything. But he does belatedly flick his gaze over to you. His eyes grow cloudy and it’s like you see the physical wall that he puts up. Joel frowns, going to hoist his gun over his shoulder.

“We better get goin’.”

You ride back to town in near silence, stopping at a familiar part of the forest with the horses. It’s the time of the month to check the traps; your least favorite part of the job. You swallow as you hitch Chestnut to the nearest trunk before following Joel into the dense underbrush. Limbs of trees loom above you like interlacing fingers, casting the woods in a semi darkness.

“Go on ahead,” Joel says gruffly.

You don’t know why he suggests it, but you feel safe with him behind you. Not as safe as when he leads, though. But you surprise yourself with knowing exactly what trail to follow.  Your fingers absently plays with the hem of your jacket, your eyes darting from place to place nervously, landing on rocks and stumps and finally the traps.

“Empty,” Joel announces in a voice that holds no reflection of how he feels about it.

You’re delighted; an empty trap means no clickers or raiders nearby. It’s a good thing.

“Wait,” Joel says from behind you. “I heard something.”

And before you can think rationally, that icy hand of fear is sliding up your middle to curl its fingers around your throat. You freeze, your eyes blowing wide and your body starting to tremble. All your lessons with Jennifer, all the advice Joel gave you; everything is gone in that instant. Your hearing dims and your feet stay planted even as Joel urges you to move forward with his elbow.

But you can’t. The thought of something jumping out at you has you completely paralyzed. Your body can’t even tremble, it’s so stiff. Every limb is too heavy, like they’re stuck in cement. Everything in your brain screams that you need to move, but rational thought is gone. The ability to move your body is gone. All you can do is stand there, terrified with your bladder threatening to release itself.

“Move.”

There, the sound of his rumbling timbre is in your ear and for a moment your limbs seem unstuck. Like his voice is that magic key to unlock the chains you’ve self inflicted yourself with. You lurch forward like Frankenstein’s monster, your body stiff and shaky.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Joel has come around to your front, facing you with a knit of his dark brows. You can only stare at him, like you have locked-in syndrome. His voice is firm and vivid, but the rest of him is wobbly, like he’s a mirage.

“J-Joel-“ you manage to grit out, “the raiders-“

“There’s no fuckin’ raiders,” he snaps, irritation flooding his features.

“What?”

“There’s nothin’ out here,” he repeats, shifting his gun back over his shoulder. “You said you’d been havin’ lessons, I wanted to see how you’d gotten on. Not very well, you didn’t even get your fuckin’ gun out.”

A mixture of deep relief and deep anger slithers through your body, drowning you in a shaky mixture of adrenaline that has you placing your palms to his chest and pushing harshly. He stumbles back, surprised.

“What was that for?”

You shake your head, hating the tears that come to the forefront. Not because you’re sad, but because you’re so fucking relieved nothing was actually out there and so fucking angry that he would pull that.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

You hate how shaky your voice is as you ask him. You expect him to come back with his customary ire, but instead he keeps his voice even, taking a step back to you.

“You said you wanna stick with patrols, so you need to toughen up.”

“You’re just doing it for some power trip.”

“No, I’m not.”

You want to slap him. But instead you turn away from him, heading back to the horses. You’re barely two steps away when you feel his gloved hand grip your elbow, tugging you back to him. You skid along the snow, wrenching out of his grip and facing him.

“You do this because you like being in control.”

"No, I’m doin’ this because if you don't prep yourself you'll let the fear get to you when it really counts," Joel snaps back. "You can't let the fear run your life."

Now he slides past you, finished with the conversation. You hate it when he does that. You follow him with a sullen scowl, furious and humiliated. You hate that he pulled that shit on you but you hate it worse that you failed such an easy lesson.

"Lots of people are afraid, Joel." 

You tell this to his broad back, not expecting him to answer. But he stops, turning to look at you full in the face.

"And it's good when it's useful. But yours ain't," Joel looks frustrated. "When you freeze up there's no way of escaping. No way of thinkin’ clearly. You gotta push through it or you’ll get killed." 

"Easy for you to say." 

"No. It's not." Joel's eyes spear you in place.  

For a moment you falter, unsure of what he’s getting at. When has Joel ever panicked? When have you seen fear overtake him? That night of the snowstorm he headed out by himself with only a gun and his wits. Joel would never understand what it feels like to be afraid.

"Joel you're tough. You're strong and good with a gun and-"

"And my daughter is dead because I got scared.”

You stop whatever you were about to say next with a sharp glance his way. For a moment the two of you just stand staring at one another as your stomach hollows. You’re not positive you heard him right, but you just know that you did. You say nothing, waiting to see if he’ll continue. 

"I know what debilitating fear is." Joel swallows. "And I know that fear is why my daughter isn't here now."

Suddenly it all clicks for you as he says that. The frustration he holds for weakness, for fear, for anything that can't protect. Everything hits you and the realization nearly takes your breath away.

Joel shifts from foot to foot, blinking rapidly. It’s the first time you’ve seen him near tears and the sight of it cracks something in you. You step closer to him, your voice and expression soft and imploring.

"Joel, you don't actually think that's true, do you?"

"I know it is," Joel tells you flatly. "If I'd just acted instead of standing there, terrified outta my fuckin’ mind then Sarah would still be here."

"I don't believe that."

It flies out of your mouth without thought. Joel eyes you.

"You weren't there."

"I didn't need to be," you insist, voice firm. "Everything I've seen in you and heard about you from everyone who knows you lets me know that you did everything you could for your daughter." 

"You weren't there," he repeats. 

“Tell me what happened.”

You’ve never been this commanding, this forward with him about Sarah. It’s been one of those topics you danced around, avoided. But right now it feels imperative he open up about her. You’re relieved when instead of scowling at you he just slumps his shoulders, his lower spine against the tree.

“We were runnin’ and this soldier came up and he shone this light on us and I said the wrong fuckin’ thing, I said my daughter’s hurt, her ankle. I didn’t say she just twisted her ankle. They thought she was bit and. . . I . . . I just stood there, terrified. I just said okay. I said we’re not sick. I didn’t fight. He raised the gun and-“

Joel breaks off, twisting away from you. He’s not crying, but he’s also not far off. You can only see his profile, blinking, starting at the trees. From this angle you can see the scar near his temple, the one that his curls normally cover. He must have received it during the same terrible moment he lost his daughter. A forever reminder.

You know that he’s not even your friend, just a colleague at best and yet. . . more than that. He’s a human, he’s a human who has lost someone he loved more than life itself and you can relate to him on that. It’s what makes the words spill from your mouth.

"Joel, I know that if you loved something you'd protect it with everything you had." 

Joel’s profile shifts and he stares at you a long moment punctuated only by the occasional blink. 

"You don't know me."

You don't reply to that. He's right, you don't know him. He's wrong because you feel like you might.

You're confused because the pain in his expression almost hurts you to see. Like it stabs your stomach from the inside.

"Could you have done anything different? Really?" You watch him shift his weight from foot to foot. "If you could go back in time to that moment, could you have honestly done anything that would have saved her?"

As he stares off into middle distance again you know that he's replaying that horrible moment in his mind, trying to see how he could have escaped, protected Sarah, done something different. When he doesn't say anything for several moments you prompt him. 

"Did you have a weapon?"

His sigh is heavy. "No."

"Did the soldier?"

"Of course." 

"It was a shit situation where you had no weapon, your daughter was injured and you were outgunned. Tell me how any of that is your fault."

Joel says nothing, but you can see the curl of his fists. And suddenly you don't want him to talk anymore. You don't want that haunted look in his eyes to move into the rest of him. You want to repair him, to sew his inner wounds and bandage his heartache because no one deserves to lose their child; no one deserves to live with the kind of guilt he does. 

Joel stalks off, coming to stand by a nearby tree. His palm rests on its trunk and you watch as his head tips between his shoulder blades. Everything in you warns that Joel is in immense pain and that he doesn’t want to be bothered. Like a bear with a splinter in its paw, if you go up to him right now you’re going to get hurt by his snapping.

But your feet are guiding you to him, your eyes wet and when Joel hears you approaching he turns around, looking confused. He raises his arms up, making a small noise in his throat when you throw your arms around his middle. 

He goes stiff in your arms and it feels like you’re embracing a marble statue.

"What're y-" Joel starts but stills as your arms continue holding him in place, your cheek resting on his sternum gently.

"Please just ..."

Your words fade out as you squeeze him softly, pressing your face into his chest. You try your hardest to pour all the care and the compassion that you hold for him in that moment and pray he feels it through his clothes. Tears are slipping down your cheeks as you imagine the pain he’s going through.

You're surprised when he responds, his muscled arms going to wrap around your shoulders, holding you against him. You can hear his heart under your ear, picking up in tempo, likely terrified of this showing of this emotion to you.

“I understand, Joel,” you whisper, your voice trembling. Because you do. You know the guilt of failing in your role as protector. You know the guilt of carrying on while others don’t. And so you hold him without judgment, without reservation.

You close your eyes, touched when you feel his chin rest on the crown of your head.  The two of you stand in the dense forest, embracing tightly to one another. You think it might look strange to anyone who might come upon you, but in this moment it feels right.

“You did everything you could," you murmur against the buttons of his jacket, the two of you held in this position a moment longer.

"Wasn’t enough," Joel says in a voice thick with emotions. It rumbles through his chest into your body, and your hold him a little tighter.

"It was enough, Joel,” you sniff. “You’re enough, I promise." 

///

"Wait, there are how many other flavors?"

"Tons. I remember we had this peanut butter crunch thing," you tell her with a dreamy look in your eyes. "And cheesecake and mint and-"

"Cake in ice cream?" Ellie interrupts. 

"Yeah," you nod before shrugging. "And they had stupid names like Wavy Gravy and Chubby Hubby."

"That's fucking stupid."

You nod in agreement. You've been talking at length with Ellie about ice cream as you drink your milk and pick at your muffin the morning after patrols. You’re waiting to see if you can find Penny and Arthur this morning at breakfast. You want to introduce them to Ellie. 

“Why did they call them those names?”

“Marketing.”

“Huh?”

“Tricking people into buying things, basically.”

“Oh.”

Ellie seems satisfied with this explanation so you don’t keep going. Sometimes she exhausts you with all her questions about your life before. She asks you things you realize she’s never experienced and part of it saddens you. Sometimes you don’t like to think of all you had before, with your house and family and horse riding lessons. You’d been blessed in many ways.

After your experience with Joel yesterday the two of you had been strangely quiet on the ride home, the sound of the horses hooves and the nature around you the only noise. You still followed dutifully as Joel scanned the surroundings, but the two of you felt tense. Like Joel had shown you his underbelly and was anxious about it.

You slept horribly again last night, only to be awoken this morning by an excited pounding and Ellie reminding you that you were going to take her to the dining hall to see ‘the tattoo guy’.

So now you sit drinking coffee, thinking about Joel and Ellie and confused because you think there’s something about Joel that calls to you. A secret pain that you recognize and accept in each other.

“Is that her?”

You break from your thoughts, eyes focusing on Ellie who’s nodding her head at the door to the dining hall. You glance over your shoulder to see Penny walk in; her shock of red hair on her head and her tattoos peeking out from under her sweater, creeping onto her hands and up her neck.

“That’s her.”

You stand up, walking over to Penny and explaining that you brought Ellie. Penny is altogether delighted to bring her meal over, sitting across from Ellie and fixing her with a cracked smile like the two are old friends.

“So you’re the one my husband’s gonna stab, huh?”

Ellie nods and smirks a bit at that, as do you when you take a seat next to her.

“And where’s it gonna be?”

Ellie’s hand goes to tug the sleeve of her sweatshirt. In a panic you almost go to stop her, but when Ellie pulls up her sleeve you can see the skin where her bite used to be is now mottled and an ugly red.

“What happened there?” Penny asks, eyeing the scarring.

“S’a chemical burn,” Ellie explains coolly. “Got it a few weeks ago when I was doing custodial.”

Penny casts her eyes to Ellie, narrowing them. The girl holds her gaze, almost defiantly. Then you see Penny relent, she nods in understanding while you feel yourself deflate. How long ago did Ellie do this to herself? Was it because of your reaction to the bite? It’s been a month or so since then.  Ellie won’t meet your eyes.

“Might have to wait a few months for it to heal proper,” Penny replies, non-judgmentally. “Give Arthur plenty of time to draw you something real special.”

 “We were hoping he might be with you this morning,” you say.

“Arthur’s at work,” Penny tells you both, taking a long sip of her coffee. “But I’m his best client so maybe I can answer some questions you got.”

“Can I see some of them?” Ellie asks, motioning to the woman’s hand where several ferns overlap one another, touched to a star cluster. Penny nods, stretching out her arm across the table and tugging up her sweater. Ellie’s eyes widen in amazement, seeing the variety of outlined images etched into the woman’s skin.

Ellie stares at Penny thoughtfully, her eyes following the lines of the vines, the unfurling petals, the intricate pieces of nature forever etched on Penny's skin. You see the longing there to cover up her sordid history and your heart aches. 

"It's gonna look beautiful," you assure her. "I can't wait for you to get it."

Penny gives you a small smile. You never noticed that many of her tattoos are nature based; fern outlines, flowers, some detailed, some sketchy. A beautiful tapestry that when combined make a garden of memories, you assume.

“Arthur did all of these?”

“Yep.”

Penny looks proudly at her arm before turning her neck, pulling back her hair over her shoulder so that Ellie can observe the delicate vines that go from her shoulder and curl around her ear. You let your eyes linger on her ring finger where a small letter A resides in spidery script.

"How did you two meet?" 

"Back in the Virginia QZ. I was in disposal, he was teachin'. Went to the bar one afternoon and I saw him there sketchin' these wildflowers that grew in the park. I offered to buy him a drink if he sketched me one. I dunno why, I guess I thought it would be a nice momento to look back on. Durin' it we got to talkin' and I guess we never stopped. That was...hmmm, I guess eight years ago?"

"Do you still have the picture?"

"Better yet, that was my first tattoo." She pulls up her pant leg to reveal the tattooed outline of delicate petals and stamen. "So I'd always have ‘em."

“Woah that’s cool,” Ellie breathes, looking at it.

Penny gives her a lopsided grin, pleased.

"S'my happy place," she says, eyes falling shut as she tilts against her chair. "I could just lay there for hours while he works away on me."

"Doesn't it hurt?" Ellie’s voice is tight, her eyes large. She’s nervous.

"Maybe a little at first. But I like the hurt, you know? It feels good coming from him. Maybe cuz I know he'd stop it the second I asked or maybe because it makes me forget I'm living in the fuckin' apocalypse." She gives a crooked smile at that. "I just know that every time I'm finished I feel like a little bit of the ugly is gone from the world. Like the beauty of his art washes it away."  

You're surprised to find a lump in your throat at that statement. 

"That might be the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," you offer quietly. 

"Nah I'm not the words person. That's all Arthur. Poems, art. I'm just the muscle." At this she flexes her skinny arms, making you and Ellie giggle. 

“I want it to have a moth, one that looks like this,” Ellie explains, opening her sketchbook and pointing to the image she’s drawn. You look over her shoulder, amazed at the detail and the delicate beauty on the page.

“That’s gorgeous.”

“It’s on the guitar Joel gave me,” she explains patiently.

“He gave you a guitar?”

You blurt this out, surprised. For some reason Joel gifting anyone anything feels momentous.

“Yeah, told me it was for my birthday. Said it was a placeholder until he could travel through time with me.”

The two of you share a secret smile before Ellie is turning her attention back to Penny. She shifts her book closer to the older woman.

“Do you think your husband could do something with that?”

“Arthur can do anythin’ with anythin’,” Penny promises with pride in her words. She’s proud of her man, supportive of his skills. You can see the love there reflected in her words and actions.

Penny leaves you both to grab another apple and when she’s out of earshot Ellie is beaming so broadly her eyes disappear.

“I can’t believe I’m finally gonna get one!”

You smile back at her, delight flooding you as you look to the normally withdrawn teen and see her looking so overjoyed. You want to wrap her in an embrace, but you falter when you glance down at her reddened arm.

“What the fuck?”

A voice draws your attention and Dina is there at the end of the table, looking at Ellie’s arm with horror. She holds a tray in her hands and it dips as she stares in shock.

“What happened?”  Dina asks, indicating to the arm Ellie now covers by tugging down her sleeve.

“None of your fucking business,” Ellie growls.

“Fine.” Dina wrinkles her nose in irritation. “Was just trying to be nice.”

“Why start now?”

Dina gives a scoff before flipping her braid over her shoulder.

“You know Ellie, you can be a real asshole.”

Ellie says nothing as the girl stalks off to join the other table and you can see she’s still scowling, but now her cheeks are pink as her hand rests over her covered forearm. You glance down at her hand, your voice tender.

“Ellie when… what happened there?”

Ellie turns her attention back to her untouched muffin, her spirits dimmed a bit.

“Just. . . Felt like I needed to do it.”

“Was it because of how I reacted?”

“Fuck no,” Ellie frowns. “It was just, Joel has always gone on and on about my scar being unsafe. Then there was talk about those raiders and it started to make me paranoid if they found me. So I just. . . you know, made sure it was camouflaged. I didn’t want to put me or Joel in danger.”

Sympathy guides your tone.  “Does Joel know?”

“No.” She frowns, looking away from you. “He doesn’t need to know.”

You nod, unwilling to push further. You aren’t her mother, this isn’t your place. You feel guilty for stealing this moment of joy from her, and your attention drifts to Penny’s coffee cup, forgotten. 

"Wish it wasn't carrot today," Ellie mutters, poking her muffin with a fork. "I fucking hate carrot."

"Me too." 

Your eyes are still on the empty coffee cup.

Real coffee. Real coffee.

"I just know they have better stuff in the back that they're not giving us," Ellie grumbles, distracting you from this internal monologue.

"Yeah, the-" something flickers across your brain, and errant thought suddenly moving to the front of your consciousness. 

You think of when you were on kitchen duty, of the items not plentiful enough to be shared with the wider community. The ones stored until more came in or given away to those most in need. Your eyes snap wide as you recall the small container brought in the week you left. The one too small for sharing with the group. 

But you'd been taken with the tin. You loved the shiny red outside and blue top. And you knew that the contents inside were of no interest to you, but you wanted that tin. It made you feel bright and happy and hopeful when you looked at it. 

But there were rules in Jackson City. You weren't allowed to just take things for yourself. But you had known that if you asked it wouldn't have been given to you, not as a single woman. Items given from the kitchen were divided fairly and those with bigger families got bigger items. 

And so when eyes were tilted elsewhere you'd hidden it in your apron, rushing to the far storage room. With a beating heart you'd shoved it under the empty sacks used for hauling berries. They wouldn't be utilized again until the spring. 

You'd planned on finding a way to get it out, to smuggle it back to your place. But then that had been the week Maria told you that you were switched to patrols and all thoughts of the red tin were lost. 

Real coffee. Real coffee.

"Hey, you wanna join me on an adventure?" you tell Ellie in a quiet voice despite the fact that you two are fairly isolated from the rest of the groups.

“Yes.”

“It’s gonna involve breaking the rules.”

Ellie grins, the good mood returning to her features. She lowers her voice conspiratorially.

“Good.”

“I need to break into the kitchen at the back."

"Okay."

You hold in a smile at the lack of hesitation in the girls reply. She looks excited about it if anything. 

"Don't you wanna know what for?"

"Nah," Ellie shakes her head. "When are we doin' this?"

///

You still wonder if you should tell Jennifer what happened with Joel, but you reconsider. What good would it do? It’s not like you and Joel like each other, not like your moment of kindness somehow bonds you to each other.

But there’s something under your skin when he’s around. A feeling of being tilted off your axis that you can’t ignore, no matter how hard you try.

So you don’t mention it to her when days later she invites you and Luke to go to the movies, citing that they got a new film in she’s dying to see. She tells you about it, but you’re distracted as the three of you take turns shooting.

Movie nights are big for the people of Jackson City. It allows them a way to travel through time, to the ‘used to be’ of their world. Where they see McDonalds bags and shopping centers and beautiful, smiling faces. Where they see sun soaked beaches and can go around the world just sitting there eating popcorn in the dark surrounded by other patrons. You go every so often, but something about the dark and the crowds makes you uneasy at times. You always sit near the back, ready to escape when necessary.

When the three of you go to grab seats Jennifer doesn’t even question why you pick the back row, she just nods and tells you she’s going to get popcorn. Luke  goes with her, asking if you want anything else. He does this while looking between your eyes and your mouth, making you feel fluttery inside.

The two of them walk off and as you scan the room you notice Ellie is seated near the front. She waves at you when she notices you standing beside the empty chairs. You return it weakly, and she turns her head back around, you watch as her ponytail bobs behind her, looking knotted. You make a mental note to help her brush it again.

“Pardon me,” a voice says and a young woman moves past you, another man shoulders you, excusing himself as the crowd of people begins to swell. You start feeling a bit breathless amongst the gathering crowd. It’s like there’s too many people right now and unlike the church, this space is cramped and the lighting dim. Your heart hammers and your nails dig into the flesh of your palm.

“S’cuse me,” comes a voice from behind you.

Joel.

Before you can respond his hand is on your lower back, gently guiding you to the left so he can pass you, his fingertips strong through the fabric of your clothing. You hold your breath as he presses, almost scared of exhaling.

Your body catches on fire where he touches you, making your heart race as you glance over your shoulder up at his face. He stares down at you with a soft expression.  

What is he thinking?

You swallow, taking the seat you were saving, staring up at him. Your eyes stay on one another’s a moment longer and then he’s gone, waving at a very exuberant Ellie who shouts over the growing crowd that she saved him a good seat. 

Seconds later Jennifer reappears with a bag of popcorn and Luke in tow. The two of them take a seat beside you, Jennifer pressing against you.

“I’m almost done my dress for the holiday party,” Jennifer gushes from beside you, popping some popcorn into her mouth and crunching quietly. 

“Your dress?” You pause, brows furrowed. “Is it a big dress up event?”

“Everyone tries to look their best,” Jennifer says between bites of popcorn. “I just love any excuse to wear a dress.”

“Shit,” Luke mutters from the other side of her. “Can jeans and a sweater count as my best?”

“Of course,” she assures him before shooting you a rolling eyed look that clearly reads: men and fashion. 

Luke starts to talk about his musical practice and how you and Jennifer should come out for their first ‘casual concert’ as he calls it. He and Jennifer begin to chat about the song list and you try to focus but all you can think of is Jennifer making a dress and that dinner with Joel and Ellie; In the south women dressed up for everything, just how things were done. You look down again at your shabby jeans and sweater under your jacket. You look so plain. 

There’s the textile shop in town, a place to get clothing but it isn’t like going to the mall. Most of it is essentials like underclothes, jackets, jeans. Some people get clothing made there via bartering. But you don’t have anything worthwhile for trading. 

“I heard this movie is good,” Jennifer says pointing at the large hung blanket that acts as a screen.

“Well we can’t exactly get refunds,” you muse.

The two of you exchange a smile before the lights dim and the movie begins. Jennifer suddenly stands, glancing down at you as the darkness grows.  

“Hey, can we swap seats?” She asks you, looking from you to the screen. “I like sitting on the end because I have to pee all the time.”

You nod, swapping seats. Luke looks over at you with a warm smile before offering you some popcorn from his bag. The three of you are squashed up together with you in the middle. You share popcorn and you feel Luke’s arm warm against yours, understanding flooding you.

Nice play, Jennifer.

You try to concentrate on the movie but your eyes begin drifting over to the left side of the quieting room, soon landing on the broad shoulders of Joel, listening to something Ellie is saying to him as she eats her popcorn.

You still can’t believe you hugged Joel. That you willingly wrapped your arms around him and held him against you, inhaling the masculine scent of forest and wind and almond soap. Hearing his heartbeat thundering under your cheek and aware of how he gripped you to him.

“Do you like movies?” Luke leans over and whispers, breaking you from your conflicting thoughts.

“I like books better,” you confess. “But there’s something nice about entering another world.”

Luke nods in agreement and the two of you turn your attention back to the film.  You feel Jennifer squeeze your wrist, smirking at you with encouragement in the dark and you feel your stomach sink.

Your best friend is sitting on your right, watching a movie unaware of how you’re lusting after a man whose crush she uses as a coping mechanism. How could you be so unkind as to lust after him too? You don’t need Joel like Jennifer does. She needs the distraction.

And yes, Joel says he doesn’t like Jennifer but he’s like most people – he doesn’t really know the real Jennifer like you do.

You made a promise to yourself months ago. That you would help Jennifer get Joel and you fully intend on keeping that promise. You just have to find the right opportunity.  Satisfied with that you settle back in your chair, sighing softly. It’s an old movie, a space film you don’t recognize. 

You focus on the movie, your eyes drifting to the left every so often, seeing Joel tilt to whisper to Ellie or just sitting, watching the film. You can see Joel’s tousled locks and a pang of longing goes through you at the desire to card your hands through it. 

Where the fuck did that thought come from?

Sure, he’s handsome, but he’s also abrasive and rude and.. . . Memories are flooding you, how soft he is with Ellie, how he shared his food with you, how talented his fingers are, how you held one another. 

Luke’s pinky brushes yours at one point during the middle of the movie and you freeze, your cheeks flushing.  His hand is on his kneecap, his pinky rubbing back and forth against your outer thigh. You peek at him through your hair to see his eyes on the screen, a faint smile there.

You can’t remember the last time you felt this strange, happy jumpy feeling one has when they’re near their crush. That silly, breathless feeling that has you trying not to smirk through the scenes reflecting off the large white tarp.

When Luke’s hand navigates its way from his kneecap to yours you’re convinced you’re going to pass out. He leaves it there, heavy and warm through your jeans. Will Luke ask you to dance at the party?

Images of you and he dancing together are playing in your mind. A thought that has your entire body thrumming. It’s so normal to want something like that. You didn’t realize how much you craved normal.

All too soon the movie is over and the patrons begin to dwindle out of the makeshift theatre. You stare at Luke’s hand, sitting there on your knee when Jennifer’s soft voice speaks out beside you.

“Hi Joel.”

Your head jerks up so quickly something pops in your neck and you wince. Joel is stopped at the end of the aisle, looking at the three of you with an unimpressed expression. Ellie must have gone on ahead of him, because she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Hi Jenny,” he says smoothly, his eyes flicking to your knee and then back to her face. “Enjoy the movie?”

“Yeah, how about you?”

“S’okay,” Joel says. Standing there while the three of you sit he looks even taller, even more imposing and you throat runs dry.

“I figure we three should be headin’ out to find a tree soon,” Joel says.

His eyes flick between you and Jennifer, ignoring Luke altogether. Luke, you noticed, has removed his hand from your leg entirely. You feel a bit deflated and yet at the same time relieved. It’s a strange dichotomy that settles like a stone in your abdomen.

“Isn’t it a bit early?” you hedge.

“Party’s only a month away,” Joel shrugs. “And we won’t cut it right now; we’ll just leave a marker on it so others know not to touch it.”

You sneak a glance at Jennifer who is beaming up at Joel, trying her best not to look too eager.

“I’m pretty busy the next few days, but Jennifer has time, right?” you nudge her with your shoulder and she blinks rapidly a moment before understanding. She grins up at Joel with a demure look.

“I sure am. When do you want to go looking, Joel?”

“Last time I checked this was a group effort,” Joel says sourly. “That means we go as a group. The two of you find a time that works for you and get back to me.”

“But-“

He strides off, unwilling to listen to you trying to reason with him. You look back at Jennifer who appears fairly deflated.

“He’s a real stickler,” she shrugs.

“Don’t worry,” you tell her resolutely. “I’ll figure something out.”

///

You haven’t figured anything out by the following evening when you wait for Ellie outside the greenhouse.

You don’t know how to convince Joel to go off with Jennifer alone aside from flat out lying. But there’s a part of you that’s paranoid if you did that Joel might let things slip. What if he confessed to Jennifer about your trysts? How could she ever forgive you?  

You’re still debating your options when you hear footsteps crunching over the hardened snow, smiling when Ellie comes into view. She’s wearing black clothes and a dark burgundy beanie pulled down low. Only her pale face shows, grinning at you.

“Glad you didn’t chicken out.”

“Joel didn’t wake up?”

“He’s only got one good ear,” she explains. “He doesn’t hear much if he sleeps on his right.”

You can’t help but think back to the chapel when you’d whirled around and sneered at him.

Not our fault you’re half-deaf.

You shake off the shame that starts at the edges of your body, focusing on the task at hand. You motion for Ellie to follow you, quickly twisting the lock.

You still have the code for the greenhouse, which means you still know where they keep the spare key for the dining hall. It’s always kept under the planter near the right. Ellie watches all of this in amazement, likely shocked to see this more devious side of you. Then again this is where she first saw you, so it’s likely that she knew all along.

“I don’t even know if it’s still there,” you confess in a whisper as the two of you make your way to the dining hall. It’s almost three in the morning and the space is empty. The Bison always closes at one, and even the stragglers are home by two.

“I don’t care,” Ellie admits. “This is fun.”

You pull her into a casual side hug as you both suppress giggles. The two of you approach the padlock and Ellie watches as you twist the key, pocketing it as the door creaks open. The two of you disappear inside, pulling it shut after you.

Inside is eerily dark and quiet; the tables all cleaned and lined up for the breakfast rush in a few hours. Your dual footsteps echo in the space normally full of light and laughter.

Now that you’re actually here inside you feel your heartbeat begin to pick up a little as you think about what you’re doing. If you’re caught there are serious consequences – even possible exile. It happened only once before according to the folks here, but who’s to say it couldn’t happen again?

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say guiltily to Ellie. “I shouldn’t have-“

“I’ll keep watch,” Ellie finishes, her eyes narrowed. You know that she doesn’t want to hear anything else you have to say.

“If we’re caught-“

 “If I hear anything or see anyone dangerous I’ll hit the wall twice. You can go out the window they have by the freezer. I saw it my first day when they gave me and Joel a tour.”

“Ellie-“

“No one is gonna catch me,” she states flatly. “I’m really fast, faster than the other kids here.”

Ellie runs around the tables, weaving as she laughs.

“Shhh!” You call out, unable to keep the smirk from your face. “You want us caught?”

Ellie immediately sobers, running over to you as you approach the double doors that lead to the back room.

 “Ellie-“

“Plus, if anyone does catch me I’ll just say I was sleep walking,” Ellie says with a lopsided grin, pretending to be a sleepwalker, her eyes closed and her arms held out in front of her. She begins to softly snore, shaking herself awake, pretending to be half asleep. “Huh? Where am I? How did I get here?”

You try to suppress a laugh even though you still feel guilty to have her as your accomplice. But Ellie looks so delighted to be doing this, so excited to have this bit of adventure that it pushes away the bad thoughts. 

“You want anything from the back?”

Ellie pauses, looking thoughtful. “Something with chocolate.”

You nod, disappearing into the back room leaving Ellie to stand guard just outside them, her eyes scanning the empty space. 

It’s weird, she hasn’t been alone in so long. Someone is always there – Joel or you, schoolmates or Tommy or Maria. Even Buckley hangs around if she wanders off from the main town. It’s like she’s never alone anymore and . . . she likes it.

She didn’t expect to like it. And yeah, she has plenty of time to be by herself in her room but she likes knowing Joel is on the other side of the wall. She might roll her eyes at him or get frustrated when he insists on telling her he’s going out even though she knows he is. She may get annoyed when he insists on reminding her to brush her teeth and eat breakfast. But she likes it. She likes having someone who cares.

And you became one of those people so quickly. There’s something about your presence that isn’t hard like the rest of the people in town. A softness and a humor that Ellie finds herself drawn to. There are times when she wonders if her mother was anything like you. When you brushed her hair and she closed her eyes she could almost imagine that you were her. 

Ellie wanders back and forth along the line of tables, listening to hear you puttering around in the back. You’re quiet for the most part. Ellie hums to herself, thinking about school and her tattoo. She absently rubs her arm, thinking of how it will look decorated in Arthur’s ink.

A creak to her right draws her attention and she sees that the door has cracked open, letting a cool breeze inside. Ellie goes over to it, closing and locking it. It’s just as she’s turning back that she sees a flash of movement. Her heart jumps and she reaches for the knife in her back pocket.

But her hand stops its reaching when she sees the figure hunched under one of the tables, her braid unmistakable.

“Dina?”

Caught, the girl scrambles from under the table, heading for the far side of the dining hall. There are large windows there, big enough for her to climb out of to alert the rest of the town. Ellie doesn’t have enough time to warn you, she just takes off after Dina.

"Don't you fucking dare!' Ellie growls to herself, chasing after Dina between the tables.

Dina is like a rabbit skirting around the tables and chairs with ease. But Ellie has always been nimble and easily overtakes the other girl. 

Dina grunts when Ellie tackles her to the floor, he two of them are quiet, the only sound of Dina’s body as she slaps onto the wood floor, so harsh her teeth clatter. Ellie sits on her stomach, pinning Dina down and shoving a hand over her protesting mouth.

Dina's cries are muffled under her harshly pressing palm. Ellie straddles Dina's stomach as the girl squirms. 

"Shut the fuck up," Ellie growls, her face inches from Dina's. The two girls stare at each other, panting heavily. As the seconds tick by Ellie feels a strange swirling in her abdomen and she loosens her grip. 

"You promise you won't scream?"

Dina nods and her large eyes strangely soft. Ellie removes her hand slowly, confused as to why it's suddenly trembling. 

“Why are you here?”

“I… I was up early. Couldn’t sleep. I saw you from my window.”

She followed the two of you here.

Ellie is frustrated at being caught and strangely feels like she’s let you down. She pins Dina’s arms to the ground again, narrowing her gaze on the girl’s flushed face.

"You can't say anything about us being here, got it?"

Dina nods again, panting lightly. Ellie's face is still close and she can see the freckles scatter like constellations over Dina's cheeks. Ellie feels another swoop in her stomach that she attributes to the fear of being caught.

"Why are you always on my case?" Ellie rasps, her eyes searching the other girls. "Why'd you follow me here?"

"Let me go," Dina breathes and now she’s squirming under Ellie. 

"No," Ellie insists. "Tell me. Why? Why are you always around giving me shit?" 

"Ellie-"

"Why do you act like you're so much better than me?"

"Ellie just ..." Dina takes a sharp breath in, her eyes fixed on Ellie's mouth.

Ellie is confused by this until Dina jerks her face up, pressing her lips to Ellie's. Ellie feels her entire world tilt at the feeling of the girl’s mouth on hers. Soft and sweet and...

What the fuck? Ellie scrambles back off of Dina, her fingers on her lips. She stares at Dina in confusion. 

"W-what did... Why-," Ellie stammers as Dina sits up, her face heating. 

"Just … Don't say anything," Dina grumbles, pushing herself to a stand. "And I won't tell about whatever you two are doing here." 

Before Ellie can attempt a reply Dina is on her feet and rushing out of the cafeteria. Ellie turns only when she hears you stumbling out of the storage room minutes later holding your prize; the red coffee can and a chocolate bar in the other that you toss in her direction. 

"Got it. Let's go."

///

The next patrol seems to come so quickly, it’s already the afternoon and you’re heading towards Teton. You haven’t seen Joel all week and you’ve been pretty thankful for it. You still don’t know where the two of you stand. But you’re also sort of excited to see him. To give him his gift.

“Don’t have to check the traps this week,” he tells you over his shoulder.

“Right.”

You both continue on in the strained silence, doing your perimeter check. Your more alert today, your hand ready for your gun. You want to be ready in case Joel pulls another surprise test like last time.

You feel like getting to Teton drags on and on. The normally pleasant ride is cold and feels longer than usual. You take the time trying to remember books you’ve read or songs you used to enjoy, but you keep getting distracted by Joel ahead of you.

You keep remembering the feeling of his embrace. How he smelled, how warm he was, how gentle. Joel is so rarely gentle and you think this may be leaking into your subconscious.

This morning as you boiled the water you’d been daydreaming, thinking of the dance you want Luke to take you to. Only in this daydream its Joel you dance with, Joel who spins you around in his arms, holding you like he did in the forest. Joel who whispers in your ear that you look beautiful. Because in this daydream you wear a gown, not your jeans and sweater.

Eventually you make it to the safe house, tying the horses up and heading inside. Joel unlocks it this time, the same code as the last visit. But he allows you in first, stepping back and sweeping a hand indicating you should enter.

You thank him, walking up to the log book where you sign in, writing your names hurriedly so you can get to lunch.  

Joel walks into the room, his boots scraping as he comes to stand behind you. You think he’s looking to make sure you filled the log book correctly but another part of you believes he’s just doing it so he can stand close to you. The only difference is today you don’t mind.

You stand with your back to him, feeling the warmth of his body as he stands there, peering over your shoulder. You feel his mouth draw near the side of your face and you hold your breath, waiting to see what he’ll do.

“Miller’s only got two L’s,” he rumbles against your ear. “Not three.”

“There’s only-“ you stop as you peer closer at your writing. “Fuck.”

In your exuberance to fill in the logbook you did in fact write his last name incorrectly. You scribble one of the extra L’s out as Joel chuckles softly behind you. You feel like an idiot, all fluttery and strange. Why are you acting like this?

When the time comes for lunch you’re actually nervous, thinking your plan might have been a stupid one. Why did you think of this? What if he thinks you’re pathetic for it?

Joel often eats his lunch the same way, starting with the peeling of his orange. Then he pops one piece of orange into his mouth, followed by the large meat sandwich, a few carrots, the rest of the orange and then finish with his coffee and whatever pastry has been included in the lunch bag. You watch him eat, trying to look away when his eyes dart to you. You nibble on your sandwich, taking your time.

You watch as he finishes the orange, wrapping the peel in the wax cover. He saves the peels to feed to the horses on the way back, keeping them upbeat. You started doing the same, finding Chestnut had an extra zip to his step when you did.

When he reaches for his bag you swallow your carrot, reaching into your bag and producing your thermos from home.

"Here, I brought you a drink," you say awkwardly shoving your Thermos at him across the table. 

"I already got the one they packed," he says indicating to the Thermos in his bag. You falter, feeling shy.

"Yeah but … this one is... Different."

"Poisoned?" 

"Not to my knowledge." 

Joel smirks before nodding. You take a bite of your sandwich, chewing as you watch him unscrew the lid. He peers into the Thermos and you see him raise a confused brow. 

It's not until he lifts it to his nose and inhales that he realizes. 

"Where the fuck did you get this?"

You shrug like it doesn't matter and he doesn't press it. When Joel tilts it to marvel at it in the Thermos you're struck that the brew inside matches the color of his dark brown eyes. 

You're confused that he's not drinking it. Just staring at it like he's never seen coffee before. 

"I thought you liked real coffee," you say, head tilting to the Thermos. "I never drank it. Is Folghers not real coffee?"

"Folgers," Joel corrects your pronunciation gently. "And uh, yeah, it's real. S'what I used to make every morning before work."

You nod, still a little confused as to why he's not drinking it. 

"Did you ever go to Starbucks?"

Joel gives one of those not-quite-a-smile quirks of his lips. "Yeah."

"What did you get there?"

"Black coffee."

"You went to Starbucks and you just got a black coffee?"

"Sure."

This surprises an amused smile out of you, one that stays on your face until you see Joel is staring at you. His eyes rest there a beat before dragging back to the Thermos. You watch as he brings it to his mouth and takes the first sip. 

You don't realize you're holding your breath until it all rushes out. 

"Damn," he says after swallowing. "S'pretty weak but still got that same flavor. Where did you get this? Really?" 

"I used to work in the kitchen," you mumble, suddenly concerned that you'll be reported. "I uh... I hid it before so I could keep it… Just remembered it when we were talking about coffee last time." 

"Why'd you hide it?"

"S'my favorite color," you say wincing at how childish it sounds. "The tin it came in is red. Anyway, I have a whole container of this coffee at my house if you want it. I just wanted to keep the tin." 

Joel is staring at the coffee, mouth still pursing as he tastes the lingering flavor on his tongue. You’re confused when he shakes his head a little.

"You know I can count on my hand the amount of people that have done something for me," Joel says still looking at the thermos. "Side from my kids."

"It's what you do for friends," you reason. 

"Are we friends?"

"I'd like us to be." 

Joel nods slowly, eyes sliding to your face before going back to the coffee. He takes another sip, sighing gently. He closes his eyes and for a minute you see the lines in his face smooth, a state of relaxation overtaking him. You realize he's lost in a moment, a memory, a nostalgic moment. 

"When she got old enough, Sarah used to make me coffee in the morning before she went off to school." Joels eyes are still closed. "She used to nag me about bein' more healthy. She had this look she pulled, scrunched but.. she could never look angry. Didn't have it in her. She was always like a sunbeam, happy and golden." 

You've never met Sarah, never seen the photo Joel avoids at Tommy's house. Yet through the stories you've heard you can almost sense her, bubbly and warm, conscientious and sweet. You imagine wide eyes that disappear when she smiles and knobby knees as she sprouted over the years.

"She sounds wonderful."

Joel just nods with his eyes on his coffee. 

“Thank you," he says softly and you don't know if it's because of the coffee or the memory it brought up. Whatever it is, it makes you beam at him, delighted. 

"No problem." 

The two of you continue eating your lunch, Joel ending on coffee and you on your hot chocolate. The silence is easy and you feel sated in more ways than one. You’re friends, its official. The thought warms you.

You both rise, about to head out into the main section of the house to check that everything is stocked up and there are no leaks. You're about to leave out the door when you feel Joel's hand on your shoulder. You turn, brows raised expectantly. 

"What?"

Joel stares at you much like he was staring at you earlier. That inscrutable look in his dark eyes as they drop to your mouth. 

You twitch in surprise when his fingers come to gently grip your chin. You're confused because this isn't how this works. He's usually more forceful, more demanding. Instead his hand slides from your chin to your jaw, resting there. With infinite deliberation he moves his face towards you and tilts his mouth gingerly against yours. 

His lips are warmed from the coffee, slightly damp from where he licked his lips moments before. But as they graze yours you feel everything on you crackle with electricity that makes you start.

You inhale sharply, a soft little thing you'd assumed would be absorbed into the room. But Joel hears it, his strong nose brushing yours as he pulls back to look at you. 

"What?"

"Nothing," you say quickly. Too quickly. 

The lines between his brows deepen the concern evident. He wants answers and you know you'll have to give them if there's any chance of feeling his mouth again. You surprise yourself from wanting to feel them again. 

"I've just never kissed anyone before. Not really."

His eyes widen only a fraction, the white leaking around the iris. 

"You dated."

"I had..." You struggle for the word. "Encounters."

Fingers, cocks, hard fucking, slaps of flesh. Needling digits in flesh, around hair, between your legs. Never their lips against yours, never the gentle dab of their tongues in your mouth. Never softness.  

Joel stares at you; the deep chestnut of his eyes is momentarily hypnotizing.

"And you never-"

"No." 

Some tried, mouths on your neck, drifting upwards. But it always reminded you of them. Of the infected, the tendrils of green spilling from their mouths. It made you think of the neighbor that charged after you and your sister as you fled home. 

So when those same needy mouths went to your face it made you wince and turn your head, made you tell them to just fuck you. They never turned that down. Kissing was just a means to an end for them anyway. 

The only man you would have kissed willingly wouldn't tarnish the memory of his dead wife. And now the only man you'd kiss is staring at you. You feel shame at the scrutiny, as if he's seeing clear confirmation of your shortcomings. 

You could move away, shoulder past him, pretend none of this happened. But you don't. You stand with your gaze steady, curious that Joel's mouth seems to be drifting closer. 

When his dark eyes dart to your mouth you know you're not imagining it. And with the softest touch imaginable, Joel's warm lips press against yours. His lips seek yours not in the commanding way he is usually known for in life, but almost timid, as if he's terrified of fucking up. 

His eyes are still open when yours drift shut, neck tilting so that the kiss can deepen. His lips part, you feel them and then the damp dab of his tongue along your lower lip, wetting it. You hear him inhale through his nose as he tastes you.

You make a cooing noise in the back of your throat, surprised at the sensation. Joel immediately ceases, his face pulling back again. Your lips tingle from his touch, your mouth almost chasing his before you remember yourself. 

"S'okay?"

"Mhm." 

"You wanna keep goin’?"

"Yes," you breathe, not even bothering to stop and consider what you're agreeing to. 

Joel nods and to your surprise he sits on the chair he just vacated, tugging you towards him. You're about to go to your knees, assuming that this is what he's expecting but he shakes his head softly. 

"Sit here," he murmurs, rubbing a hand over his thigh before both hands come to your hips to guide you. 

He urges your legs to bracket his, to sit facing him on his lap. The chair creaks under your combined weight but Joel pays it no mind, his steady gaze is on your face. You don’t move, finding that your shock lends itself to keeping you there like a doll on his lap.

"Put your arms around my neck," he tells you in a husky murmur. 

When you pause, shocked by the request, he takes you by the wrists, urging your arms around his neck. His arms slide around your waist, holding you there.

The warmth of his lips is still felt on your own and when he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back, feeling inexperienced but taken care of. He pulls back a moment and when you chase his mouth this time he readily allows them to be captured. 

You inhale at the sensation of his lips warming yours, feeling as his hands cup your cheeks, kissing you sweetly, taking his time, letting you explore his lips, his tongue, everything you want.  You kiss him back, desperate for more of him.

You're trembling everywhere but you can't stop, you want more of this, to kiss him for hours. For him to trace his tongue over every inch of your mouth, your lips, fuck, just everything. 

Joel’s never like this. You've never touched, never felt his hands on you like this. It makes you feel disorientated. Your eyes are heavy lidded as you stare into his, feeling the bulge between his legs that’s been there since you sat on his lap, pulsing and aching beneath you.

He nudges his nose against yours, urging your head to the side. You submit, feeling as his mouth works its way along your neck, wet and needy. Tingles shoot everywhere in response to his beard rasping against your skin and his soft lips trailing down.

You let out a shuddering sigh at the sensation, eyes closed as he continues. You feel his teeth scrape your carotid artery and you swallow anxiously. 

What are you doing? Why is Joel doing this? 

This thought distracts you until his broad hands slide up your sides, coming to cup your breasts. You hold in a gasp of pleasured delight when his thumbs find your hardened nipples and he grazes over them and you feel them pucker further. You watch as he squeezes your breasts, groaning when you do. 

"Mhm," he murmurs when you whimper. "You like that, don't ya?"

You can only nod, your hands gripping his shoulders tighter as your body tilts further back, nipples tightening almost painfully. Joel tugs you back, hands leaving your breasts to splay against your spine, forcing your chest to his. Your head instinctively tilts when his lips find your jaw. 

"I wanna give you more," Joel rumbles against your neck. “You want that?”

"Yes, I want more," you breathe, arms crooked around his neck. "Please, I-“ 

Joel doesn't let you finish before his mouth crashes against yours, his hands going to untuck the shirt you wear under your sweater from your jeans. You allow it, holding your arms up so he can divest you of the bulky sweater, leaving the t-shirt on for now. He lets his eyes travel along your breasts, the nipples peeking through the thin fabric of your bra and shirt.

You gasp when his head dips forward and he circles one through the cloth, sucking it into his mouth, wetting the shirt. You arch back, his hands on your upper back, pulling you into him. He groans, hips rolling against yours as you whimper for him, hands carding through his hair. It feels so good to let go.

“You’re gonna ride my thigh ‘til you come."

His words have the intended effect because you're hips begin to roll automatically, the second his palms urge you to do so. The seam of your jeans hits exactly the right spot, creating a pleasurable friction that has you starting to moan.  

Fuck. It feels so good. How does he make it feel so good? 

You don't understand how his hands urging you to press roughly against his denim-clad thigh has you arching, your body alight with an inner fire as you ride him there in the quiet room. This is Joel the man who just became your friend. Joel who - - - you can’t think rationally, can’t even finish this thought. You just surrender to how he moves your increasingly pliant body, the gentle touches, the needy groans making you come undone.

"Just like that," Joel says thickly, his eyes sliding all over your body from where you ride him, to the gentle bounce of your breasts, all the way up to your face with your saddled brows and parted mouth. 

You need more; you crave his fingers, his warm skin. Your mouth finds his neck, pressing there for the first time. His skin is so warm, the color and temperature of gold sand warmed by the sun. 

You feel that Joel is still so hard underneath you and your fingers slide between your two bodies, coming to cup him through the denim of his jeans. He gently disentangles you, tugging your hand from him and replacing it on his shoulder. 

"Keep ‘em there," he instructs gently.

Your eyes fly open, concerned you've done something wrong but he doesn't look upset. You are about to say something when you feel his fingers coming to pop the button of your jeans open. 

"You don't have to do anything," Joel tells you, his mouth grazing yours as he lowers the zipper of your jeans. "Just need you to feel good."

"You don't want... You know?"

Joel shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You feel as his fingers trace over the damp spot in your panties and you shiver. 

"Lemme give it to you," he says huskily.

You feel his fingers continue their trailing between your thighs, tugging your panties to the side, his fingers splaying around your clit. At the contact combined with his lingering eye contact you buck against his hand. 

He watches your face with intense scrutiny, making you feel shy. You drop your head forward as your thighs tighten. 

"C'mon," Joel says softly, his own arms banding around your waist and holding you to him. "C'mon, lemme hear it."

Joel is never tender and sweet and wanting you to make noise. He's always telling you to shut up, always insisting that you talk too much. Never letting you touch him aside from your mouth on his cock. What changed?

“You can take it,” he murmurs huskily. “S’all for you today.”

His free hand grips your hips, urging you to grind against him harder.  He's never been this free with praise. Never been so tender. It makes you feel dizzy. 

His hips are still rolling against yours, urging you to keep chasing that pleasure that seems just out of reach. For some reason its hard today, your confusion over what’s happening clouding the desire that bleeds into focus.

"So wet," he remarks, his fingers entering you, curling, coaxing you to come forward off that precipice.  You feel as his thick finger enters your honeyed entrance, the thumb still rubbing your swollen clit.

You whimper, burying your face in his lean neck while keeping your arms on his shoulders and continuing to roll your hips against him. When he adds a second finger and increases the tempo of his thumb’s rub you start to quake. He puts his damp lips to your ear.

"I know," he rasps. "Keep goin', baby, I'll take ya there." 

Baby. 

It slips out. You know he didn’t mean to call you baby. Joel has never come close to giving you a nickname, neutral or otherwise. You desperately want more of him. To feel him deep within you, but something stops you. Something tells you that this has to be enough. 

"That's it," he encourages with what could almost be a smile in his voice. "That's it. Doing so good." 

"C'mon," Joel urges his hand on your chin so you can't look away. "C'mon and let me give it to you."

"Joel," you whisper for no other reason than wanting to say it. His praise is making you feel crazy.

Baby.

You force your head against his shoulder, groaning with abandon. You feel his large palm there, resting on the back of your skull.

"Go on, yeah, just like that," Joel encourages as he cradles the back of your head. "Doin' so good for me." 

You ride his fingers with abandon, a stuttering moan escaping you when he adds a third finger and begins to fuck you that way, the tempo of his thumb on your clit never changing speed.  

"I know," he croons sympathetically when your whimpers turn to needful whines as your pleasure ebbs and flows. Like a tide that recedes the more you chase after it. 

"I know, you’re so close, just keep goin’." 

You want it so badly it hurts. But you’re mind is so full, crowding you and making you feel suffocated.

"I can't," you grind out with frustrated tears in your eyes. Joel’s mouth is at your ear immediately.

"Look at me," he commands gently.

You lift your head, lips swollen, hair mussed and eyes glassy. Joel is similarly affected, his expression entirely painted with desire, hair mussed and falling into his dark eyes.

"You like doin' what I tell you," he says as he presses his mouth to the hollow of your throat. It's not a question. You feel his teeth scrape your carotid artery and you swallow. Yes, you love doing what Joel asks you when he's soft like this. 

"Yes," you sigh. 

"Then you're gonna listen to me right now," Joel says, his mouth at your jaw now as his hands continue to rock you against his leg. "And you’re gonna come.”

You're still desperately rutting against his hand, his bulge straining through his jeans. And there it is; that sweet wipe of your brain clean. When Joel’s words are all that you can hear and the loud, annoying thoughts that normally rule you are quieted.

Joel has told you to come and you’re going to.

“Gonna do that?” Joel teases as his tongue comes to trace behind your jaw. “Gonna be a good girl for me and come?”

Yes yes yes.

His words have you whimpering, pressing harshly into his fingers as you ride his thigh. Joel is gazing at you, his words melting into the background as everything else grows silent. C’mon, you’re so close, I can feel it. Go on and take it, s’all for you.

He holds you with one hand, the other still working between your thighs, urging you to keep going, fucking you with only his fingers and his words and yet it’s so potent you feel it in every nerve of your body. You feel Joel everywhere, you hear him everywhere.

You wanna be good for him and when the next pleasured wave overtakes you, you surrender completely. It bursts behind your eyes as everything releases within you and you cry out loudly, body thrusting intensely against Joel’s hand as he watches you, praising you as you fuck yourself on his fingers. 

"Atta girl," Joel says and his voice sounds almost proud. “You take what you want. Go on.”

And you do, you ride him until you’re completely spent, shuddering in his lap as you feel your entire body light up, pleasure dripping through your veins as Joel kisses your neck, murmuring that’s right, just like that. Did so good for me as his arms circle your waist again. 

You collapse against his chest, feeling boneless. You’re too tired to even hold him around the neck, your arms just drape to the sides and your cheek rests on his shoulder. You breath heavily, your heart pounding.

"Just sit there," he murmurs as he holds you, a hand running itself through your hair gently. "Take a minute."

"Okay." 

You can’t believe what just happened. This was nothing like what happened before with you on your knees, nothing like the chapel back room. This was something different entirely. An experience that you can’t just push off as an encounter. You kissed him, you kissed him and wanted more.

Moments later your breathing slows and you don’t know what possesses you but you tilt forward before pressing a chaste kiss to Joel’s temple, right over the scar there. Joel’s eyes close as you do, his voice low and rumbling.

"Feelin’ okay?"

You nod as you crack your eyes open, a breathless smile on your face.

“More than okay.”

Joel is nodding at you, his cheeks pink and his eyes black with desire.

Without hesitation you dip your face and he eagerly accepts your mouth on his. His lips are damp and full and they feel perfect. A hand comes to hold the back of your neck, keeping you from pulling back too soon as his tongue begins licking into your mouth.

He kisses you languidly, as if you have all the time in the world. The thudding between your legs isn't gone, if anything is compounded when he groans when your mouth opens further, your tongue coming to dab against his.

You desperately reach for Joel's shirt, intent on popping open the buttons. His hands begin to travel under your shirt, sliding under the bare flesh there when his thumb comes to drag just under your sternum, catching on the end of the jagged scar there.

You feel Joel hesitate when that happens and you pull back, your eyes flying to his face to see him looking at you with worry.

Before you can say anything the loud neighs of both the horses breaks the two of you from this interlude. You hastily crawl off him as Joel rushes to the window, glancing down to where you hitched the horses. You pull on your sweater, feeling vulnerable.

"What's wrong?" You ask going up beside him and peering through the frosted glass to see the two horses nipping at one another. Chesnut gives another little whinny as Midnight nips him again.

"Nothin'," Joel exhales, relieved. "They were just playin'."

So were we. 

Joel glances your way, and unlike your last patrols there's no darkness in his expression when he next speaks. 

"Let's head back."

-----------------------------------------------------

TAGLIST (PLEASE make sure your name is not already on here before asking me to tag)

@casssiopeia

@getitoutofmymind

@joeldjarin

@elegantduckturtle

@cosmic006533-blog

@orcasoul

@la-vie-est-une-fleur29

@valkyreally

@multiversed-daydreamer

@deninoe

@ashleyfilm

@missladym1981

@questionablemay

@noisynightmarepoetry

@eddiesxrings

@know-that-its-delicate

@onlyyoucan-getme

@cosmic006533-blog

@harryscum

@confusedpuffin

@koshkaj-blog

@puduvallee

@locaparapedrito

@guelyury

@sofiparallel

@maryrhodalouandted

@questionablemay

@kateg88

@friskispunk

@mewantpeepaw

@cuteanimalmama

@alma-rt1

@marisemonteiroo

@thedisagreeablegirl

@olafsmiles2020

@survivingandenduring

@sofiparallel

@bitchesuntitled

@r4vens-cl4ws

@deninoe

@harriedandharassed

@honestly-really-magnificent

@joelmillersblog

@alma-rt1

@fancyyoouu

@whataboutcloneclub

@cuteanimalmama

@locaparapedrito

@kateg88

@noisynightmarepoetry

@r3dheadedwitch

@hjzghi-blog

@ladyofmidlo72

@glitterymanboy

@cumberpegg

@part2joelmiller

@nandan11

@anon221420

@scubacat

@swankyorange

@deansimpalagirl

@locaparapedrito

@marisemonteiroo

@cuteanimalmama

@caitlynsixxx

@macaroni676

@dreamtofus

@copperhalfcent

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog

@ashhlsstuff

@picketniffler

@mellymbee

@shy-taylorsversion

@vickie5446

@missbeeentertainment

@strawberrycake99

@amyispxnk

@arcticversed

@xxx-silhouette-xxx

[acid-ixx]

ch.3: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: allusions to sexual assault, prostitution, and alcohol abuse.

"hey baby bird!!! <333 long time no see! how are you?!"

please stop.

"i know that we haven't been talking for quite a long time—"

no, you have never once had a solid conversation with him.

and you wish it stays that way between the two of you.

"—so let's catch up over coffee, yeah? i'll be staying at the manor for a week!"

you don't want to, you don't want to see his face at all, his dismissive eyes. don't want to hear his voice, how it only sings praises for everyone but you.

"(name)??? it says you have seen the messages :( are you asleep? you shouldn't sleep with your phone on, baby bird, that's dangerous!"

he doesn't have the right to scold you, he's not your older brother anymore. and you're not asleep, fuck, you regret not dozing off this afternoon. hell, you're more than awake and aware of the messages he's sending you, eyes scanning over the train of spam that clutters what was once an empty one-sided conversation.

"baby bird? c'mon, i miss you!!!"

lies, lies, lies. all he ever says are lies and you wouldn't fall for it, not anymore.

yet you're simply frozen in shock, seated up in bed as you simply watch dick's messages stack upon each other.

you watch, and wait. it's like you have lost autonomy over your body's actions.

five minutes pass.

your phone rings.

it was the only sound that fills the room other than the wringing in your ears.

it continues ringing, reverberating throughout the room, but all you do is stare, stare until the it ends, for everything to end and for all of this to be a sick hallucination your brain played on you.

there's nothing else you could focus on, your heartbeats spike the longer the call sound continues. you didn't even have the strength to decline the call, let alone move as you fear you might end up pressing the accept button.

so you wait, you wait until it stops.

and once it does cease, your sweaty thumb immediately pressed the block button on dick's profile, even going as far to delete all the past chats you had sent him. then, without moments hesitation, hastily scrolled all the way to the bottom of the list, where their other contacts lay barren of messages.

you have only used enough effort to message dick. that's what probably triggered his sudden intent on spending time with you, no? or was this all for his sick pleasure?

fortunately, all your other contacts with your past family are empty.

it will remain empty.

so you immediately blocked them, all of them. the thumps in your heart are erratic, so much so that you had to remind yourself to breath. through your nose, and out your mouth.

that's it, right? he'll get the message, definitely. that you don't want him to talk to you, to get rid of the false pretenses between the two of you, you don't want to "catch up" over coffee, or over anything.

it's all over, you tell yourself.

'calm down, relax...' you're in the safety of your own apartment, you should feel safe right now, he wouldn't bother you anymore.

not anymore would you be led to believe that they care for you.

— so why is it that you can feel that familiar rise of bile? taste it, even? why is it that your body is shaking so uncontrollably?

what the fuck.

seriously, just what the absolute fuck is wrong with you?

you never take yourself as an overdramatic person, especially not now, at the age of eighteen where you had finally learned to live for yourself, to never yearn what you knew was unattainable. your past tantrums were no more, no more you say but you wish so badly to carve a knife into your very heart.

why is it that now— now that you were out of your comfort zone, out of their empty presences and their overwhelming absences; why is it now that he just suddenly decided to appear? why is it just now that you feel your skin scorching uncomfortably at just a single message.

shit, your heart hurts so much. you want to take the beating organ out of your chest, just to make the pain stop.

your momma always told you, she said it herself that you are a brave child, her pride and joy despite the hellish living conditions you both were subjected to.

why is it so hard to believe her now?

just, why are you so weak?

when your mother hid you inside that closet - one too small for even a malnourished child like you to fit - telling you to hush for her, and that it's just a game of hide and seek with the 'bad guys', to not make a single sound at all or even come out if you hear screaming— you did what you were told, obediently, covering your mouth, trying your hardest to ignore your sore joints and heavy breathing.

"woah, mommy! is this really me?! you always make me look so nice." a young voice squeals, the sound echoing throughout the hollow room.

"yes, it's you, baby. you who are so strong, unlike me. momma will always love you." scarred hand, littered with gashes and soiled bandages run brush through your messy hair as your small form sat on the dirty bathroom sink. your eyes are drifted towards a mirror, checking out the new shirt your mother had bought for you.

"i love you too..."

you never cried that loud when light suddenly hits the cramped interiors of the closet, when you were caught and shoved outside of your hiding space by strange men, your mother nowhere to be found. when you felt the same men ripping your clothes apart, knives branding your skin like a searing hot pan; you never fought back because that's what your mother taught you. even when they pinned you down and injected you with a strange substance, head suddenly numbing and vision darkening; you still woke up alive, no?

... you woke up alive and conscious in a police station, where you had questiomed to the kind officer about your mother's disappearance, where she had bared the news that you would be taken in to a new family; a new home where your father resides in. one way cleaner, way safer she says.

yet for the next 15 years you were neglectef of the love your mother had given you. you were only raised by a butler too busy to fully focus on you. you had compared yourself to your siblings, siblings who had achieved so much in so little time.

and you?

you are only a wayne by name, but a (last name) by heart.

but you are brave, you are strong— you came from the lowest of the low, yet you pushed through and through to be a better person, and look where you are now...!

... just look at yourself now.

your phone lays untouched on the bed sheets. it tempts you, mocks your panicked state, and you want to rip that rectangular piece of metal apart. yet all you do is stare at it, sitting upright as one hands supports your weight. your fingers clench the mattress, it does nothing as your vision darkens from your lack of breathing.

breathing.

oh, breath in, breath out. do what alfred has taught you years ago, the- the one he uses whenever you would run alone in the desolate halls of the manor to alfred's room, just because you were anxious of the monsters in the corner of your eyes, where he would help you return to your senses and play you a lullaby from an old music box right after. the one he uses after you two would watch horror movies and you were too scared of any sounds that engulf your surroundings.

your throat tightens, and you want to vomit out the contents of what you have eaten— but you have to try.

five things you can see.

your eyes, although frozen wide and stinging with tears, darts around the room. everything is darker now, it's cold and you feel so small. your apartment was small. unlike the place you had lived before, it lacks of furniture, of life, of personality. the only things in your tiny apartment were basic necessities, but even food was scarce for someone like you who had juggle working multiple jobs and college just to pay for rent.

you can see your phone, the candy wrappers you had forgotten to throw, the overflowing trash bin, an empty bottle of prescription pills, alfred's gifts on the shelves counts, right? you laugh sarcastically at yourself; even a trashcan has more contents in your shitty apartment.

fuck, your chest throbs, you remind yourself to breath a little deeper.

four things you can feel.

the mattress is too hot for you, sweat already running down your forehead as if you had ran a marathon. you can feel the tears well up your eyes, overflowing with bitterness that you thought you had already buried deep down, and your hands gripping the sheets so uncomfortably tight. the weather is too cold, winter's nearing but the blood pumping through your veins scorches your very being.

that's four, three more to go and you hope this would all be over. you hope that this would all be a dream, a hallucination, anything.

three things you can hear.

does your choked sounds count? or does it need to be anything else? fuck, why doesn't it work as well as when alfred helps you through? you told yourself that you could take on anything in life, but is it all just a lie—?

focus. focus on your surroundings. you can hear your sniffling, heavy intakes of air, and a repeat of the phone ringing with dick's name as the contact.

shit, shit, shit. don't remind yourself of that. move on, just get onto the next thing.

two things you can smell or... taste? you don't remember, why can't you remember? your thoughts keep running back in circles to the messages, that stupid '<3', the way his desperation could be felt through the phone.

it reminds you of yourself.

before you knew it, your fist brought itself to punch your chest.

thump, beat, thump.

every time your heart beats too loudly, you strike your chest as hard as you can, uncaring for the pain it inflicts you, uncaring for the way you beat the air out of yourself. as long as it distracts you from the bile rising up your throat and the unsated nausea from sitting in the same position— it'll be fine if you hurt yourself. you've already done so a million times, no?

... yet nothing works.

why doesn't anything work out in your favor?

please don't do this to me.

your fists eventually stops. everything hurts even worse.

just earlier ago, you were praising yourself for all the progress you had made. how you weren't in need of validation anymore. you try so desperately to erase any inch of evidence that you were a wayne.

it all crashes down, again and again, and again and again.

moments ago, you were laying on your bed, scrolling through social media, making plans to hangout with your small group of friends in college, trying to cling on to the good parts of your past— ignoring the empty chats of what was once family.

but even without them, even if they haven't knew that you pushed them away from your life— they're always seeping their way at the back of your mind.

you truly can not erase your past. no matter how much you shake your head to rid of the thoughts, no matter how much you try to erase any documentations, any

even talking to alfred reminds you of your stupid past. a past that eats you up every time you wake up from the nightmares, wishing that there would be someone, anyone, who would hold your body tight and tell you it's alright. your mother, your father, your brothers and your sisters— they just were never there for you for so many years. and you hate to admit it but; you still cling to the wish that one of them would...

would hug you and kiss all your wounds away. drive away the countless of dreams filled with terror and torture.

you're independent now, but at what cost? what good does it do when you still try your damn hardest to live? when you know it in your soul that you still desire for a semblence of familial love.

and now that you've pushed alfred away, you're truly alone.

alone and stuck in a loop of trying to run away from your past and failing miserably.

and all you can ever do is, well...

you cry.

the tears bursts out of your eyes like a broken faucet.

you cry because that's the only thing you know how to do. you let the waters loose, hands quickly tangling itself on your hair, ripping fragile strands apart. you cry because you've been living a such a life full of lies, of broken promises, a life where you have to constantly walk on eggshells. you cry because you want to turn back and throw away all your progress just to feel the embrace of a family who had never once held you in their arms. you let yourself heave, let your voice wail out to its deepest frustration, uncaring for the thin walls, or the sleeping neighbors next door, or the rumbling of your empty stomach.

you cry, for what seems like hours, unending like the memories of solitary isolation, like the wanting of a love that you could never quite catch. you let your eyes become all puffy and red; red like the gashes you have scratched upon your skin, like the crimson, beaded blood from your bitten lips.

you don't find any strength in yourself to stifle your sobs anymore.

not when you're so, so lonely in this world.

and when your voice dies down, when your hoarse shrieking becomes no more; you simply force yourself to stand, despite the spinning of your vision, the stumble in your steps and the lack of air in your lungs; you run to your bathroom, slamming the door shut, letting adrenaline take its course into your already tired body.

your knees, they buckle after its few wobbly steps. it's sore and lacks the circulation to be properly controlled, but you ignore it in favor of expelling the acidic bile that finally rushes itself up your tongue.

at least you find just one thing to be grateful for— that your knees slipped on the wet tiles and land coincidentally towards the toilet's rim, a loud thud vibrating through the room.

alfred says the best way to cope is to never jar your emotions.

it's painful, everything is so painful that you want to scream; you need to let it all out.

you don't care if your knees were to bruise because you couldn't help it anymore, spilling out the contents of your breakfast onto the toilet bowl. your throat constricts into itself, and all you could do is gag and force every bit of food out of your mouth.

and it tastes so bitter that you cry even more. there were some bits and chunks stuck on the sides of your tongue, you can taste the acid on the back of your throat. you feel the urge to vomit even more but there's no more to expel. all you can do is dry heave, shaking hands finding its way to cover your mouth from gagging anymore.

it's so pungent, so fucking disgusting— but all you do is force yourself to stand once more, to look away from the mess you had created and flush it away.

the tears just wouldn't stop, the throbbing in your heart could never be expelled just as easily as the contents of your stomach.

yet you chose this life, there's no more alfred to assist you on your own personal struggles. there's no more rubs on the pack, pats on the head or a warm meal that greets you every time you drown in your own emotions. it's only you who can solve your own problems. you can't depend on anyone but yourself...

if only life was as easy as it is to flush away unwanted contents from your stomach.

if only you weren't in gotham... if only dick wasn't in...

gotham.

he's in gotham right now.

shit.

shit, shit, shit.

dick is in gotham, and you know he just doesn't give up.

he can track you down, he'll find you, he might hurt you because you blocked him— you know of his temper, of his unadulterated anger; you're scared of that. just what have you done wrong? did you take something that was his? no, no, never.

you've never been in his room before. he knows yours because he had visited once, but you don't know his. you don't even know which hallway leads to it.

oh, fuck.

you stumble towards the bathroom sink, hastily twisting the faucet's valve. cold water immediately rushes down, you cup your two hands together to collect the running water.

you need to get to you bearings, prepare for the absolute worst because you know, you know the power he holds in his arms.

with the amount of times he had spammed you, called you even— there's something he wants from you, and you don't want to entertain whatever he has on his mind.

you splash your face - splotched with tears, snot and drool - clean multiple times, rub your swollen, red eyes, and wipe the bits of vomit on the sides of your mouth. you can still taste the vomit. god, it's disgusting.

so you hastily grabbed your toothbrush, pushing an insanely large amount of toothpaste on the bristles. you scrub your teeth aggressively, feeling the urge to rid of the pungent taste of stomach acid. then you gargle mouthwash, twice, and spit it all out.

your movements are too quick for your own self to catch up, but you have to do this. your brain tells you to follow through whatever it has to do.

follow through instincts, get him out of your mind.

distract yourself from dick and the cryptic messages he had sent, that you had thoroughly deleted but...

it dawns upon you that albeit all your failed attempts at bonding with him— you know nothing about dick beyond the circus incident that had killed his parents and his identity as gotham and bludhaven's vigilante, nightwing.

you know nothing about him...

and you fucking blocked him before you could ask for an explanation.

what does that message mean? what does he want to talk about all of a sudden? a person doesn't just fucking waltz in someone's life after 15 years of absence and exclaims himself as close as your friend, no?

it had been so long since you had last heard him call you baby bird, let alone even read your messages, so why spam you now?

your knuckles grip at the bathroom sink's tiles, it was the only thing that provides you balance, legs too wobbly to support the dizziness. you feel a huge lump on your throat again, but you can't just erase all the efforts you had done to get yourself together.

— but at the same time, it's too hard to ignore the panic that resurfaces on your very mind.

so what do you need exactly?

distraction, something to get your mind off of the current situation? before you run away from gotham—

you need a distraction, anything. even if it's stupid, you'll regret it later, just not now.

cigarettes? no, you don't smoke. alfred will kill you if he finds out and you can never lie to him.

drugs? you'll be shot in the head by nasty criminals scamming naive citizens for half the price before you could even purchase them.

... then what?

you look at yourself in the mirror, puffy eyes glazing with emotions you yourself couldn't comprehend.

'despite everything, it's still you, no?'

if you could describe yourself right now, you would call yourself a mess, a big loser who had let their emotions run free for too long, let themself go way too quickly, gave up too quickly, and believed too naively. you had lost so much yet gained so little. a wayne so stubborn that it was the only thing you could ever relate to your father who had estranged you without knowing it.

there was more negatives than positives, you're aware of it.

but if there's one trait that anyone could generalize off of you, it would be that you're always desperate for something.

anything.

and just one time, you tell yourself. one time and that's it, nothing more, nothing less.

once you done relaxing, you're packing your bags and making a run for it. you'll even cut alfred off of your life once and for all. no matter how much it pains you to do so, it's necessary so you could make a new identity from scratch.

it'll hurt you so deeply.

but that's why you're going to do what you wish you had done back when you were still so young—

you need a drink right now.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, is truly just an empty palace that houses buried memories.

with walls that cover the cries of one lonely child; a child who yearns for the unreciprocated love of their family. it was a cage for a child who stalks the frigid halls without any company, who sleeps in a room too small for their age, who cries for anybody to notice the pain that they had hidden with rose colored tints for so long, who yearns for a warmth that could never be provided in the spaces of harsh, black wallpaper and harsh winters.

it will always be innately lonely, and cold.

yet it's even more sullen now, an atmosphere so empty nobody could pinpoint.

no more was the voice that sings of the butler's splendid cooking. no more was the etching of ballpens on smooth paper on an intricately designed diary that stores all the rants of one's daily life. no more were the strokes on colorful canvases that paint dreams of a different life. no more was the humming of multiple tunes every morning. no more was the presence of the ghost who water the plants every afternoon. no more were the footsteps that thud in the kitchen and the hands that opens the fridge.

and most importantly—

no more were the hushed cries of the kid who resides in the smallest room of the wayne manor.

a house could be described as a building where a unit, moreover a family, lives in; but a home is what represents comfort, a place of belonging and safety.

it was a place encased with deep, historical roots.

but right now, encased in a field of damp grass - wet from heavy rain - and the overwhelming scent of petrichor— the manor is simply a house.

for it could never be complete without the presence of the very lonely child who cries for a love never to be attained.

the wayne manor, in all its worth, would never be the same without (name) wayne, a child who had always belonged, but at the same time, always wronged.

bruce wayne never considered himself the greatest father.

he could be gotham's best detective, the most feared vigilante, or the heavily beloved billionaire who donates millions on hospitals, hosts charity events, and so much more.

he could spend his entire life saving countless of other lives that do not deserve the turmoil of living on edge constantly, attend meetings, plan out his every moves, sit on cushioned seats as he broods over where the all the next criminal hideouts; he could do everything and he'll be damned great at it.

—but he will never be the greatest at being a father.

he had long accepted that fact, embraced it even, facing countless of criticism from both alfred and media alike, but it would never be an excuse to neglect or mistreat any one of his children, just like how it would never be right to just ignore a kid's cry for comfort in the barren halls of a manor.

bruce was never outright cruel towards anyone, every action of his baring significance to his moral code.

which was why bruce feels a pit of neverending regret now.

in all the years that he had spent trying to raise his children, children who, in a way, are trouble. who all differ from each other from ideals, to pasts, to habits, to preferences— he wouldn't lie and say that he never had difficulty helping each and every one of them grow to be who they are now.

living through his decisions are never easy, especially if the outcomes were unpredictable; raising a child, let alone children, could go so many ways.

the lives that he had to juggle, alongside his identity as bruce wayne and as batman, they were all an endeavor that he had chose to balance. he had come so far and stumbled so often. but at least by the end of it, he would be proud to say that he truly will never regret having them by his side when he was at the lowest points of his life.

he had his flaws and his mistakes, he had done irreversible actions that he wishes he could reverse, and most importantly, he had failed each and every one of his children indubitably.

but he really tried.

he tried his best to be there for every single one of them. he was there for dick when he had witnessed the death of his mom and dad, adopting the boy who was overflowing with rage towards the killer of his parents and utilizing his gymnastic skills for good. he was there to pick jason up when he had stolen the batmobile's tires, helping the child unlearn the past abuse he had fallen victim to (and although he had died, then resurrected, and turned cold-blooded towards criminals, murdering without hesitation— he still cares for jason deeply). he was there when tim had lost his parents. there for damian who had only been raised as an assassin since he was born. for cass, for duke, for everyone.

he really tried to be active in their lives, supporting them through their blood, sweat, and tears.

... but he had never tried to be there for you.

his forgotten third child, the biological firstborn, child of a well-known prostitute, (name) (last name), whose identity has long been erased off of the face of the internet; the scandal of a century that took the shared efforts of him and barbara to decimate whatever information the late (or missing?) (last name) has in the underground.

(name), his child he has never once bat an eye on, too preoccupied with tim, aversing his attention away from you to train the other kid; ultimately ignoring the immense trauma you must have dealt with from being raised by a mother targeted by most criminal organizations from extorting their cash. it was sickening for him to think of just how cruel were the conditions the two of you were forced to live through.

it was sickening for bruce to imagine the even lonelier years you had to suffer through after your mother's disappearance— years where your father's presence was elsewhere, years that a child has to suffer through alone without any figure to look up to.

it was your name that he had hesitated to even say, in fear of butchering the pronunciation and earning more of alfred's judgemental looks.

(name) wayne.

not even a face can be associated with you, not your voice, your hobbies, nothing.

he couldn't recall a memory where he had taken you to a fancy gala, or one-on-one father-child dates, or any occasions that requires bonding with each other.

he wasn't the man who welcomed you through the doors of the manor, nor was he the father who should've picked you up at the police station.

bruce wayne knows nothing of his third child.

if alfred hadn't confronted him about your terrible living conditions as of now, living in debt whilst trying to push through college, then how long would he have ignored your presence inside the manor? how long would the years pass without him acknowledging any important milestones that you would reach?

until your untimely demise perhaps?

he couldn't even remember a time he had at least given you a gift during christmas or new year or any time of the day.

not even the name of your elementary and high school, or your college university. he doesn't know of your friends, your teachers or what subject you excel in.

you had already graduated highschool, and he wasn't even there for your ceremony. he wasn't there to walk you up the stage, wasn't there to shield you from the thousands of photographers who would've attended should they know that a wayne would attend, wasn't there to offer you a pat on the shoulders for a job well done.

then who had to walk you up the stage?

"alfred..." he stops walking, clearing his throat as alfred turns back at bruce, offering a raised eyebrow at the sudden pause and bruce's rigid pose.

"yes, master?"

"when... (name) graduated," he hesitated on saying your name again, catching on alfred's sudden squint of the eyes. "who walked them up the stage?"

he hopes you didn't have to go up there alone, that a teacher at least accompanied you or—

"i was the one who attended in your stead, master bruce." the butler replies without hesitation, as if it was a normal occurrence. he sighs again, too tired to scold bruce's surprise for absolutely dismissing all the important dates that include you and instead turns back to continue on his treck to guiding bruce to your room.

alfred's look of condescension makes him sink deeper into the void of regret. for being unable to

fuck, how many important events had bruce missed? from school plays, to parent-teacher conferences, to talent shows— was there ever a "bring your father to school" day?

oh... he really hopes there wasn't.

his hands find itself scratching his head, fingers tangling itself onto his hair in hopes of providing distraction— but his thoughts all circulate towards you, a faceless entity, an itch that he could never reach unless he sees you for himself.

the further he walks through frigid halls, the smaller the space seems to get.

how many birthdays had he missed?

when even is your birthday?

you are eighteen now, five when you were taken in which means... fifteen years of missed birthdays...

he didn't even give you a single gift card out of pity. not even money for allowance, or a birthday cake.

bruce was never there for you, and he has a feeling that that may have been one of the reasons of you moving out.

he needs to make up for it at least, once he contacts you he'll apologize for everything—

but first, he needs to see the state of your room. to at least have a first impression of you, of what your life was in the manor; any clues that pertains to just who his child is, as humiliating as that sounds for a father.

which was why he didn't hesitate to let alfred lead him straight to your room, albeit the shame he feels for not even knowing where his own child's room is located.

back when he had taken damian in, it was him who introduced the boy to his own room, whom had promptly thrown a tantrum and demanded someplace bigger before ultimately accepting his fate.

... how would you have reacted to your own? he wishes to at least picture your face, probably opposite to damian's, as you get to live in an entirely different space from what you're used to.

would you be pleased? would you look at him with sparkling eyes and thank him? or would you maintain a neutral stance? an overwhelmed one?

he really wants to see you, your expressions, just a sliver of your presence.

but nothing comes up in his mind. not the length or color of your hair, not your height, not anything. he could picture a vague imagery of your mother, but not you.

it makes him wonder; does any of your siblings know what you look like? were you at least any closer to them that you are to him?

he hates just how much desperately the darkness in the pit of his chest is crawling in need to hasten his steps towards wherever your room was.

the rain outside had already ceased, but a newer thunderstorm was brewing inside bruce's heart.

he needs to see you.

as he walks behind alfred through the halls of the manor, he had just noticed how barren the other side of the manor truly is.

cob webs and dust particles litter through the corners of the untouched furniture, the wallpaper peeling off itself and revealing untreated mold and even more cocoons of baby spiders that would soon crawl out, and even most of the ceramic vases they had passed by houses no flowers, instead being covered in a thin sheen of dust.

it was obvious just how neglected this corner of the house is.

just like you.

alfred was always meticulous in his duty as a butler, but bruce had advised the old man to leave unexplored parts of the manor be, seeing as how nobody would stroll by; and to only clean it whenever he would host an expensive gala in the manor with spare rooms as guest rooms.

it made bruce wonder if these halls are the path that leads directly to your room, which it actually does, and he feels even more guilty at just how... different your living condition is compared to your siblings.

it was no wonder why the butler would always excuse himself early, seemingly always making a treck towards a forgotten chamber that he rarely visited.

he'll make a note of relocating you to a room closer than his if you ever were to decide to come visit during holidays or vacations.

... alfred said it had been six or seven months since you had left, just how many occasions have he missed?

counting only fills the dread in his the growing hole of the pit of his heart.

yeah... he will get you a new room, one preferably closer to his; just so he could greet you every morning by knocking on your door and at least escorting you to the kitchen for breakfast. he'll try to make small talk, invite you over and... bond with you.

that'll be a good habit he could incorporate into his daily life.

a small part of him wishes you wouldn't look at him in disdain if he had to forcibly visit your apartment.

he swears it's in all the good of his heard; he just needs to check for himself if you were doing okay.

as him and alfred nearly arrives at your bedroom, the two had already noticed the light peaking from outside the doors and what seems to be two voices ensuing an argument.

even alfred, who had ceased his steps, looked surprised at the presence of the people who seemed to be there before them.

bruce doesn't even hesitate jogging towards the room, unaware of alfred's immediate shift to a calculating gaze, as bruce immediately opens polished, mahogany doors, inviting himself in.

... it smells of bleach and fabric refresher.

his heart clenches at the implication.

"father...? why are you here?" damian's voice cuts through the tension, bruce merely dismisses youngest child as his eyes takes in the space, ignoring how the other presence in the room - dick, with wide, feral eyes - quips about an ongoing "family" reunion.

bruce analyzes every detail, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

small... your room is way too small, and lacks of any design or life whatsoever. a tiny bed is shoved in the corner, the closet too miniscule to even contain clothes for someone your age (just where do you store them, then?), the windows barely welcome any ventilation nor sunlight, even your bedside table was too small to be considered one; the lampshade on top of it could be easily toppled over by a single sway of a hand.

everything is clean, too clean and orderly.

his eyebrows furrow at its state. even a model's walk-in closet is significantly bigger than the cramped space he calls your bedroom.

no proper ventilation, not even any space is provided for... your hobbies. hobbies that he wasn't even aware of.

is this how you had been living for almost eighteen years of your life?

how do you live like this?

just how much has he neglected you?

"bruce...?" it was dick's voice that he had now registered. it sounds out of breath, way too abnormally distraught and out of character.

he slowly looks at dick, equally befuddled at the presence of his eldest and youngest sons.

he seems disheveled, stressed even. the athlete's blue eyes were wide and dilated, seemingly unfocused as his stance was rigid. he was breathing too deep, hand clenching his phone too tight, veins popping through muscles, and he holds a... notebook in the other, this time like it was a delicate piece or artifact.

"... why are you here?" dick tries to cover his current state with an awkward laugh, but he could never hide the furrow of his brows, the flickering in his eyes, nor the anxious stomping of the his feet. sweat runs down dick's forehead; it looks like he's been inside the room the longest.

and dick refuses to get out of it. he won't, not until he finds out just why were you pushing him always all of a sudden.

he's afraid of forgetting his baby bird once more and neglecting your needs. if you were just as self-depracating as he is then... just how well would you be coping all by yourself?

does bruce share the same intentions as him? he doesn't know, his thoughts all leading to a path of thinking about, well, you.

you and your wide eyes looking at him like he was the world.

"i'm just here to visit... (name)'s room." bruce replies, a deep tremor in his parched throat, threading even further into the cramped space as his eyes seem to lock into the multitudes of messily stacked notebooks in the center of the bed.

they were all captioned '(name)'s diary', each having different fonts for every notebook and a date plastered on the very bottom.

"and you both are...?" he stares at them, demanding an answer as he sits on your too small bed (—it creaks, he hates that it does so he promises to get you a new one, a bigger one even, with enough space to fit in at least four people just as you deserve), picking up one of the diaries in his hand; it sports messy calligraphy and peeling stickers, reminiscent of just how old it was.

the hold he has on the diary is delicate as he flips through the first page the same way the eldest child had done. the papers were stained gray from the lead of the pencil, doodles littering every page, from flowers to animals and even faces that bruce couldn't recognize.

at least it provides the void in his heart food for thought, taking in every small detail about you and your hobbies.

you like documenting your life through diaries, that was the first thing he noted about you. the entries all date far from back when you were five or younger, the earlier pages highlighting, well, you and your mother's life. though the handwriting wasn't all that eligible, bruce finds himself becoming fond of the common topics you often rant about from "momma's burnt stack of pancakes" (paired with a drawing on the side, colored with dried markers and glitter gel pens), to the fairytales your mother loves to read you.

as much as it was entertaining for him to read through your mind, it's sad how aged the papers were and how some pages were crumpled to the point some contents were incomprehensible.

he'll get you even more high quality ones, rather than the cheap paper the one he's currently holding has. and he'll buy you designer pens, or do you prefer the more functional ones? would you like fountain pens or glass dip ones just to enjoy the experience?

bruce notices a pattern of the pen's strokes, an array of thinner lines were preferred in most of your entries compared to the thick pencils you sometimes force yourself to use, as there was an entry you had mentioned where if you use thicker lines then you'll run out of pages quicker, and "my mom doesn't have enough money to buy me one right now."

even the doodles in pencil had prefered line widths. finer quality for even finer details, thicker lines to emphasize and exaggerate your art on the side of the papers.

would you prefer mechanical or charcoal pencils? charcoal is messy and smudges, bruce knows as he sees small drawings of a tiny sprite that point towards a smeared sketch of a flower, a look of disdain on its furrowed brows.

he couldn't contain the upward quirk of his lips, blocking out dick's shadow that seems to get closer to bruce.

unfortunately, there were no ballpens of your preference on your bedside table for him to take for himself. he'll find out himself sooner enough though; what materials you like to utilize for your diaries and sketches. hell, it seems you like using a mix of normal and puffy stickers alongside a mix medium to obtain different colors.

journaling supplies, you'll find a lot of them in your arsenal soon.

he'll make sure of that once he finds out where you live.

he looks at damian flipping through what seems to be one of your sketchbooks.

art is, undoubtedly, one of your hobbies too— that's the second thing he notes, picking up what seems to be your second diary right after he flips through the first one, wasting no time to learn more about you.

this time, your second diary talks about your early life into the gotham manor. your anxious yet earger energy to meet your father, how the dick grayson (presumably your idol, with how you mention him as the) is now your brother, and how you almost got lost just wondering in the manor; they all highlight your innocence and curiousity about the world. you write so effortlessly, unafraid of writing down what you truly feel.

though you barely mention the incident regarding your mother, you have stated multiple times about how you miss her beautiful smile and her captivating laughter.

he's grateful that you're fond of writing diaries, exposing bruce to the deeper, more personal parts of your life. he doesn't need to pinpoint any lies or truth. all your secrets, your endeavors, your dreams and your passions are buried deep into the crevices of your diaries, etched in thousands of words and drawings that tell bruce just who you are.

and truly, you are his child.

bruce craves to know more about you in person the more he reads through your entries.

fortunately, it wasn't only him that feels an intense need to take you in, as the presence of his eldest cuts him off of the his train of thoughts.

"y'know, before you forget we're even here, bruce," dick quips with a fond smile as he looks at his bruce's unkempt state, taking a seat next to his father who seems to be in his own world just like damian. the bed creaks against their weight, both cringing at the sound before bruce returns to his own world of... analyzing you, just like he did hours ago.

but he knows that his father knows how to multitask, so he doesn't hesitate to answer.

"i'm also here for (name), i promised to take them out for dinner month's ago." that seems to actually catch bruce's attention, as he looks up from reading your second diary, gazing at dick as if to urge him to continue.

dick proceeds with a sigh, a smitten smile plastered on his face as he recalls the only memory he has of you.

"(name) really has a knack for writing and all, right? i love them for it. when i first met them, they were just so adorable. my baby bird tried to ask me for an autograph!" dick couldn't help himself from yapping, chuckling lightly as he remembers the deathly grip you had on alfred's cuffs, how you were hiding behind the butler's legs and looked at dick so enamored. he couldn't contain his unhinged smile, the goosebumps on his skin made shivers ripple throughout his entire body.

bruce (and even damian, who had all his attention on your sketches) had listened in on his monologue.

"i was the one who helped lead them to their room," he continued confidently, tapping his phone with his fingers, "they clung really close to me when we climbed up the steps, even tried to hide under my jacket..."

looking back, dick wishes he had carried you up the steps. thing was, you were incredibly small back then, and the manor's staircase is particularly hard to transverse through when ascending, so you must've felt exhausted and leaned onto him for support. your tiny legs must've been sore once you two had arrived by your room.

oh, he should've noticed. dick swears he won't make that mistake again once he gets you back in his arms, he promises to carry you the moment you even show the slightest bit of fatigue.

he swears he will, and he'll make sure to spoil you rotten with all the affection you deserve.

oh, dick really wants to see his baby bird again.

"yeah, that's, uh, the only time we had only ever talked." he admits shamefully, opening his phone for what seems like the thousandth time, looking at your profile over and over again, one that had him blocked.

he bites his lips, nibbling his skin in anticipation, in hopes that in the good of your heart that you just, unblock him.

it was just so unbelievable, despite you having all the reasons to push them away from your life, he just doesn't want to accept it. doesn't want to think of the worst outcome; of you hating him.

his baby bird blocked him and he just couldn't comprehend the amount of hurt he's feeling right now. what's wrong with checking up on his baby sibling? on someone he hasn't talked to for a long time already?

scrolling up through your previous messages fills him with both dread, and another emotion he doesn't want to admit— the slightest bit of pride he feels that you chose him over everybody else. you chose dick grayson as your idol, as someone to look up to and eagerly wanted as your older brother.

he was the favorite.

yet he feels terrible at the same time for taking it for granted, for forgetting your his own younger sibling. and bruce? bruce feels terrible just looking at how much your disappearance - an existence he didn't even know existed not until a few hours ago - impacted the atmosphere of the house.

is your absence the reason why the manor had felt too empty, then...?

even alfred seemed to sulk more often, always having his phone around and... talking to someone?

does alfred know where you are? or at least maintain communication with you?

it seems like the family was equally keen to find out just who you were.

whilst the two engross themselves in their own personal matters, damian continues to stand near the middle where the light hits the brightest, analyzing all the pages of your sketchbook. the youngest couldn't even afford to miss a single detail, green eyes mulling over the poses of your human sketches; the anatomy, the composition. all the progress, the mistakes, the erasures... his mind seems to eat up every drawing as if it was a piece of art hung in a museum.

which it should've been— but he wouldn't even let worthless critiques lay their eyes on any one of your sketches. they wouldn't understand you as much as he does.

it's his to look upon, nobody else could understand the meaning of your art, the meaning of his older sibling's art.

the older sibling who he used to threaten with his sword, who he called vile names — a bastard child, he told you one day. he was unable to ignore the glare you sent him, how he felt a pang in his heart after — the older sibling who he ridiculed endlessly in front of his best friend, whose actions he criticized without end; who had started to avoid him like the plague after all of his incessant bullying.

his older sibling who he had used as a punching bag for all his negative emotions, who he was incredibly jealous of, who he felt the need to fight, to compete with, all for the sake of grabbing your attention without seeming frail in his intentions.

his weak and incapable older sibling, who he knew hated him with all their gut.

the unwanted and undeserved treatment he had subjected you to was gruesome.

it was just exactly like your drawings... gruesome and brutal, to say the least. as if it was a medium of releasing all your unparalleled anger. charcoal strokes violently covers the entirety of your pages, it was unpredictable where the lines meet and end, whenever there is color, they blotch each other without harmony, all the subjects of your art either human or anything else within your vicinity.

if someone else with inexperienced, undeserving eyes were to witness your sketches, they would not understand and dare say, criticize your art pieces for being too contemporary, for letting your emotions run free through cheap quality paper without any ounce of care for the rips and tears of the pages.

but damian likes it... he likes the rawness of your pieces, likes it when you incidentally find a way to express tragedy, grief, and all the antagonistic traits a human could bare. he likes just how all thr subjects you paint were muddled with dull colors, sometimes too vibrant, sometimes too neon, sometimes a mix of all— your hectic personality bleeds through the pages.

you should've... shared your talents with him. albeit the jealousy he feels towards you, the sense of competitiveness— a small part of him admits his desire to bond with his only blood sibling... he doesn't even know why he treated you like trash, yet felt so incredibly heartbroken whenever you would retaliate with a blank, soulless stare.

he doesn't know why he felt so compelled to melt into your embrace, despite never once being physically close to you. your warmth always emanates off of your body; he hates that he wanted your validation, your praise and your attention.

he'll apologize to you sooner, damian will drag you back even if he has to, he needs to, actually.

needs to get you to forgive him, to look at him fondly, and to love him without bounds. he's on his path to redemption, he acknowledges his wrongs, all the wrongs he had done to you, he couldn't list it all out but he knows just much it affected your views on him.

damian knows he should've dismissed your reactions— he was raised by assassins for gods sake! he should not be so perceptive of every micro expression of yours, but the connection he feels towards his blood sibling is stronger than any bond, a bond that he himself chose to sever and came to regret afterwards.

he remembers one specific expression of yours after he had criticized your anger issues when he had heard news of you being transferred into another school. it was a glare that lacked any fight or bite, you had long since given up on him and allowed him him harass you whenever he felt like so. but that day was the same day you had snapped, nearly choking on his

he told himself to ignore it, that you were merely throwing a tantrum (despite how hypocritical he seemed)

yet he didn't expect to be overcome with regret.

with hurt.

with empathy at the tears that welled on your eyes.

damian doesn't want to admit it but, that was one of the first times he had hesitated to retaliate with an even crueler comeback to your glare. he wanted to so badly run to you and bond with you and your unadulterated anger, to comfort you and provide you the affection you had so desperately needed— but in the bitterness and the jealousy of his heart, he had forced himself to leave you be; a decision even until now he regrets because... you had no longer seen him as a younger brother, let alone treat him as one, as he desired to.

after that incident, you tend to avoid him more and more, not even eating in the same room as him, let alone ditching whatever you were doing in favor of keeping to yourself.

he should've held himself back from hurting his older sibling, the one who, despite doning no skills or talent in combat whatsoever, who knew that he was more of a threat than a younger brother; was brave enough to approach him with a tray of alfred's baked cookies and a hesitant yet welcoming grin.

and yet he had replied with a sword to your neck and an insult to your origin, calling you a bastard child; the product of a whore and his father's terrible decisions.

he had simply watched as you had left the hallway with a knick on your neck and a wobble on your steps, nearly dropping the tray of untouched goods due to the inconsolable shivers you must've felt.

you hate him, no? he could see it in your eyes, no matter how defeated it may be, there was always a tinge of resentment towards him that he knows he couldn't undo.

you hate him, you must've hated him so much and he hates that. hates how he wants to throw a rampage over the fact that you would never consider him as a younger brother.

... if things were different, if he had never let his emotions and his past dictate his actions, would you love him?

for the first time in quite a while, he had felt tender longing and desire, his hands caressing the pages of your sketchbook as if it could bring you back to the manor.

for the first time in a while, damian allows himself to want, to dream about a fantasy where you would cherish him, allow him to melt on your chest whenever he feels the pressure of the world getting to him, let him sulk about his deepest darkest insecurities as you would run your fingers through his hair and tell him it's all alright.

for the first time in so long, he would openly admit the immense regret he feels, wishing for an opportunity to turn back time, to never unsheath his sword towards you and to never open his mouth to allow vile words to spew out of it.

time passes by oh-so quickly when you are left alone with only your thoughts to accompany you.

it had been quite awhile since the trio were left pondering about your very existence, alfred noted, watching the three scramble about through their minds. they had seemed to have forgotten the very butler who had been observing every single one of their actions.

alfred had waited so long for this moment to come, for them to realize just how crucial you are to the family, how you are the very final jigsaw puzzle the complete the picture perfect definition of a home, how much they need you if they wish to maintain even the slightest bit of sanity.

it was only right that he decides to place the final nail in the coffin.

after all, this was all to get you back to your safety, to where you rightfully belong.

—"it seems like the family has finally taken notice of young master (name)'s disappearance...?" alfred buts in by the door, a single eyebrow raised, crossed arms, an all-knowing look that just screams 'i told you so'.

he continues once he had their complete attention, "i would like to say that i am heavily disappointed in how it took more than a decade and a half for all of you to find out about their existence. if it wasn't for the long months of their absence and even a personal sermon towards master bruce about their financial struggles, they would've long been gone. well... they would be gone soon if they are unable to pay this month's rent for their apartment."

his tone was sullen as he nitpicks every single one of their reactions, a mixture of confusion, shame and regret a commonality between the three.

"(name) is in financial debt?" it was damian who asked first with furrowed brows and wide eyes, unbelieving of what alfred had just stated. "but father wires money to all of his children, right?

the youngest turns back to his father's seated form, expecting a nod of some sorts, but all bruce had was a tense jaw and a solid stare. it speaks of volumes, all damian could do was shut his mouth, looking back at alfred with a pout.

alfred expected this reaction. it was truly unfortunate how the family would never know just how important you were in their life.

yet all he could do was press on, further their guilt and desperation.

"young master damian, i am aware of bruce's willingness towards providing for his children, but (name), like you, had adopted your father's stubbornness to accept any financial aid on their part..."

the silence was defeaning now, tension so thick that not even a knife could cut through it. fortunately, the people alfred were with are trained combatants, formidle not only through fights but with words.

it was a shame they had never used their brains to connect the dots with just how sullen the manor was the moment you were gone.

"how do we...?" this time it was dick who talked, albeit hesitantly. "bruce could at least send a few thousands to them, then? or i could do it, you could just give us their location and—"

"unfortunately, there is nothing i could do about it, master dick," alfred interrupts dick's sudden onslaught, "for even i do not have master (name)'s address. they refuse even the slightest bit of a clue, hence why i have confronted master bruce about it."

it was like a needle had dropped on the floor, an intense, numbing feeling everyone present was subjected to feel.

... what?

it was dick who had reacted first, springing up from his seated position as he stared at alfred's defeated eyes incredulously.

"are you serious, alfred? (name) could be anywhere in gotham right now? unprotected, unsafe, and in debt?"

a long, defeated sigh was what he had merely received from the alfred.

"yes, master dick, you hear exactly what i say."

"but the world outside is too dangerous for (name)! we can't just let them loose in a street filled with criminals who can take advantage of their innocence!"

"they're eighteen, dick." all of a sudden, it was damian who cuts back with a roll of his eyes, "i'm sure they can survive on their own."

"yeah right, and have you even read their latest diary, or are you just gonna pretend like you aren't going to keep their sketchbooks all for yourself, huh?" dick retaliates with clenched teeth, letting himself be swayed by his own emotions. "or... you're planning to track their location without us so you can get a reservation to visit them first?"

"calm down, dick—" bruce stands, immediately holding dick back, gripping the athlete's tense shoulders.

"why should i, bruce?! (name) can be anywhere, we— i can't afford to bide time on anything but them!" he glared back at his father, slammimg his fist onto your bedroom walls without hesitation. cracks immediately formed on the chipped wallpaper, a testament to dick's strength; you'll be relocated to another room, a better one anyways and they'll... they'll turn this one into a bigger atelier for you.

dick just needs to let his anger out, yeah... unfortunately, his father seems to think otherwise.

bruce retaliates with a snarl, "we need a solid plan, dick. we can't just randomly search where they are—"

"look, if none of you are willing to help, then fine, i'll track (name) all by myself—"

"— i've never mentioned not coming, grayson." damian cuts him off with a glare, possessively holding all your sketchbook in one hand. "i'll be the one spending time with them first."

"yeah, right... and you, bruce? you coming with or no?"

defeated, bruce replies, "... you already know the answer, dick."

"of course, dad. glad to know we're on the same team after all," dick lets out an airy laugh, returning to his old demeanor. but bruce could easily pinpoint the sharp edge to his giggles, how calculated it is and how it's all merely a cover up to hide the unbearable itch to get you into his arms.

not like bruce could help it too, feeling the same way dick does— all he wants to do is see you for himself after all.

"then call the others into the batcave, now. tell them it's a priority mission, don't let them say otherwise, and don't settle on any excuses."

bruce is so grateful that he had his hands on your diaries, that he was given the grace to read through your entries and embrace even the slightest clue about you.

although there was no face to associate with your name, no photograph nor portrait— he at least has an idea of your personality, of what you like and prefer; something that bruce would hold dear, something that feeds the growing urge to find you.

find you to not only correct his mistakes, to make up for all the lost time, but to also get closer to you. to bond with his child, the one he should've focused on all those years ago. the one who, despite showing disinterest to vigilantism, chose to not fall deep into the pits of resentment, of committing heinous acts— you had chosen to run away from them without any intentions of badmouthing your own family even after the years of neglect.

his child, (name) wayne.

you were a symbol of what he had strived to cherish, to protect. it was your innocence through these pages, your eagerness to the world despite its cruelty, that relays the message to bruce that he should've centered his attention on both you and tim instead of just tim.

maybe then the dispair he had felt after jason's death would've been less devastating, maybe then you'd act as his source of light in the darkness he had choose to brood in. maybe then he wouldn't have acted so rash, so impulsive and tense.

after all, you had lost your mother too early, and your father was just somebody you can watch through the television and read through the newspaper.

and you? you were forced to take the short end of the stick, without any familial attention nor emotional support whatsoever— a substantial failure on bruce's part. you didn't deserve anything you were subjected to, didn't deserve to know what pain and despair felt like.

bruce should've been the father who had to shoulder all your burden. he should've been there for you as he was there for all your other siblings.

he should've been the man who would kiss your wounds away whenever you go out to the park with him to play. he should've been the man who would sit on the crowded bleachers to watch you perform on a talent show. he was supposed to be the father who would hold you close to your chest as you cry about your first heartbreak, about your overdue projects, about the bullies in the school.

but he wasn't that father for you. and now, you seek love and attention from people who weren't even family. because they had failed you, he had failed you.

there was so much things about you that he doesn't know of, so much he had missed out on. his absence was a constant in your life; what would you have felt if he suddenly barged in on it then? especially now that you've moved out on the presumption of neglect?

but could he help it if he does?

could bruce help it if he was already concocting a way to bring you back? alfred had explicitly told him that you were living off of debt

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,100+ words. no beta we just die. undertale reference. this is my least favorite chapter LMAO, despite it's length i had to waste blood sweat and tears for this and i hate it so much. anways guys pls comment or send as ask if u like this and what's good abt it bec this chapter literally made me question my ability as a write 😭 erm im gonna take a break after this and mostly answer asks bec istg my energy is so drained. also is it jst me or does everyone default the reader as female ^^' it's jst weird for me bec i always write them as gn/male. oh and if anyone is wondering, yes i am gonna add the batgirls too bec they r family !! the entire family (universe) is obsessed with u !! also yall i cant add anymore to the taglist, tumblr won't allow me.

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

[niightniines]

Alright Deathnote fandom, let's get this straight:

(tw: mentions of suicide and brain damage)

Misa Amane was kidnapped against her will and held in captivity for 52 days, aka 7 weeks, 1,248 hours, and a little under ⅙th of a year. During this captivity, she looked like this

Arms bound, strapped in, either standing or sitting, fully blinded, and only able to move when using the bathroom. She can talk and she can hear, but who is there to talk to? What is there to hear? Only the robotic, inhuman voice of her captor every few days asking her nonsensical questions about Kira and absolutely nothing else. Do you wonder if at some point she screamed until her voice gave out in a desperate attempt for something, ANYTHING, to happen? Maybe someone will come in and gag her again. Maybe they'll actually ask her what's wrong. Maybe someone will hear her outside, or the "stalker" will finally let her go. But knowing L who knows that a reaction is what she wants, he would simply mute the audio feed and ignore her for a few hours.

She tried to kill herself. Do you remember that? She almost bit her tongue. The torture was too much for her, and she would have gone through with it had they not forcibly stopped her from doing so. I don't think we can fully grasp just how damaging *fifty two* days of sensory deprivation to this extent truly is. Had Ohba done any research into what effects this torture would give Misa in the long term, she would be a sitting vegetable for the rest of her life fully incapable of anything, probably in a mental asylum. Misa Amane's confinement is extremely horrific and we fail to truly realize that.

She can't see. She can't move. There is nothing to hear, and nobody to talk to. And of course, the whole time she's wrapped up in some wet dream's uniform of nothing but a rag and bondage gear. For 52 days. That is 7 weeks, 1,248 hours, and roughly ⅙th of a year. let it sink in.

[sweetcollywobbles]

more leon headcanons

i miss him i miss him i miss him i miss him i miss him i miss him

i miss my wife, tails.

so lets talk about him.

⟢ leon was 6 years old when his family was murdered. there was a time when he could remember all of their faces. yet as he gets older, their faces have become a lot more blurry. sometimes he catches himself staring into the mirror. did nonno have the same nose as he did? was he the same blonde as his nonna? does he have his moms' smile? were his dad's eyes just as blue as his? when they looked at him, did they see themselves in him as he's so desperatley trying to remember them in him?

⟢ leon is the italian version of a "no sabo" kid. he knows the language, yet doesn't seem to be able to put the words together himself. he just kinda stands there nodding his head with a blank stare. then when he has to respond he's just kinda like "uuuhhhh tbh idk". he knows how to correctly pronounce some words and phrases, but that's about it.

⟡HOWEVER, he will call his lover with italian terms of endearment, i.e., amore mio, cucciolotta, cuore mio, piccola, etc. he might even say some phrases that he does know in italian, i.e., Io e te per sempre (you and me forever), sei la mia vita (you are my life), ti amo tanto (i love you so much), etc.

+p.s. sorry for any misinterpretations, i'm not italian but i am mexican so spanish and italian are not too different (???) but please correct me if i'm wrong!

⟢ leon has always been a dinosuar guy. he's watched probably every dino documentary thats ever been made and rewatches them whenever they're on. so, naturally, whenever he travels for work, he'll try his best to visit every museum he possibly can to see their dino exhibit and nothing else. of course, as het gets older (probably DI to RE6) he'll explore the other exhibits but for rn he'll just stick to the dino exhibits. and if you must ask him what his favorite dinosuar is, he'll say the answer he said as a kid, a spinosaurus. it's common enough for people to know and not give him a strange look of confusion. but really, his heart belongs to the pachycephalosaurus.

⟡ of course, in its natural progression, leon will also delve into a fascination of raptors and reptiles. he'll go to zoos and spend his time in the reptile exhibit. he'll also go bird watching for any avian raptors he can find. this also does mean that he has nice pair binoculars and will buy a native bird identify guide when he travels. his documentary options have now expanded with his two new interests which really excites him.

⟢ whether you believe it or not, leon is actually more of a fruity cocktail kinda guy. he doesn't mind beer or hard liquor, especially when he needs something strong and to the point. something to help him drink away the bad memories and all too realistic nightmares. but if he's just in the mood to enjoy himself, leon will cook up a salty dog or a cranberry vodka.

⟢ leon oh so terribly wants kids. but before he forces you into his life, he never thought that to be possible. so in his off time, he would volunteer for the NICU at the local hospital to be a baby cuddler. he got into it after he tried it with rebecca. it gave him the sense that everything will be okay, that even if he can't have a few of his own, at least he can be there for little ones that need someone, even if its for a moment.

⟡ TRUST, that once you do have a baby with this man, he's all over them. that baby will never not be in his arms or in the proximity of him. he's on spit up and diaper duty. baby wakes up late at night crying? no worries, he's already in the room (he was sleeping on the nursery floor). you will almost have to battle this man to hold YOUR baby.

⟢ leon is actually a really big fan of romcoms and time pieces. in fact, his favorite time piece movie is pride and prejudice. oh he absolutely adores romantic pieces like that especially because he's a hopeless romantic at heart. he's fallen in love with the idea of falling in love with a girl he's just met and having soft intimate moments with them. his guilty pleasure romcom is 13 going on 30, especially since after the whole plagas incident, the movie was just released and he binged that movie on repeat.

⟡ BUT, just because he likes time pieces and romcoms doesn't mean he doesn't like action or thriller movies. leon's a really big fan of the matrix series and star wars series. also the fast and furious franchise is actually where his love of fast cars and motorcycles stem from. he just can't do any horror movies because baby has trauma :(

₊˚⊹ ᥫ᭡. 𓂃

it's not much, but i thought these were silly and gave him a little more character. please let me know what you think or if you have any headcanons of your own!!!

xxox

[holy-puckslibrary]

─ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜.

pairing(s) — fwb!MATTHEW TKACHUK x reader wc — 3.2k synopsis — best not-boyfriend boyfriend ever! (read the request here) note — bestie, your brain? marvelous! this was an absolute joy to write, and i hope this captures your vision!!! thank you for the request <3

main masterlist

content warnings under the cut.

cw — hints of a debut-inspired ensemble; complicated, grossly intimate situationship + emotional constipation; angst (not really) to fluffy fluffy; tswizzle references; suggestive section: "heavy petting" but nothing explicit / fade to black; brief alcohol mention + consumption; brief mention of food (no specifics); and ~emotions~ 

I. it’s getting so much clearer… 

Matthew regrets making you a key. 

Majorly.

If he’d known the can of worms he was opening when he unceremoniously dropped them in your lap one night, he would’ve listened to his brother; you don’t give girlfriend privileges to women who aren’t your girlfriend. It only leads to hurt feelings, broken console controllers, and unnecessary trouble. 

However, it’s highly unlikely this is the “trouble” to which Brady was referring. 

Rooted in the entryway, he surveys the damage. 

Beads of all shapes, sizes, and colors sit in a sea of jars. Some have spilled out under the coffee table and couch, others have made it all the way into the kitchen. Knotted balls of elastic are sprinkled throughout the chaos, as are multiple pairs of scissors, skeins of embroidery floss, and shards of construction paper. There are markers everywhere, but for some unknown reason, the crayons and sticker sheets are in nice, neat piles. A white feather boa is draped over the entertainment center and there’s a pink one curled by his feet. And, in the eye of the storm, is an anxious lump frantically stringing together DIY jewelry and muttering along to the megamix blaring through the room; he doubts you even heard him come home. 

“Sweetheart, is there a reason it looks like a craft store threw up everywhere?” Matthew shouts as he gingerly braves the hurricane. 

Something crunches under his shoe, and from the sound alone, he knows it would’ve been worse than stepping on a Lego if his feet were bare. 

He also knows that if the music were even a decibel lower, you would be pissed beyond belief. How dare he move freely through his own home without first checking for rogue pieces of plastic? His ears are ringing, but he’s grateful for it. From many years of mistakes and misadventures, he's learned you won’t get on top if you’re mad, regardless of how much groveling he does. And he's got one foot in the doghouse after last weekend as it is. 

“T-minus two days ’til Taylor, Matthew,” you grumble from the floor. “What do you think?” 

You’ve been at this for weeks. It gets worse the closer the concert gets. The mess and your mood. 

Matthew isn’t stupid, and he knows you better than he lets on. You panic under the weight of your own (often unrealistic) expectations. You need everything to be perfect, or the entire world crumbles. This, Night One of the Florida dates of the Eras Tour, is, understandably, no exception. If anything, the pressure’s dialed up to eleven. 

In stressing over every little detail, you’ve made yourself miserable. Watching you unravel makes his chest feel strange. 

You won’t ask for help. You don’t want it, either.

But, he can’t let you flounder. For his own sanity, he can’t do it. And he does care about you. Maybe not in the way everyone assumes or hopes, but he does. He’d do almost anything to lighten your load. 

Yet, Matthew treads lightly. If he’s too forthcoming, you could get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want to spook you, and he can’t have any wires getting crossed. What’s so good about your situation is how markedly uncomplicated it’s been. He refuses to be the one who fucks it up for everyone. 

So, he does what he can, and he does it without making a big deal about it. 

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he sinks down onto the floor beside you. You’re perched on one of the obnoxious throw pillows you insisted he order to “spruce up” the space and make it look less “bachelor pad-y." As if that’s not exactly what it is. He takes this as rare permission to do the same, placing one under his hips and cuddling another to his chest as he stretches out on his stomach, phone in hand. 

Well, as stretched as a person can be in the middle of an obstacle course. 

Between the second play of “cowboy like me” and the third of “Tim McGraw,” his various feeds dry up, and he’s spammed his contacts into oblivion. You're still chugging along, like a Sad Girl automaton locked in an endless glittery assembly line. 

At one point, you murmur, “Give me your wrist." 

And he does. 

Matthew’s taken aback when you loop elastic around it to get a measurement.

He’s confused, but not for the reason one might assume. He’s painfully familiar with the friendship bracelet phenomenon and the giddy exchanges, having been force-fed hours' worth of tour content over the past year, but he never thought you’d rope him into it.

The buzz under his skin is oddly auspicious, watching you clip the appropriate length before reaching for the pile laid out near his head. 

It’s not long before you make the same request again. However, this time, you slide on a custom creation. You fiddle with it for a moment, then turn back to your station to begin the next one on the list. 

“And in which era does she cosplay as a camp counselor?” Matthew teases as he thumbs the letter beads.

They spell out a moniker he’d honestly find offensive if you hadn’t looped the song one too many times. He wonders if you’ve made yourself the matching one. 

You emit a sound that haunts his nightmares and side-eye him in a way that would’ve made a lesser man disintegrate. 

“If you don’t want it, give it back so I can give it to someone who will appreciate my time and effort,” you bite with your hand outstretched, palm up and open expectantly. 

Matthew shoves it away, suddenly defensive. “I never said that.” 

The sun slips behind the fence an hour later, and the sky bathes the house in purple-pink hues. As he gathers ingredients in the kitchen, Matthew watches the slow-moving clouds absentmindedly. He hasn't felt this content in a while.

Arms full, he wades through the arts and crafts on the way to the backyard. 

You’re still in the den, still hunched over in the same place he found you in. He shakes his head when he passes you, knowing he’s got an hour (at least) moonlighting as a masseuse in his future. 

You don’t startle or acknowledge him until the grill set you bought for his birthday clatters to the floor. 

“Why’re there two cowboy hats getting glitter all over my patio?” he asks, despite knowing the answer. And hating it. Vehemently. 

You fix him with an unamused glare. Your brow quirks, and your hands still. Then, you blink at him very slowly. Like he’s an idiot. Like he just asked a stupid question—because he did. 

Matthew’s head wags so intensely that his neck cracks.

“Oh, hell no.” 

II. it’s coming undone…

Matthew scowls at his reflection. 

“—looks so fucking stupid.” 

He can’t tell if he looks worse with or without the fur-trimmed, shimmery cowboy hat. And, honestly, it's a little distressing. After temporarily ditching it, he tugs at his curls. Then, the hem of the jersey. 

Resigned, he reaches across the bed for the homemade accessory. Wearing it will make you smile—and it gives his dignity something to hide behind. 

Twitter’s going to have a fucking field day. 

Your panicked voice spills out from the hotel bathroom, “Really?” 

“Of course, it fucking do—” 

His tirade of vanity grinds to a screeching halt at the sight of you, backlit and wilting. 

“That’s not—ah, fuck.” Matthew digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What I meant was—me, it looks stupid on me. Not you. On you, it looks… It looks…” 

“It looks, what?” 

It looks like he’s glad none of your friends were available because he won’t have to pretend you’re less than you are.

No lectures, no goading, no scrutiny. Just you. 

“Right.” That’s the word he settles for. “It looks right.” 

The emphasis chips away at what little believability the underwhelming affirmation had. That much is evident from the insecurity bleeding through your makeup. 

“Right,” you parrot. Skeptically, you drag out the vowel long enough that it disappears into the bathroom with you. 

Before the door clicks shut, Matthew’s already berating himself for whatever just happened. For acting like a complete doofus with a foot shoved down his throat. 

His mind is as quick as his tongue is sharp. He’s got confidence for days and a cocky demeanor primed and on-call, one that most women find endearing. Yourself included. He’s never had an issue dishing out pretty words or flirting before, especially not with you. 

With you, banter came easy. Sweet or salacious, it didn’t matter. The bob and weave, from platonic chatter to something charged and suggestive, is effortless. And it’s been that way for as long as he can remember. It's innate. He should be able to uphold his reputation in his sleep. 

What’s gotten into him? 

(You’d say the power of Taylor Swift, or some shit. Which is why he doesn’t open the floor for discussion. Among other reasons.) 

Matthew makes the executive decision to put things right. To redeem himself, to feel more like himself. 

His palms are hot and tingling as he sets off to do what he does best. Something fool-proof. Something that’ll erase the past ten minutes from the collective consciousness. Something to scratch an itch...

He won't make it through three and a half hours without catching a public indecency charge. 

Not with you looking like that.  

“I was thinking,” Matthew trails off as he comes up behind you in the en suite bathroom. His hands land on the counter, one on either side of you. “We should fool around a little bit before we leave.” 

With his chest flush to your back and his chin propped on your shoulder, he blatantly checks you out.

You, albeit begrudgingly, find it flattering. On principle, you roll your eyes. 

You snort. “Funny." 

Sarcasm pinches his face as he unintelligibly mocks you. 

Whatever witty retort he had died on his tongue when you lean forward to put some eyeliner in your waterline, inadvertently pushing the curve of your backside right into his growing bulge. 

Matthew turns you to face him without warning. 

The kohl pencil goes flying, dotting the pristine space as it tumbles to the floor. Its final resting place is unknown; you’ll follow the smudge-crumbs later. 

Later, when he doesn’t have you pressed tight between the harsh edge of the counter and his chest. 

Later, when the dull ache in your arched back dissipates. 

Later, when his attraction isn’t so painfully tangible. 

Later, when he isn’t looking at you the way he is now.  

You’re sinking in a shade of blue you don’t recognize. It’s stormy, vast and disquieting. Like any collision, you’re unable to tear your eyes away even though you know you should. It betrays an aura of foreboding, yet somehow, Matthew’s charged gaze carries a soothing effect. It's hypnotic in an stomach-twisting way. 

“I’m not laughing, sweetheart.” He breathes the words through the slight part in your lips, his voice rich and thick like honey. 

“W-We need to be quick—” 

Matthew buries his face in the sweet-smelling crook of your neck. Intent on shutting you up, he succeeds with infuriating ease once he’s latched onto your throat. He nips and sucks whenever you protest, and soon, you don’t even bother trying anymore.

Why lie and deny when what you want feels this fucking good? 

When your nails dig impatient little half-moons into his forearms, Matthew bares his teeth with a triumphant hiss.  

He grins against your skin, humming atop your erratic pulse. 

“Better hurry up and spread ‘em, then.” 

Matthew’s between your dangling boots as soon as you’ve hoisted yourself onto the counter. Kneading the soft skin of your thighs, inching up and in with eager hands, he doesn’t slow or stop until the white Self-Titled sundress is bunched up in the hinge of your hips.

“That’s my girl.” 

III. it’s delicate…

“All Tequila, No Crime” isn’t as diabolical of a cocktail as it sounds. 

Spending $100+ to taste test it and three other signature mixed drinks is. 

A robbery, if you ask him. 

What's downright criminal, though, is your inability to finish a single one. A “Last Great American G&T” with a few sips missing, a half-finished “Midnight Mule,” and a watered-down “Blue Debut” sit abandoned amongst an assortment of sweet treats and small bites. 

As he waits for what he ordered, Matthew picks at the vibrant fruit salad. He’s about to pluck a honeydew star from the pile stacked high in a bowl fashioned from a watermelon rind when the back of his neck prickles. 

“Knock it off.”

You blink, bemused. 

Matthew, having watched your reaction in a reflection, rolls his eyes. 

Back still to you, he clarifies. “You promised you wouldn’t make this a whole thing.”  

“I'm not.” 

“You've never been a good liar.” 

“Isn't that a good thing?” you deflect. 

You turn your attention back to the lively stadium, watching as it fills with laughter and anticipation. You're hoping he'll take the hint and drop it, that he won't pull the night apart at the seams. 

He abandons the sprawling buffet table in favor of the plush recliner beside yours. Once settled, Matthew slides a plate of your favorites across the small table between you. 

“Don't change the subject.” 

The cement under your boots makes for a captive audience as you sail into dicey weather. “I know—I know what I said, and I'm really trying my best, but can you blame me? I mean, c’mon, Matty. Look where we are.”

“A Taylor Swift concert?” Matthew does what he does best.

You know his tells and his tricks. You indulge neither. 

“My first Taylor Swift concert. Ever. I came out of The Queue From Hell empty-handed and shit out of luck, yet here we are. The Eras Tour. And not way up the nosebleeds or side-stage with an obstructed view. A suite. A private, fifteen-person suite—for just us. You did that.” 

Matthew shifts uncomfortably. He scratches the shadow clinging to his jaw. He looks everywhere, at everything. Everything except you. 

“So?” 

The probe is firm yet reluctant but not inherently dismissive. 

“So,” you heave a labored sigh of unease. “—so, how could I not? This ‘whole thing’ is the kindest, most thoughtful gesture anyone’s ever done for me. It means the absolute world, and I know you know that.” 

A thick, paralyzing quiet descends on the balcony. 

He does know that, which is what makes it so terrible. He knows, he knows, he knows. Matthew knows; he wishes he didn’t. For years, he successfully kept it at bay because… because you can’t just un-know something like that. Even entertaining the thought felt too big a risk. It jeopardizes the delicate peace only willful ignorance can safeguard. 

“Alright, alright. Jesus, sweetheart. Can't have you emptying the tank before the show even starts,” Matthew teases as he thumbs the tears away. “How d’ya know I didn’t pull some strings just to put an end to your perpetual pity party?” 

He’s trying to lighten the mood. Hoping to inch away from the emotionally dense zone of uncharted territory, hoping you’ll have mercy—or take pity—on him and his plight of avoidance. 

And you do.  

Ever the benevolent people-pleaser. 

You take your foot off the gas. You retreat to the status quo. You yield, but for a good cause.

Good and right aren’t synonymous. And we can’t will them to be. So, instead, we choose our battles and bide our time. 

There’s no reason to rain on tonight’s parade. 

“Thank you,” you acquiesce.  

Mathew smiles. 

This ceasefire, this tacit truce, is as fragile as rice paper. It feels as though, if someone pushed too hard from either side, they'd go right through it unchallenged. But, for now, it's enough. 

He takes your hand and squeezes. “And for the hundredth time, you’re welcome.” 

IV. it’s been a long time coming…

He gets it now. 

Truthfully, he understood after the very first bridge of the night. There’s just something about the intimacy of the spectacle; it's… indescribable. With thousands from all walks of life gathered in a single stadium to celebrate nearly two decades of singing, crying, and growing up together, it wasn't difficult to get swept up in the magic. 

For someone who’d consider themselves fan-adjacent at best, he wasn’t expecting to feel much of anything, let alone goosebumps, misty-eyed. 

He can’t even imagine how extraordinarily special it must’ve been for you, a lifelong fan, to partake in the world’s most cinematic sing-along. To luck out with your opener of choice, to be surprised with your favorite song during the acoustic set—you could probably die happy. Matthew can still feel your tear-streaked cheek against his shoulder and your shakey hand clasped in his. And he’ll remember the warmth of your joy for the rest of his life. 

He, however, doesn't have to imagine how much the experience took out of you. 

“Hey, hey. Don’t pass out on me yet, sweetheart.” 

You’re one minute into a five-minute Uber ride, and he’s already had to nudge you twice. 

Curled against the cool window like a cat, you groggily protest, “I’m not. My mind is alive, promise.”  

He snorts. “Then why’re your eyes shut?” 

“They aren’t!” 

They absolutely are. 

Matthew tugs you across his lap with a smile pulling at his cheeks. 

“Sounds like you need to get yours checked, Matthew Brendan,” you quip into his chest before drowning the backseat in delirious giggles. 

In the golden glow of the streetlamps, his smirk rests against your temple. 

Here is the moment. There have been hundreds like it in the years since you met. Lighthearted banter and late night laughter spill over into the early morning hours, all of it utter nonsense he wouldn’t trade for anything. It should be perfectly ordinary, but it's music to his ears. 

The cowboy boots he swore he wouldn’t carry home rest against his similarly sore calves. The ziplock bag, once bursting at the seams with bracelets, is empty and folded in his back pocket, and his arm is full from elbow to wrist. The glitter he contested clings to him like a second skin, there to stay. 

And he doesn’t hate it. 

💌 if you liked it, pls lmk! 💌

⬸ back to the catalog  (masterlist) 

⬸ back to the main blog 

All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.

©2024 holy-pucks, all rights reserved. I do not give consent for any of my work to be copied, re-posted, or translated here, on Tumblr, or on any other platform. Reproduction of any content from this blog is considered plagiarism.

patrons gained access to this piece on MAY 15, 2024 as part of their early bird perks. learn more HERE!

[cheezeybread]

hihi! I saw your requests were open and was wondering if you'd do head cannons with any of the first years you want (romantic expt Ortho obvi) where the reader has natural wavy/curly hair (2C/3A) and always straightens it,but one day their straighter broke and they had to go to school with their natural hair?

HECK YEAH

As a curly-haired girlie myself, this just hits different <3

𝙁𝙩: 𝘼𝙘𝙚, 𝘿𝙚𝙪𝙘𝙚, 𝙅𝙖𝙘𝙠, 𝙊𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙤, 𝙎𝙚𝙗𝙚𝙠

I'm SoRrY I can't write Epel that well :(

●・○・●・○・●

𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀

Literally doesn't even notice anything is different.

Maybe he'll have a feeling that something's off....but he can't quite figure out what....

You're gonna have to tell him straight-up, baby, he's about as thick in the head as they come. Ain't nothing getting in his brain.

Of course, once you tell him, Ace tries to play it off like he knew but was just waiting for YOU to be comfortable enough to share it with him.

God love him, he tries to hard to be cool.

But by golly, he absolutely LOVES this natural hair of yours now that he notices it

He's totally gonna think of reasons to drag you all over school grounds, just so everyone in the entire school can see you and your fancy-dancy hair!

Even if you tell him you don't think it's fancy-dancy, he does NOT agree and WILL keep calling it that.

The next day, when you come to classes with it straightened again, he's obviously gonna sulk about it a little bit...and after he overhears something about straightened hair losing its straight-ness when wet....he's gonna find a way to dump water on you so he can see your wavy hair again!

Which might be the wrong route, but he just loves you so much and can't get enough of your hair.

●～●～●～●～●

𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐄

"Ohhhh, my mom straightens her hair, too! Why not just leave it natural?"

He's well-versed with the world of hair-styling simply from his mother's own routines when she was younger.

Now that he knows your secret, he's totally gonna buy you hair supplies specifically FOR your natural hair...you know, he was just out shopping at the school store and came across this special cream that reduces frizziness, why don't you try it out??

Of course, if you tell him that you prefer to have it straightened (either for convenience, or because you're self-conscious about it), he'll do his best to support your decision, and he'll stop buying the wavy hair products.

Heck, he'll even try his hand at straightening your hair for you!

He'll burn his fingers a lot the first few tries (which he makes you "kiss the pain away". He's a bit cringe, but hey, he's your cringe), but soon enough, he'll be an expert with that sucker!

You now have a new hairstylist! Tadaaaa

●～●～●～●～●

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋

He's such a king, he notices right away what's up with your hair and gives you a nod of appreciation.

Jack may not be the best with words, especially not words of affection, but he's working on it for you! So expect some shy compliments of how nice you look!

You can even catch him whispering under his breath sometimes about how he "likes the look" and you should "wear it more often", but if you ask him to repeat what he said so you can hear it better, he'll get flustered and say something like "I SAID IT'S REALLY HOT OUT"

He's pretty chill about the whole thing, ngl. He doesn't try to pressure you to straighten it again nor leave it how it is, he just appreciates it whatever style it's in. The natural look, he's just considering it as a treat!

PLEASE start wearing your natural hairstyle around this poor man, because he's not going to ask you to do it, even though he reeeeeally wants you to.

Poor Jack just figures that you should do what you want- after all, it IS your hair.

Once he learns about straight + wetness = curly hair, expect some swim dates, and walks in the rain.

You've been warned

●～●～●～●～●

𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐎 𝐒𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐃

The poor little dude is trying so hard to figure out what's wrong with you at first

But then when he gets closer to you, he realizes that it's just your hair, in a different style!

He knows that people can curl their hair, straighten it, and do whatever they want to it, so why should he be so surprised?

More likely than not, he already knew your hair type was different from the straight hairstyle you wore everyday, simply from scanning you for injuries when he hangs out with you (Yes, he most definitely checks you over every time, he can't have his friend getting hurt and not do anything about it!)

Once you tell him your tale of woe regarding your hair straightener, Ortho lights up and offers to fix it for you! He also has a built-in mini hair-straightener (because he has everything else, why not!) and offers to straighten your hair right here, right now, if you want!

Truth be told, he likes any of your hairstyles, so wear whatever you want with pride!

●～●～●～●～●

𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐊 𝐙𝐈𝐆𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐓

Yells very loudly when he first sees you: "WITCH, THEY'RE A WITCH"

But then he realizes that they're all at a school for magic-users, and that you're the only one amongst them that DOESN'T actually have magic!

So he's just very confused as to how you changed you hair so suddenly.

When you tell him about your hair straightener breaking and how this is your natural kind of hair, he immediately wants to see the straightener.

He's so awestruck by this little device that's an over-glorified piece of hot iron.

"I WILL TAKE THIS MACHINE UNDER MY CHARGE", he loudly exclaims, taking your hair straightener and rushing back to the Diasomnia house.

He'll definitely get someone in Ignihyde to fix it (Or, rather, he'll get Lilia to go in his stead to get someone to fix it, but once it's all nice and working again, he's gonna use that sucker until it breaks again!

Everyone in Diasomnia walks around with badly-straightened hair. Half of the dorm member's hair is already straight, so Sebek tried to make it even STRAIGHTER.....there's a thick hair-burnt smell hanging around the dorm.

But yeah, you're not getting your straightener back after that. Besides, Sebek likes your wavy hair! It matches your personality a lot more, in his opinion ;)

●・○・●・○・●

[milliumizoomi]

Hi, I was thinking Armando Ateras x Reader. So let’s just say that Reader is half human and half vampire and she controls her thirst but she still needs to feed but the hospital is closed down. When Armando came home, he noticed that the house is completely quiet and he saw Reader on the bed back turn and was breathing heavily. He walked towards her and he noticed that her eyes were brown and dark and has dark circles under her eyes and he asked what is wrong and told him that she needs to feed but the hospital is closed down. So Armando offers her to feed off from him but she says no quickly but still lets her feed. :)

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄

☆彡SUMMARY.; You’re so thirsty, and yet you can’t take the help he’s offering.

☆彡FEATURED.; ARMANDO x HALFVAMP!READER

☆彡TROPE.; ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP

☆彡FORMAT.; ONE SHOT

☆彡GENRE.; SLIGHT CRACK + ANGST (if you squint) + FLUFF

☆彡WARNINGS.; Mentions of Blood, Mentions of human testing, Child Abandonment, Mentions of Death, Biting, + Mature Language

☆彡NOTES.; Thank you sooo much for the request and I’m sorry it took so long, it took me 3 days to edit this🧍🏽‍♀️,, it was kicking my ass fr but I had fun writing it since I don’t think I’ve ever written something like this before. I hope yall enjoyyyy!!🥰🥰

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED🧛🏽‍♀️.

🎧FOR THE BEST EXPERIENCE, YOU CAN LISTEN TO SORROWS by BRYSON TILLER🎧

Death.

So this is what this dreaded thing feels like.

It had felt like years, centuries even you’ve been at home feeling pain beyond what you believe to be normal.

Put it simply, you’re thirsty as shit and the only thing that you can drink to ease it a little you have nothing of.

Blood.

With you being half vampire and all, it’d make sense that’d be the only thing you can even think of drinking.

The backstory of you being or becoming a vampire is definitely not a pretty one. You were tested in from an early age. Your shit parents sold you off for a couple grubby dollars because they could. They just didn’t want to take care of you, so what better way to get rid of a kid than selling her off right?

God bless the world now though because they’re dead, and they never get to bring another kid into this world. It took years of being prodded, poked, scanned, and lasered until Miami Department came and got you out of there. Only the people on this mission was even aware of your situation and what exactly you were.

Your situation was made top secret, which meant not many should even know you’re the person rescued from this place. Only the people in the mission, which was AMMO, and the captain, that was it.

That being said you had to be kept in a facility for a while to be monitored before they let you go. They didn’t want to risk anything so they had to make sure you were good to go to be let out. And with you being so top-secret, that meant you had to stay in a place with someone that already knew your secret. Marcus decided to take you in, after many, many… many talks with Mike. They made sure you got what you needed and you even got the chance to integrate back into society.

However, this isn’t the matter at hand right now.

With this all being said, the fact was that you were not full vampire. With that in mind, this sheer thirst you have for blood right now is absolutely ridiculous. You’ve never had this problem before.

You don’t even know why you’re feeling like this in the first place.

You were usually able to control yourself, control your desires, your urges, your thirst. But now, it felt like you could rip the walls off hospital just to get inside for even a drop of blood.

Stones felt like they were piling higher and higher into your neck.

You were so fucking thirsty.

It had been god knows how many hours, close to about 2 days since the hospital closed down and you could feel the hot sensation of burning in your insides, along with fatigue and pain all over your body. You could curse the damned hospitals for putting you through this. You could control your thirst, you knew you could, but for some reason these last couple days, you had been completely insatiable.

And the people who could help you right now had been gone for almost a week. One of them being your boyfriend of 11 months.

Armando.

You had met him at the department, where you usually had to go for routine inspection of the state of your body and your abilities. He had been let out of jail for sometime, and with him being on AMMO, his father informed him of your situation.

Apparently he trusted his son with your secret.

He was weary of you at first, but that quickly died when he saw how you carried yourself. What led him to become so drawn to you was your raw strength and mental fortitude. He was impressed (and partially terrified) not only of your speed and strength, but also your ability to keep your thirst for blood at a minimum.

Granted nobody else in the world was like you.

Still though, he half expected you to react in the ways he’d seen vampires in movies would, unarticulated and flat out greedy for blood. Your personality is what sold him though, but that’s a story for another time.

Right now, the man you were currently silently begging to come home was nowhere to be found, as he was busy on a mission, and only god knows how long it’ll take him, or anybody else who knows about your situation to come back, You wanted him to be back so badly so he could just hold you as you went through this, not wanting to be alone. You were laying on your side, back facing the door and breathing so hard you were feeling severely lightheaded, even when laying down.

The after what felt like another hour had gone by, you heard the front door open and could’ve screamed for joy if you weren’t so damn thirsty and borderline passing out.

“Baby..?”

You heard his voice as his smell was enough to make you feel like you could get through this.

Armando, on the other hand, was on it.

Immediately, when he neared the bedroom after putting his stuff down, he could already sense something was wrong. When he saw you laying on the bed, back facing him and breathing hard, he immediately was on full alert.

He came over to you and slowly turned you over in your back, trying to assess the state you’re in.

“Mama? Talk to me, tell what’s wrong, what do you need?”

You looked at him, barely able to form words, you were just so out of it. He noticed your usual brown eyes were so dark they were border-lining black now, and under your eyes were dark circles. You looked like you haven’t slept in days.

“Mama talk to me please.. I need to know what to do to help you..”

“..thirsty.” You barely manage to answer him, practically gasping as the single word left your mouth.

“Where’s your blood baby? You don’t have any more?”

You shook your head no. And you already knew what his next question would be, so again, grasping at straws for the words to rip themselves from the back of your burning throat, you managed to say, “..hospital’s closed.. can’t get more..”

He tsks at the information you just told him. He quickly kicks off his shoes and climbs onto the bed, lifting your head slowly to rest and on his lap as he brushes your hair, trying to find anyway to alleviate the pain he knows you’re in right now.

Judging by your state, you could very well die without getting blood somehow, and of course he could go get it for you, but he doesn’t want to leave your side.

He can’t risk that.

“Mama vamos... bebe el mío, no puedo dejarte así...”

At this point, you felt like your head was splitting and your ears were ringing, so you swore you had heard him wrong. You gave him an incredulous look, which he picked up on. “Baby I’m not kidding.” Quickly, but carefully, he pulled your body up so you were in a position where you were sitting in his lap, face facing his.

“You look like you’re about to pass out, you need to drink some of mine, now.”

You shake your head immediately. Weakly, you respond, “Hell no.. I’m not doing that. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“No te lo estaba preguntando.”

He shoots you a look, and if you could, you’d muster up the strength to roll your eyes. You swore you’d never drink directly from a person, it just felt so wrong to you, wrong to even think about. It would make you feel less human, and it already took you months to start ingesting blood.

“Woman drink, now!” Still being stubborn, you didn’t budge. So he had to take matters into his own hands. He guided your head from the crook of his shoulder to look at him.

“Listen to me mama.. I can tell you’re fucking exhausted and tired, so I need you to listen to me and drink, I’ll be damned if I lose you to your stubbornness. I’m not playing with you. Drink.” You start shying away from the intensity of his gaze and words.

You knew very well what you not listening to him would do. Sighing, you sucked it up and looked at him, nodding. He leans back a bit and takes off his shirt, then cranes his neck to one side, fully surrendering himself so you can start the process.

You swallow nervously, the dry feeling scraping at your insides. Slowly, you lean closer, your fangs slowly growing as your face draws closer to his face. You stop momentarily, not sure if you want to go through with this. “Go on baby, está bien..” he rasps, rubbing your back gently.

At his reassurance, you come close enough to his neck and open your mouth, your sharp fangs coming into view and bite down. He groans at the intrusion, his body momentarily tensing at the feeling.

You on the other hand felt as if you were in pure bliss. The sounds you were making at the taste of his blood would have the neighbors sharing some questionable looks. You felt so energized, and you couldn’t get enough. His blood felt like crack to you, it was so addictive. Armando swore it would hurt more than it did. It felt.. pleasing.

He liked it.

Maybe he should let you do this more often.

Finally, you pull back from him, dazed. He too is a little whipped from the situation. He holds the back of your head as you pull back, studying your face. Your eyes were already beginning to glow, reverting to their original color. “¿Mejor?” You nod yes, bringing a hand up to wipe the access blood and the corner of your mouth. Your body had felt like it was buzzing with pure electricity.

It felt so much better.

“See.. that’s why you need to listen to me mama.”

You nodded in agreement. “Yeah I know.. thank you baby.”

He smiled at you. “De nada, mamá...now can you wrap this up for me so we can shower?” Gesturing to his neck.

You laugh a bit and smile. “Sí, vale.”

[GLOSSARY]

“Mama vamos... bebe el mío, no puedo dejarte así...” —“Mama, let’s go... drink mine, I can’t leave you like that...”

“No te lo estaba preguntando.” — “I wasn’t asking you.”

“. . . está bien..” — “. . . it’s fine..”

“¿Mejor?” — “Better?”

“De nada, mamá. . .” — “You’re welcome, mama. . .”

“Sí, vale.” — “Yeah, okay.”

ミ★

{TAGLIST} :: @armandosbabymama @ghettogirly @tinys0ftie @shurisgf @radioloom @butterflyybabe @dyttomori @nuggetnat888 @yeahnobyehoney @urbanlovestory || if you’d like to be added to the taglist just let me know in comments or dms🤗💕.

ミ★

©2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED — MILLIUMIZOOMI. Do not modify, repost, plagiarize, translate or claim any work posted on this blog without my permission.

[cherry-romper]

What they're like

+ Kafka, Reno, Iharu, Haruichi, Aoi, Hoshina, Gen

Kafka;

What a fucking himbo

Is so incredibly dedicated to his dream it's so admirable but can be a yapper about it - mostly to do with Kaiju anatomy, his yap sessions end with everyone scrambling to take notes.

Isn't aware of how much people respect and care for him.

Sometimes can be a little overbearing, he DOES NOT have an inside voice. Reno and you often keeps him in check but he insists he's not talking loud.

Tells the DUMBEST jokes: "What two words, when combined, hold the most letters?" Then he'd piss himself telling everyone it's "post office"

Is unaware of his improving strength and tends to expect things to be heavier than they are and ends up launching things across a room.

Sometimes gets withdrawals from quitting cigarettes, especially after a stressful day and can get kinda irritable, but being around you and his friends helps curb the cravings. 

Reno;

Opinionated, always willing to give out advice but doesn't often give it without being asked.

Loves doing things for people. Will go out of his way get people stuff if they need it but also knows how to put himself first.

Often quiet in social situations, more of a people watcher than pleaser

Very focused of improving, you can often find him in the training room or library when he has free time

Pushes people to do their best.

Is so down to help people if they ask him no matter what it is.

Once he's started something he'll see it through no matter what.

He's stubborn to a fault

Iharu;

Hot headed but level headed

Easy to talk to, but often only talks about work - kinda to be expected.

Lightens up every room he's in

Doesn't like to see his comrades down in the dumps so will try his hardest to put a smile on their faces

The hypeman of all hypemen

Smart asf, doesn't need help studying but is so down for group study sessions

Can be quite envious of others constantly improving, sometimes you'll find him staring off Into space thinking about improving, lost in deep thought - often he won't even notice you till you shake him out of it, he will shout at you for "not announcing" yourself.

 Can be quite flirty on and off the field but mostly when his adrenaline is pumping. Back and forth banter and teasing insults do something to him.

Haruichi;

Rich boy with really good manners

Cares about his comrades and treats them to meals when they all have the time

Has a skincare and haircare routine

Sleeps with a silk pillow

Absolutely loves having little rivalries with people, it pushes him to be a better fighter.

Completely dedicated to the force but the reservations about his family and the company he'll inherit one day sometimes hold him back from giving his all.

Takes mental notes on how the suits could be improved while he's fighting.

Aoi;

Built like a brick.

Abs like a washboard.

As dense as his body is, he's very agile and quick to move.

Heaviest footsteps known to man

He absolutely loves his peace and quiet, though he's used to having to share his space and time.

Is big on respect but it's something he believes should be earned and not given.

Being ex-military, he's BIG on routines. Doesn't realise he even has one but you've noticed his little patterns.

Light sleeper, but quick to fall asleep. Once his head hits the pillow he is OUT.

Hoshina;

Is terrifying when he's serious and knows it. He loves pretending to be serious to scare people, he finds their reactions hilarious. 

Finds everything funny. Will laugh just to fill silence. 

Always smiling, its almost uncanny. 

Loves his comrades but isn't one to admit that. 

Sometimes he'll go quiet in social situations and just watch everyone messing around, those little moments are his favourite and he treasures them.

Will linger over peoples shoulders when they're studying then make disappointed faces at their work, known nothing they wrote is wrong, he just finds it funny that he made them paranoid. 

Narumi;

Will only give you the time of day if you're good. If you're average or below when it comes to combat, he will not even know your name.

Egotistical beyond comprehension. 

Cocky and sarcastic, gets away with talking back because he's the strongest. 

Adores back and forth teasing. If you can match him in combat he expects you to match him in wit too. 

Finds comfort in his own mess, reminds him he's still alive (he's just lazy)

Likes making little nooks/nests out of pillows to sleep/game in. Also a big fan of pillow forts.

[wolfpants]

some fics I have been enjoying recently - wolf's reading list: june favourites 📚

As June draws to a close, I'm thrilled to say that both my reading and writing have picked up significantly after nearly a year of poor focus and general scatterbrained chaos. Hurrah! It's been a joy to ease back into the fandom, especially with so many wonderful fics to explore. Here are some I've devoured over the past month or so!

9 to 5 📆

E, HP, Drarry, 2.5k | @oknowkiss

Draco Malfoy hates Mondays.

“The Ministry will be breached. You’ll be caught in the crossfire.” Potter smiles crookedly. “Wrong place, wrong time. Funnily enough.” Draco swallows. “Hilarious.” “I’m keeping you here. For now.” Potter says. “Alive.”

-

Crush 🌶️

E, HP, Drarry, 8.2k | @citrusses

Harry Potter has a secret admirer. Harry's pretty sure that if this person figures out what an idiot he's capable of making of himself, they'll lose interest. So he turns to Draco Malfoy, reformed nemesis and stylish lawyer, for guidance.

“Malfoy,” Harry says. “Kiss me.” Malfoy winces. “Stop calling me that.” “Oh,” Harry says. “Sorry. Kiss me… Daddy?” “You absolute, clinically hopeless, fucking moron.”

-

Find New Ways 🫧

M, HP, Drarry, 3.6k | @skeptiquewrites

First comes marriage.

"We're married.” Draco trailed fingertips in the water, watching the little eddies in their wake. Harry's fingers curved around his ribcage. “We are.” The feeling in Draco's chest was too weighty for words, but he tried. “You’ll make a good husband.” The question of whether Draco would was outstanding.

-

Know Your Enemy 🗡️

E, HOTD, Daemon/Aemond, 2.4k | memequeen1127

Daemon follows Aemond after he storms out of the feast.

It is quite enjoyable, Aemond showing how unaffected he is by his nephew’s attempts to hurt him. He feels a thrill from emulating his uncle’s easy power. It’s the best outlet for his desire he’s found today. If Aemond can’t fuck him, then at least he can be him.

-

like some small animal that only comes out at night 🚾

E, HP, Drarry, 943 | @maesterchill

Unspeakable Malfoy and Auror Potter hook up in the bathroom at a Ministry charity event.

“Meet me in the gents,” Potter instructs, his whisper barely audible over the bustle around us, but so authoritative and unambiguous that it’s all I can do not break into a run.

-

Twenty-Two Cards 🃏

(Series) E, HP, Drarry, 108k | peu_a_peu

Aurors Potter and Malfoy crack the case. (plus more!)

"Only one bed," Harry observed. "Guess you're on the floor, then," Malfoy said, throwing his cloak on it. "You're not even going to offer to share?" "Fuck off," Malfoy said, and then proceeded to use all the hot water for his shower. Harry resigned himself.

-

your braids like a pattern 🌳

E, HP, Drarry, 31.1k | @hoko-onchi-writes

Harry runs a camp. Malfoy is the new counsellor, and he's driving Harry to the brink of insanity.

“Why do you keep bothering me? Coming back and talking to me? I’ve been nothing but an arsehole to you. And you—you keep coming back.” Harry doesn’t mention that Malfoy is eye-fucking him on a regular basis because he doesn’t need to open that Pandora’s box. Not right now. “Oh, you are an arsehole. But I’m mercilessly fucked up, and I find it so endearing.”

-

That's all folks! I'll try and make this a regular thing at the end of every month. What should I read next? Recs always welcome! 💖

[mustainegf]

Loved that Kirk blurb about his teeth. So fucking cute!!!

I saw you mentioned James and his acne too though. Did you already write fics about that? If so, can you link them? Because yeah, James is still hot as hell with or without acne same as Kirk is hot as hell with his original teeth or his newer ones. But I can see him being self conscious about it sometimes (just as I can see Kirk being self conscious about his teeth sometimes), especially of someone says something rude about it in their hearing or in such a way that it got back to the guys. And neither deserves to feel self conscious about such things. :(

I cannot even begin to express how much I loves James acne/acne scars they are SO CUTE!??? dude I hope he was never insecure of them cuz he was absolutely adorable

𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐒 ¹⁹⁸⁴

I had just come home from a long day of classes, a tad weary but excited to see James, he always made my days better. I pushed open the door of his room, it was ajar, and then I stopped, having seen what I never expected I would.

There in front of his mirror sat James, right on the floor, staring into the glassy surface. His face was red, though it wasn't from exertion or the warmth of the room. He looked devastated.

I paused in the doorway, unsure if he had noticed me. As soon as he heard the door creak, he rapidly wiped his face with the back of his hand and tried to act as if nothing had happened. But I knew otherwise.

"Hey," I cooed softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. James barely looked at me, his eyes darting back to the mirror for just a second before he forced a smile in my direction.

"Hey," he replied, with very obvious strain. "What's up?"

I didn't say anything at first. I approached where he sat, and seeing his obvious forced composure made my heart ache, I didn’t want him to feel like he had to ever hide from me.

I knelt beside him, the cool wooden floor pressing into my knees. I snuggled up beside him, sliding my arms around his, before resting my head on his shoulder. We just stayed there like this for a minute. I could feel the emotion in his muscles, faint quivering of his arm when my fingertips reached it.

"James," I began to say softly, looking up at him, "what's wrong?"

He shrugged and jerked his head away from me, looking at some invisible point on the floor. "Nothing. Just, it's weird lighting in here, I guess."

I frowned. "James, I can tell you've been crying. Please, talk to me."

He sighed, a shuddering breath that came from the soul. "I said it's nothing," he repeated, a little more forcefully this time. He wiped at his eyes again, trying to compose himself once more, only breaking my heart.

I could feel the tears welling up in my own eyes now, seeing him like this. "James, please. I know something's wrong. You don't have to hide it from me."

He shook his head. "Just drop it, okay? It's not a big deal."

I wasn't going to let it go. I could see the pain in his face, the way his eyes were reddened and his lips drooped. I shifted around more in front of him, my hands gently cupping his face. "James, look at me," I instructed.

Finally, he faced me, his eyes swam with tears, two sparkling ponds. "Please, just leave it," he whispered, his voice broke, breaking me equally.

"Jamie, I'm here for you," I comforted, stroking his cheeks very gently with the pads of my thumbs. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

He closed his eyes, and a single tear slid down his cheek. "I hate my face," he finally admitted, his voice so quiet I just about didn't hear it.

What?! How could he ever think that? He was the most handsome person I’d ever met. I couldn’t possibly conjure up any idea as to why he could think such a thing.

"Why would you say that?" I questioned softly, running my fingers through his long wispy hair.

James finally looked up to met my gaze. In his eyes was a dangerous concoction of sadness and hate. "My acne…" he finally spat out, his voice cracking. "I hate it. I can’t stand looking at myself."

I was mortified. I'd always found James breathtaking, acne and all. Actually, the breakouts, the little pinkish-red marks, along with the divets of scars, had become something I had grown to adore on his cheeks.

"Oh, Jamie," I cooed, heart aching. I wrapped my arms tenderly around his shoulders, holding him in close.

His body convulsed softly as tears began to fall from his eyes again. Breathing in short bursts, vibrating with each one. "I’m so ugly," he choked out. "I see all these people out there with perfect everything and then I look at myself, and I just..."

I wrapped him tighter in my grasp and felt what he was feeling, as if it was mine. "You're not ugly.” I pulled back a little and stared him right in the eyes. "You're beautiful, James. All of you."

He shook his head, tears streaming down his face now. "Don't say that," he muttered. "I know what I look like."

I reached up and gently brushed his tears away with my thumbs once more. "I'm not saying it because I have to," I said. "I'm saying it because it's true."

We just held each other for a moment, staring into the mirror.

"Look at yourself, James," I said very softly. "Really look at yourself. You are so handsome."

He peered doubtfully at our reflections in the mirror. In his eyes, I could practically taste his hesitation. "I don't know," he said shyly.

I leaned closer to him, inches from his ear, and whispered, "you know what I see?” James listened but kept his face fixated on his reflection, "I see the boy I fell in love with. And he’s now a man, a rather good looking man too." I chuckled softly.

A grin spread his face. "That’s the face I fell in love with, and I think he’s handsome.”

James looked back at the mirror, his eyes flicking back and forth between his reflection and mine. Slowly, he took a deep breath. "I'm handsome?” he said sourly, as if the word was foreign on his tongue.

I smiled, reaching to kiss his cheek. "You always have been," I whispered, my fingers tracing the lines on his soft jaw. "James any girl would kill to be with you, you’ve seen how crazy those groupies get."

He laughed, the sound breaking through the final layer of his sadness. "You really think I'm handsome?"

"I know you are," I replied, kissing his bumpy pink cheek. "And I'm going to keep telling you that until you believe it too."

[hotheadedhero]

Hello, could you create a headcanon for ROTTMNT about what it would be like to date Leo, Raph, Mikey, and Donnie (separately) and what the pros and cons of those relationships would be?

AN: Ooh~ Yes, I like this! It's not completely sunshine and rainbows, after all :0

Pros/Cons of Your Relationship

Rise Turtles x Reader

Raphael

Pros:

Considering the sheer size of this magnificent creature, the hugs and cuddles you get are beyond comparison. There's nothing quite like starting/ending your day by being wrapped up in those glorious green muscles.

Is deliberately gentle due to his immense strength and has a great amount of self-restraint in his physicality when interacting with you, even when he gets wildly excited. Such as any time you visit him in the lair and he barrels towards you. It seems like it'll be a harsh impact and then he stops at the last second to avoid knocking you over. Adorable.

Never have to worry about being in danger with him around. This big lug will make sure you're in safe hands no matter the location, no matter the time of day.

Raph is unabashedly tender and kind. He'll be hesitant to say anything hurtful towards you and as such is careful with his words, especially when it comes to criticisms.

Cons:

May get slightly overbearing with how protective he is. He isn't being inherently controlling and his heart is in the right place but you wish he wouldn't worry so much, as sweet as it is.

Need to be careful leaving him alone for too long given his risk for going into savage mode. Can come across as rather clingy because of this.

Much like certain disagreements he has with his brothers, he sometimes has a hard time admitting when he's wrong. However, it's never usually about anything too serious but it can cause it's strains.

Leonardo

Pros:

Always knows how to make you laugh and tries his best to do such when you're feeling down. Some of his jokes are admittedly pretty terrible but you can't deny the fact that even the bad ones coax a smile out of you.

Enjoys spontaneity. Even if you're the type of person that struggles with getting out there or knowing what to do for the day, Leo always has something under his sleeve. Just call him the master of fun.

Whilst he's a jovial character, that doesn't mean he can't have his more serious moments, nor is he always completely blind-sighted to things if they seem too good to be true. Sure, he gets you two into shenanigans but he'll have your back if things seem awry.

Has also been shown to try to reconcile his mistakes and be sympathetic towards your plights, especially if he ends up being the cause of them. It may take him a moment or two to figure it out but he always finds a way to make right by you for his mistakes.

Cons:

Has an almost incessant need for attention and can come across as quite conceited. You find that he prioritises his own entertainment, so planning dates can often feel one-sided and uneven in mutual enjoyment.

Doesn't always know how to take things seriously, which can lead to your fair share of arguments.

Is known to be a compulsive liar and will engage in frequent fibbing when he worries about getting into trouble with you. With this, Leo can be disingenuous as it is not unusual for his charisma to take the form of false flattery just to get into someone’s good graces. Having become aware of this, it's sometimes difficult to take his compliments towards you as true.

Donatello

Pros:

Treats you like the absolute royalty you are. Being his loved one, he makes a point of giving the treatment he feels that you deserve. Whether that be programming S.H.E.L.D.O.N to give you special attention or hiding the last pizza box for you to share, he always makes you feel like number one.

Is always willing to help you out, no matter the issue. Donnie is a problem solver, at the end of the day, and will work on a solution to aid you. No job is too big or too small.

He is all about gestures of grandiose proportions, loving the dramatics as much as he himself is dramatic. His aptitude for being extravagant means that birthdays, Christmases, and anniversaries are often met with awe-inspiring displays of affection.

While he perceives himself as being emotionless, in reality, he is far from it. It isn't uncommon for him to become irritated, such as when he doesn't feel as though others listen to or appreciate his intelligence. That's why it means the world when he opens up to you about his transgressions.

Cons:

Unintentionally has a habit of being condescending or patronising towards you. You are aware that he is highly intelligent and that you won't always know the answer to something, but he needs to keep in mind that he isn't right about everything.

When he gets absorbed in his work, it's as though the entire world around him ceases to exist. This means that getting his attention can be difficult and often times you are left waiting until he's finished.

Despite his openness with you, your genuine adoration of his abilities isn't always met with gratitude. He longs for such praise but it carries more weight if it comes from respective elders. This unintentionally has you feeling irrelevant or that your opinion doesn't matter.

Michelangelo

Pros:

Makes killer meals for you. There doesn't have to be a special occasion for him to get passionately creative in the kitchen for you. He always goes all out to make sure your pallet is satisfied.

Best believe he encourages you to add some colour to your wardrobe and helps you pick out outfits. He's supportive of your choices and loves any excuse for a good fashion show.

He absolutely hates being dishonest to those he loves most and best believe that includes you. One might view it as a con but the fact that he dislikes lying means you never have to worry about him hiding something from you. It does make surprise birthday parties difficult to hide but you win some, you lose some.

Mikey is an intuitive family man and wants to keep you and everyone on good terms with one another. He acts as a brilliant mediator, keeping things fair and unbiased when assisting in such resolves.

Cons:

Sometimes he's a bit brash with conversations that involve telling you about particular problems. You appreciate the irony of 'Dr. Delicate Touch' but that persona is in dire need of a name change.

Being the youngest of his brothers, he may have certain complexes where doing tasks or upholding responsibilities are concerned. Even if it's obvious that something requires an extra pair of hands, he may refuse your help because of his need to prove himself.

Is easily frightened and often retreats into his shell instead of confronting the threat. This includes any challenges that may come from you, as well. You appreciate his fear of conflicts but he can't always hide away when something important needs to be discussed.

At the end of the day, no one is perfect. Far from it, in fact, but you take each other for what you are. As long as you're both happy and know how to have constructive conversations about glaring issues, there isn't anything to worry about <3

[dailyadventureprompts]

Therapy Vs. Power Fantasy

Like a sage delving through cursed tomes to discover lost truths I recently I stumbled into some of the danker corners of the internet and abzorbed some absolutely vile takes. One of the recurring themes that popped up was people with rancid personal beleifs taking aim at the newer generations of TTRPG players (d&d and otherwise) for finding personal meaning or catharsis in their games, and how these new gamers were spoiled children who were getting overinvested.

Of course, they contrasted this "bitch" behavior there's a lot of other mysoginistic, homophobic, and ableist slurs they like to throw in when youtube TOS isn't looking with the badass way they play the game, like they've been doing ever since they were kids, like they still do in their playrooms mancaves away from all those pissbabies and girl feelings.

This got me thinking, specifically about power fantasies, how vunrability relates to art, and how repressed men are terrified of seeming weak, and how the early d&d lore is laregely based around childhood or adolesent fears.

The tie between media illiteracy and conservatism is nothing new. To enjoy art, you have to open yourself to it, to the chance of elation or disapointment or challenge, to let it resonate with you in ways you can't nessisarily predict or control. The fascist conservative only likes art that reinforces who they perceive themselves to be, strokes their ego, and confirms their biases about how the world should be.

It's very telling then that when you see chuds talking shit about younger d&d players, they often throw "therapy" around as an insult, because much in the same way that art can touch something inside you, therapy is about challenging your ingranned self image, toxic ego, and beleifs... all things that chuds consider vital to their sense of self.

This is not to say that a power fantasy can't be theraputic: a good portion of my own writing is about vicariously smashing broken systems and ousting the corruption of the world.. but there's a fundimental difference in the power fantasy of raising your fist against unjust power and the fantasy of being the boot inflicting that power downwards on those you dislike.

What the chuds are trying to do here is use d&d (or whatever OSR itteration they've decided to parasite this week) as a balm for their insecurity, not ask questions about WHY they're scared of being weak, or what strength really is, but to have a space where they can larp as being the ubermench real MEN they've always fallen short of IRL.

They're people who were bullied and ostrasized, and like good little bootlickers they've decided that the only thing wrong with their abuse was that they were the ones on the reciving end. Part of the reason they're so upset that this new generation of players is so "woke" is because the "woke" players refuse to put up with them being assholes, dening them the chance to establish themselves as the new top-rung in the abuser hierarchy.

Also, before I sign off, mad love to my friends in the OSR community, I know you have to put up with an above average number of these dipshits and while you prefer a different style of game to mine I know we're all fighting the good fight for a better, more welcoming TTRPG hobby.