#this is one of my favourite lyrics of them. that single sentence.

[moonchild-in-blue]

Thinking about Higher and that line:

And you need a melody, I only need the silence

As if Vessel is reminding us that this is his purpose - to sing and to worship Sleep, because he has to. No matter how much he wants peace, how much he wants to break free from Them, to live a normal life, he will always come back to this. To Sleep. As if his very existence's worth is measured only by the music he offers to Them.

It's also a weary sigh of admittance. He's aware of the discrepancy between him and Sleep, between the love he desperately seeks in Them, yet doesn't find, and the love he willingly gives away, and is ravenously consumed by Sleep, again and again.

'Cause I am a fire and you are dry as bone You are taking your time You are killing me slow (...) With all that you believe You still refuse to shelter me 'Cause I am a danger and you're A long way from home

I think it's interesting how he's constantly comparing himself to predators, to the things that hurt, and yet he's the one who's being preyed on, who's being burned. As if that subversion of roles is Vessel declaring how overwhelming Their power over him is; no matter how powerful or intense his love for Sleep is, it pales in comparison to Sleep's divine existence. As if loving Them both ignites his passion and drains his very being.

Because he could hurt Them if he wanted. Because the biggest betrayals come from those closest to you. And Sleep lives beneath his flesh, lodged in his mind, his heart. He knows their weaknesses, he has seen the ugly parts of them and took them to himself. Yet chooses not to - or rather, he prefers not to, but he plays along anyways.

And we are exhausted by all this pretending We just can't resist the violence

The price of absolute devotion is what fuels Sleep's attention, and for a man desperate for the slightest hint of comfort and care, this is enough - this is everything. So if fighting the one he loves is the condition to receive their love, then he'll spill blood and tear skin to keep their favour. Because the pain he endures under Sleep's touch is nothing comparing to the pain of being denied their affection. So he learns to welcome the violence, because the aftermath will always bring him close to them.

(There's something about Sleep showing him just enough love to keep him around, but not enough to satiate his hunger, that I find utterly appealing.)

Deep down he knows this is not right, that being loved is not something to be indebted for. He loves and gives himself freely to Sleep; for Vessel, loving someone has no cost. But if this is what it takes to be with them, so be it. After all, who else could love him but Them?

And you need a melody, I only need the silence

You need praise and entertainment; you need the games, the bloodshed, the sacrifice; you think love is destruction. You need to consume in order to give.

I only need you. To love and be loved by you alone. So come have your fill of me; empty me of everything. I will still love you.

---

[If TPWBYT is Vessel going through depression and grieving this relationship, and what it once was, and TMBTE is him finally coming to terms with its demise and accepting that there needs to be a change, then Sundowning is him recognising the toxic nature of their relationship, but being too captivated and weak to resist it. It's him knowing how badly he will burn, but choosing to fly towards the sun anyways just to feel its warmth.]

[gellavonhamster]

13 books meme

Tagged by @littlestsnicket (thank you ❤)

1) The Last book I read: One Piece Novel Heroines by Jun Esaka, which I've already been posting about enough not to elaborate here

2) A book I recommend: can I copy your homework plagiarize the answer to this from the person who tagged me? Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I know a lot of people find it too long or just not their cup of tea, but it's one of my all-time favourites, one of those books that feel like they were written for me specifically, and I cannot help recommending it to others :)

3) A book that I couldn’t put down: I remember reading TFOTA #2 and #3 (The Wicked King and The Queen of Nothing by Holly Black) in a single day. I was feeling unwell, and it was cold outside anyway, so I just spent most of the day reading in bed. I recall being surprised by how engrossed I was - the first book of this series didn't grow on me until well into its second half.

4) A book I’ve read twice (or more): I have this sideblog on Twitter where I post a quote from Dracula per day (yes, manually, I don't know how to make bots lol). I just move down the text and skim it and pick sentences that catch my eye, and when I reach the end, I start from the beginning again. So, in a way, I am constantly in the process of rereading Dracula

5) A book on my TBR: Chrétien de Troyes' Perceval and a bunch of its continuations, Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner

6) A book I’ve put down: the thing is, if I don't really enjoy a book but still can find a good thing or two about it, I will keep reading and hoping it will improve eventually, and if I don't enjoy a book at all, I forget about it as soon as I put it down. Out of sight, out of mind - unless I particularly hate it. When I try to think of any books of the latter kind, the first to come to my mind usually is A Discovery of Witches. I found the worldbuilding really interesting, but damn, the protagonists were so annoying that I wasn't going to struggle through that brick of a book for it.

7) A book on my wish list: I need to get a copy of The Bad Beginning, The Wide Window, and The Hostile Hospital, and then I'll have the entire ASOUE collected! Would also love to get any other Snicketverse books; I only have Poison for Breakfast - bought it literally last weekend. I could buy them online, of course, but: 1) I prefer to avoid online shopping if there is realistic possibility for me to come across that item offline; 2) accidentally stumbling onto these books in bookshops (especially second-hand ones) when I least expect them feels like such a right experience for this series that I am inclined to continue acquiring them that way.

8) A favorite book from childhood: Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner... truly formative shit, responsible for at least 50% of my sense of humour

9) A book you would give to a friend: I was at my friend's place recently and noticed she had the exact same copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury as I do. When I told her about it, she told me it was I who gave her that book (I forgot 🤦‍♀️) and that she loves it and rereads it almost every autumn :') So this one has definitely passed the test.

10) A book of poetry or lyrics that you own: I have a whole shelf full of poetry books, in fact. At least half of them weren't bought by me, but by my family members long before I was born, but presently all of them are considered mine :D Those that I bought myself include collections of poems by Christina Rossetti, Emily Dickinson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Oscar Wilde, and Marina Tsvetaeva, among other things. And Useless Magic by Florence Welch!

11) A nonfiction book you own: I stumbled upon The Republic of Pirates by Colin Woodard in the same second-hand bookshop where I bought all the parts of ASOUE I currently have and couldn't believe my luck - I really wanted to read it after watching Black Sails! It's great.

12) What are you currently reading: Tristan and Isolde. Restoring Palamede by John Erskine. Really enjoying it so far; it sort of demystifies/disenchants Arthuriana but without excessive cynicism, with the narrator being understanding, perhaps even compassionate, when describing the characters' very realistic, human flaws. Technically I'm also reading E. W. Hornung's short stories about Raffles and Bunny through the Letters from Bunny Substack, but it's more like "desperately trying to catch up and failing". The stories themselves are delightful, but I was right to suspect that this way of reading books is not for me.

13) What are you planning on reading next? Dracula in Istanbul (the Turkish translation/adaptation of Dracula), courtesy of @seawilde <3

tagging @afoxnamedmulder, @seawilde, @lefresne, @uupiic, and @snckt; as always, feel free to ignore if you don't want to answer :)

[bisonaari]

Bison my friend! 💚🦆 Since you're studying Finnish, what is your favourite lyric from Käärijä's discography so far and why? 🥰

I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO ANSWER YOU I'M SO SORRY AAAAA I was at work and then like "I'll answer when I get home" AND THEN I NEVER DID AND I FORGOT Ok so hm omg not only I forgot but the answer isn't gonna be interesting because my finnish skills are still terrible I know like five words rip I'm gonna try my best tho, it might not be because of the meanings per se, but like musically, aesthetically, etc. Because to be fair I understand almost NOTHING so far lol

Ok so

I really like "tiettyyn pisteeseen" for a few reasons. OK I know it's just an expression and not a full lyric BUT I just really like the rythm of how he says it? It just sounds so good. Also I notice that so far I kinda tend to like words with y in them? (like kysymys my beloved) they look golden in my mind with synesthesia and they look very pleasing hahaha

If we go to Cha Cha Cha, I just love "Enkä pelkääkään tätä maailmaa" so so so much. The meaning of it, stopping being scared. Also the sound of it, it rolls off the tongue in a great way. Also I love that this is one of the first few lines of the song that I really understood something? The first word I learned in finnish was because of this line, it was "maa" <3 Then the second thing was the "en" part for the negation. It felt amazing finally understanding something on my own haha. (also unrelated to lyrics but HIS FACE when he sings that part omg he is so cute)

AQFSAQGAGQAHRS while looking up lyrics on genius for this answer I am understanding some new words from lyrics I hadn't looked at in a while that feels great

Going to Välikuolema, I really enjoy the first part of the chorus. Easy sentences to understand (feeling like a genius when you're just starting to learn and you get to "mä oon" and you're like omg i'm basically fluent i speak suomi très bien), discovering the word "loppu" and just using it on a day to day basis now, etc etc.

One that is 100% unrelated to the lyrics is this one from Mic Mac "Menin olohuoneeseen odottaa tuoretta pullaa uunista" I just love how it sounds so very much. It's soft and flowy and it pats my brain gently

BONUS : Not Käärijä at all, but lately I've been listening a lot to Turmion Kätilöt and one of the lines in Pyhä Maa cracks me up every single time LOL "Raskaan metallin Rambona juoksen"

For my followers who, like me, don't speak finnish, if the website that gave me the translation is right, it means

"I AM RUNNING AS THE RAMBO OF HEAVY METAL"

[exhuastedpigeon]

WAIT NO ONE ASKED YOU QUESTIONS!?

Okay. Every single odd number on that list.

I reblogged that post last night and fell asleep almost immediately after 😂😂! Thanks for asking Tanis!!

1. Share a song that makes you think of [fic title] Afraid of Heights by boygenius always makes me think about it hurts to hope for more. I listened to that song on repeat while writing it that no whenever I heart it I think about that fic.

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written? That's like asking me for my favourite child (not that I have kids). I'm sticking with buddie fics here since I have almost 150 fics on Ao3 and that's way too many to think about.

Honestly, there ain't no turning back might be my favourite even though it isn't fully published!

Or I really love gold when you see me too.

5. What’s a fic idea you’ve had that you will never write? Answered here :)

7. How many ideas for fics do you have right now? Uhhh too many?? I have 5 'active' wips (meaning I'm actually working on them a little bit) and like 20 other ideas. I tend to get an idea, work on it like my hair is on fire, and then when I lose the beans half the time the wip goes to collect dust.

9. Do you write every day? If you wrote today, share a sentence of what you’ve written! I try to write every day, even if it's just one sentence! Here's something I updated from the NHL AU today!

Buck’s much less self destructive now, thank you team mandated therapy and a bit of heartbreak, but he still has a big personality. He’s got the kind of personality that used to land him on Don Cherry’s shit list before he was finally kicked off Hockey Night in Canada for being a racist old fuck. But, that personality of his means he’s the kind of guy who the Kings marketing team loves because he’s down for basically anything they throw at him. 

11. Do you have specific playlists for writing fics? I tend to find a couple of songs that match the vibe I'm going for or that really inspire me and then listen to those on repeat.

13. How much planning do you do before writing? Answered here

15. How do you come up with titles for your fics/chapters? Usually song lyrics! Sometimes a title comes into my head out of nowhere, but usually I end up searching for a lyric that feels right.

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic? I learned all about the best sunrise views at the southern rim of the Grand Canyon for there ain't no turning back! It made me really want to go to see the sunrise there, even more than I already wanted to before!

19. Give us a small teaser from one of your WIPs. This is from my NHL AU! In the fic Buck is Canadian and when they go to Canada on a road trip Buck has to scope out a Tim Hortons immediately.

It would be a lie to say that as soon as they landed in Ottawa Buck went to Tim Hortons, because they landed at 11:45, only a couple of hours after a win in Buffalo. It’s been a long and cold east coast trip - they’re on the road for almost 10 days for this one and Ottawa is the third to last stop.  It wouldn’t be a lie to say that the first thing Buck did when he woke up in their hotel was to jump out of bed, wake Eddie up in the bed next to him, and drag him to the Tim Hortons next to the hotel.  And listen, Buck knows that objectively Timmies is just fine. It isn’t bad, it’s just not actually good either. But he’s a Canadian boy, he grew up on Timbits after practice with Maddie and hanging out in the Tim Hortons parking lots during high school, at least for the couple years he was around before moving to Kitchner to play juniors. Tim Hortons will always have a special place in his heart.

21. Have you ever deleted an entire scene after spending hours laboring over it? If so, why? Yeah, it was a scene that I wrote really early in the writing process and by the time I finished the fic the scene just didn't fit the vibe. I ended up using bits of it in another fic though, so it wasn't all a waste!

23. How do you choose where to end a chapter (if you have multi-chapter works)? I try to find a natural stopping point, but typically I don't write chaptered fics. I think of my 149 on Ao3 only like 15 of them are chaptered, maybe less.

25. Have you ever upset yourself with your own writing? I've made myself WEEP while writing and weep again while rereading later.

27. Is there a fic you were nervous to post/share? Why? I was a little nervous to share it hurts to hope for more because it was a really important fic to me (and really personal to me in some ways). I didn't want people to hate it because it felt so close to my heart.

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.) I don't think I'll ever finish this fic so I'll share a bit here. When I saw on the fandom wiki that Eddie and Buck were actually probably the same age (1991/1992) I started a fic that's a snippet of each of their lives at the same time period. This is from the Eddie - 18 section.

There was a little plus sign on three separate pregnancy tests. Eddie rests his head on the bathroom counter, hunching over from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub in Shannon’s bathroom. To her credit, Shannon looks like she’s holding it together more than he is. He was leaving for basic in a month and a half, she was supposed to be moving out of state for college in two.  Eddie took a deep breath, then another, before looking up at Shannon again. Her eyes were red rimmed, but otherwise she looked composed. He pushed down the fear that was threatening to crawl out of his chest, up his throat, and out of his mouth and instead said, “Whatever you want to do, I’ve got your back.” “I want to keep it,” Shannon said after a beat.  “Okay, then we keep it,” Eddie reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “What do we do now?” “I have no fucking idea,” Shannon half laughed, half sobbed. Eddie stood up and wrapped her in a hug, holding her to his chest. 

Fan Fic Writer Asks

[exploding-boxes]

God forbid i have free time and free will

So basically, i was bored and i listened to a lot of Depeche Mode album because i have a creepling addiction to this band. I decided to put my favourite song of each album and a justification.

Speak and Spell (1981) - Boys Say Go ! Like my dad said “That’s a song from a fucking gay bar”. And to this I can only awnser yes, that’s why I like it lmao. I mean, just look at those guys in the 80’s and tell me they’re straight.

A Broken Frame (1982) and Construction Time Again (1983) I did not listen to those but will one day

Some Great Reward (1984) - Lie To Me, I love every song from this album but I fucking love the chorus with the “Come on and lay with me, come on and lie to me” it just sounds really nice. I also really like Martin Gore repeating the last words during the chorus, it’s nice and adds something that I like. I love everything about this song and album though

Black Celebration (1986) - Here Is The House, the way the chorus sounds with the double voice is really nice. I like the sounds of clocks and we have a lot of them around my house so the intro is almost familiar to me lol. The lyrics “Here is the house, where it all happens, those tender moments under this roof” are just so cute though I know they’re talking about sex because it’s a Depeche Mode song, what do you expect ?? I love this whole album and it’s the first one I listened to :)

Music For The Masses (1987) - Behind The Wheel. Not my favourite album but a song I really like. I really thought it was a song about not driving when you drank because I’m really fucking dumb but, well, no, of course, it’s Depeche Mode, it’s about sex. I really like the kinda mysterious vibe the song has and the layering of instruments that slowly arrive are really nice

Violator (1990) - Enjoy The Silence, most of the time, a song has a good reason to be popular, well it’s totally understandable in this situation. This song slaps, is honestly really relatable (“Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm”), the clip where he climbs a mountain dressed as a king always makes me laugh for some reason and well it just slaps, an amazing song

Songs Of Faith And Devotion (1993) - Rush, it sounds so aggressive for no reason but I love it. The bass is *chef’s kiss*, that break with the (kinda) echo part is amazing and is a good buildup, that whole song makes me feel powerful though I’m a little 170cm shit. I overall like this album though it’s not my fav

Ultra (1997) - Useless, I didn’t listen to the whole album and it’s the only song I’ve listened to yet but it hits hard, IT’S THE MOTHERFUCKING BASS AND GUITAR SOLO, IT’S TOO GOOD !!

Exciter (2001) - Dream On, well, another album I didn’t listen to lol. But I clearly remember my dad doing the laundry at 3 am with this blasting of the speaker. The guitar is really nice though I can clearly tell it won’t stay my fav when I’ll listen to the full album lol

Playing The Angel (2005) - John The Revelator, definitely one of my fav though that’s one of my no skips albums. I just like the vibe, the little beep boops at the beginning (you can tell I have no musical knowledge by that single sentence). I can’t stop trying to make a transition between the part where he says “He’s a smooth operator” and Smooth Operator by Sade because I’m an absolute idiot. Overall I really like this song. I’m always gonna say this but the parts where Martin Gore sings with Dave Gahan are really nice and their voices match well together

Sounds Of The Universe (2009) - Wrong. AGAIN i did not listen to that album but my dad made me listen to this song once and I fell in love. Again, lyrics are relatable as fuck sometimes, especially the “There’s something wrong with me chemically, something wrong with me inherently […] I reached the wrong ends by the wrong means”. Anyways, another song I love

Delta Machine (2013) and Spirit (2017) I did not listen to those lol

Memento Mori (2023) - Don’t Say You Love Me, that’s a James Bond soundtrack, you can’t convince me otherwise. It sounds so classy, I’m a sucker for good violins and the depressing as fuck lyrics. With this album we’re likely to never get any new album from DM because, well they’re getting a bit old we say goodbye to Andrew Fletcher, the amazing keyboardist. But I honestly think this album is a good conclusion (if I can say it like that) to this amazing career

[lilyvandersteen]

Critically Yours

This story was written as part of the Klaine Secret Santa Gift Exchange 2022, and is gifted to @honeysucklepink. Merry Christmas, sweetie, and I hope this hits the spot for you!

The prompt can be found in the end notes.

Many thanks to my beta @hkvoyage, who was lightning-quick to review this for me so that it would still be in time for Christmas.

Critically Yours by @lilyvandersteen​

Kurt let out a big yawn as he walked into the kitchen. The party after the premiere had been fun, but he’d had too short a night’s sleep because of it.

He was on his second mug of coffee when Rachel called him.

“Kurt, you were amazing yesterday, as I knew you would be!”

Kurt grinned and thanked her.

“And I know you always tell me not to read the reviews, but… There’s this one you really need to read. You’ll love it. I’m sending you the link.”

“Rach, I don’t think…”

“Read it. This guy is so sweet, aww. Well, at least I think it’s a guy. He’s using a nickname. But the way he writes feels like a guy. Am I making sense? Maybe I’m still a bit drunk. One thing’s for sure, though, you have to read it. You just have to. I wish he’d say things like that about me. Anyway, got to go. Yoga tonight?”

“It’s a date!” Kurt promised her, and when she’d hung up, he clicked on the link.

It wasn’t a fan site that popped up. It was the New York Times website. The comments section, to be precise.

The commenter’s name was IconicWarbler, and unlike the other one-sentence commenters, he’d gone for the novel-like approach.

“I went to see Cabaret last night, and found myself totally enamoured of the MC, played by newcomer Kurt Hummel. I’ve never seen this actor on stage before, but I can assure you I will attend every play he’s in from now on. That’s how much he enchanted me. Such clear, strong vocals. Such a master at conveying emotions. And what a compelling personality! He draws you in, even pulling focus when he’s in the background. I could not keep my eyes off him. I urge you all to go see Cabaret and discover this promising fresh face.

Mr. Hummel, I’m calling it now: you will get a Tony nomination for this role. You are just THAT good.

Critically yours,

IconicWarbler”

Kurt covered his hand with his mouth and let out a happy squeak, smiling ear to ear.

Rachel was right, that was exactly the pick-up he’d needed this morning.

Thank you, IconicWarbler!

 K&B

Blaine fist-pumped happily when he read the announcement that Kurt Hummel would have the title role in the Jesus Christ Superstar revival.

The actor had gotten a Tony nomination for his role in Cabaret, as Blaine had predicted, and though he hadn’t won the award, it had opened new doors for him.

By now, Kurt Hummel had played in Dear Evan Hansen, causing Blaine to rave over how high his vocal range was, and opposite Rachel Berry in West Side Story, after which performance Blaine had waxed lyrical over how convincing they had been as star-crossed lovers, defending Kurt in replies to other commenters who seemed to think he was too gay to pull off the role of Tony.

Blaine had gone to see both shows as many times as his budget would allow, and had waited at the stage door to get his playbill signed every single time, even when it was pouring rain or freezing.

Kurt was always courteous and kind to every fan, taking his time to greet and thank them.

Every encounter with Kurt had Blaine walking on sunshine for days, especially when Blaine’s praise coaxed a rare smile out of the handsome man.

But after West Side Story, Kurt had disappeared from Broadway, not even starring in smaller roles. He was just… gone.

It had made Blaine worry and wonder what had happened.

But now, a year later, Kurt was back, and Blaine was relieved and excited to see his favourite actor in a new role.

The anticipation that had been building inside of him rose to a fever point when the radio station he listened to every morning announced a contest.

“Good morning everyone! I have some exciting news to share with you! You’ve probably already heard it: Jesus Christ Superstar is coming back to Broadway. And with it crowd favourite Kurt Hummel, who’s going to play the title role, and who is with us right now to have a little chat.”

“Hello, everyone!”

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how excited are you to see Kurt take on this role? Let us know through our app!”

Blaine grinned and opened the app, sending a quick message.

“Oh, lots of enthusiasm so early in the morning. Let’s see: Ruth says she’s missed you the past year and that she’s stoked you’re back, Blaine says you’re sure to be stellar in your new role, and David says he can’t wait to see you in the play, Kurt!”

“I hope I’ll do you guys proud,” Kurt said.

The ensuing interview cleared up why Kurt had been away for so long. Apparently, his father had fallen ill, and he’d moved back home to be with his family.

“But now he’s better, and he told me to stop fussing over him and get back to work. So here I am!”

Blaine chuckled and crossed his fingers that the radio presenters would coax Kurt into singing a fragment from his new show.

What he got was even better.

“When our family celebrated Thanksgiving a few weeks ago, it got me thinking about what I was most thankful for. Dad getting better, obviously, that’s a big one. He’s my rock, and I’m so grateful I get to keep him, hopefully for decades more. But apart from that, I’m so thankful for all my fans. You are the ones who brought me here. Who believed in me when I had doubts I could do this. Who have stood by me from the very beginning. Who have defended me when people tried to tear me down. And I don’t have enough words to tell you how much that has meant to me. So I’m going to show you instead.”

At this point, the radio presenter took over.

“Prick up your ears now, all you Broadway lovers out there! This is a contest you won’t want to miss! Kurt is offering not just tickets to Jesus Christ Superstar, but an extra special main prize. The overall winner will get a ticket to the premiere, a meet-and-greet with Kurt and the rest of the cast, and will get to attend the party with the cast and crew afterwards. Isn’t that something?”

Blaine’s heart started pumping double speed.

Oh wow.

“Yes, you heard that right! Ever dream of getting the chance to chat with your fave actor over a glass or two? Well, for one lucky guy or girl, this dream will come true! And what do you have to do to win this, you ask?”

“Tell me, tell me,” Blaine muttered.

“Well, from now until the day of the premiere, we’ll be having a little quiz every morning, about Broadway topics. If you want to take part in it, sign up for the quiz in our app, and each morning, we’ll pick two listeners to compete against each other. The goal is to be the first to answer five questions correctly. The winner will go through to the next round, and then on the last day before the premiere, we’ll find out who wins the main prize.”

Blaine opened the app again and looked for the sign-up form.

There wasn’t much chance he’d be chosen, but it couldn’t hurt to try, right?

One day after another passed, and it seemed luck was not on his side. He listened to the morning show even more attentively than he otherwise did, and he made sure he always had his phone on hand, but the show host always picked other listeners to play the quiz.

Sometimes, they were so abysmal at answering the questions that Blaine rolled his eyes. Did they really know so little about Broadway shows, or was it nerves blocking their brain?

Two days before the premiere, just as he’d all but given up hope, his phone rang as he was eating a bowl of cereal, and his heart slammed into his throat.

Was it really…?

And yes, it was. He’d been selected to play the quiz!

Hearing the presenter’s voice both over the radio and on the phone was distracting, so he switched off the radio so as to be able to focus better.

“And today, we’ll be playing the Broadway quiz with Blaine and Tiffany!”

Wow, my hands are clammy. And why is my throat so dry all of a sudden?

The first question was about West Side Story. The presenter wanted them to name the two street gangs.

“The Jets and the Sharks,” Blaine yelled.

The other contestant groaned.

“Second question: you’re going to hear a snippet from a Broadway song. Tell me what show it is from!”

The song was “All That Jazz”. As soon as Blaine recognised it, he yelled, “Chicago!”

He heard a muffled curse, and knew he’d beaten his opponent again.

“Number 3: where does “Hairspray” take place?”

Blaine chuckled and sang a few lines of “Good morning Baltimore”.

“Wow, nice! You’re a fine singer yourself!” the presenter praised him.

“Thank you. I was in show choir for years. The Dalton Warblers.”

“Wonderful. And you’re firmly in the lead, with three right answers to nil. Tiffany, what’s happening?”

“He’s just too fast,” Tiffany whined, and both Blaine and the presenter chuckled.

“Okay, next question: complete this Hamilton lyric: I’m just like my country, I’m young…”

“Scrappy and hungry, and I’m not throwing away my shot!” Blaine rattled off glibly.

The presenter whistled low. “You didn’t even have to think about it, did you? How many times have you seen Hamilton?”

“Uhm, I’ve never really counted the times,” Blaine confessed, and the presenter laughed.

“Okay, if you keep this up, Blaine, you’ll only have to answer one more question. Here it is: name all seven children of the von Trapp family.”

“Liesl, Friedrich, Louisa, Kurt, Brigitta, Marta and Gretl,” said Blaine, counting them on his fingers to make sure he left no-one out.

“Yes, you did it!” the presenter enthused, and he played the jingle that pronounced Blaine the winner.

Blaine sat back and mechanically put a spoonful of cereal with milk in his mouth.

Wow, I’m through to the next round. Now what?

Now, as it transpired, all the winners would be competing against each other the following morning, and the first two to get five questions right would then play a sudden death round.

Blaine spent the rest of the day frantically reading up on all things Broadway, and also did his research on Kurt Hummel. In the process, he may have gotten a bit side-tracked when he found YouTube recordings of Kurt performing as a cheerleader, a clip of him singing “Le Jazz Hot” and then his audition for NYADA, “Not the Boy Next Door”. Those gold pants. And his moves. Unf.

When the next morning rolled around, Blaine may have been just a little sleep-deprived from watching certain Kurt Hummel videos on repeat. But he regretted nothing.

Despite his sleepiness, Blaine had no trouble answering questions, and became the first finalist. He ended up playing the sudden death round against a guy called Chandler, who was just as knowledgeable as Blaine was.

After they’d each answered another ten questions correctly, the presenter sighed. “Okay, this is not going to work. You guys know EVERYTHING! So what do you say to a practical challenge as a tie-breaker?”

“Okay,” said Blaine.

“I guess,” said Chandler.

“You each get to sing a song from Jesus Christ Superstar, and then the other listeners will vote in the app and decide who becomes the overall winner!”

Blaine grinned. “That sounds good.”

Chandler said nothing.

“So who wants to go first?” the presenter asked.

“Let’s get it over with,” Chandler groused.

“Okay, Chandler, what are you going to sing?”

“I don’t know how to love him.”

“Great choice! Let me put the music on for you.”

Chandler started to sing, and Blaine winced and wanted to clap his hands over his ears.

He didn’t, because it would be his turn in a short while, but aah, Chandler’s singing was worse than nails on a chalkboard!

He let out a sigh of relief when the song came to an end, and announced to the presenter that he’d be singing “Heaven on their minds”.

He threw his everything into the performance and found himself panting rather heavily when he was done.

Applause startled him. The presenter whooped and hollered and then said, “Wow, that was quite something. Are you sure you’re not a Broadway actor in disguise?”

Blaine laughed. “I wish!”

“And it looks like the listeners agree with me. Look at that, what an overwhelming victory for BLAINE!”

“Yay!” Blaine yelled. He’d given it his all, and he’d actually won!

K&B

Though he was an old hand at giving interviews by now, Kurt found himself fidgeting with his shirt cuffs this time.

It wasn’t the interview itself he was nervous about, but the contest he’d be announcing.

As he talked about celebrating Thanksgiving with his family, and being so grateful for his fans that he wanted to thank them, he felt a bit deceitful. Yes, he truly was thankful for his fans and their support, but his real goal with this contest was something else altogether.

The idea had come to him one night when he’d had a sleepover with Rachel, Quinn, Brittany and Santana, and Santana had wanted to know if Kurt had ever slept with a fan of his.

“I’m sure there’s tons of them that slip you their phone number and that are itching to discover what’s under those tight pants of yours.”

“Nah,” Kurt had said. “Well, I’ve gotten some phone numbers, yes, but I didn’t fancy the guys in question. Too pushy. The worst one’s called Chandler. He comes to my show every night, and he always waits at the stage door, and he’s forever running his hands over me and gushing and professing himself in love with me. Ugh.”

“Well, aren’t there more respectful fans that you’d like to get to know better?”

Kurt had taken another sip of his drink and thought it over.

The first fan that had sprung to mind was IconicWarbler, with his wonderful reviews. Wouldn’t it be great to get to thank him in person for what his words had meant to Kurt? But the chances of ever finding this anonymous reviewer were slim to nil.

Then, Kurt had thought of a fan that hadn’t been such a fixture at the stage door as Chandler, but who had shown up regularly nonetheless. This guy was always dressed dapperly, with gelled hair and a profile that were reminiscent of a 1950s movie star, and with impeccable manners. He clearly loved getting to talk to Kurt, but he never got handsy and never tried to monopolise him.

Yes, that was someone he’d like to get to know better. But how would he manage that?

That’s how he’d come up with the contest plan. It was a wild shot in the dark, and chances were he’d end up meeting and greeting another person entirely, but he wanted to try this.

So he tuned in to that radio station every morning to find out who’d win the quiz that day. He grimaced when he saw the name Chandler pop up, and hoped that would not be the winner of the meet-and-greet package.

The second to last day of the contest, he got a pleasant surprise. One of the contestants, a guy called Blaine, had a voice he recognised – velvety smooth and soothing. Was it… could it be the Mr. Dapper he’d seen so often at the stage door?

Then Blaine started to sing, as an answer to a quiz question, and Kurt was blown away. Wow!

And what did he just say? He’d been in a show choir called the Dalton Warblers?

It might be just a coincidence, of course, but maybe Kurt had found his IconicWarbler…

The next day was the finals, and Kurt cursed loudly and at length when Chandler made it through and was still in the running for the top prize.

Please no!

Thankfully, Blaine made it through as well.

On an impulse, Kurt sent the radio show host a text that said, “Make them sing.”

At first, the two finalists got questions again, but when neither Chandler nor Blaine cracked under the pressure and they just kept giving right answers, the show host decided to make the both of them sing instead.

Yes!

Chandler was as bad a singer as Kurt had hoped, and Blaine was even better than in Kurt’s wildest dreams. He sang better than the actual actor playing in the show with Kurt!

Kurt grinned ear to ear when Blaine was pronounced the winner, and hoped so much that it was the fan he remembered.

The day of the premiere, he felt more than just the usual pre-show jitters. He also felt butterflies in his stomach, as if he was about to go on a first date.

Before the show started, he peeked through the curtain to check the place, front and centre in the Orchestra section, he’d reserved for the main winner of the contest.

He saw a neatly gelled head and fist-pumped. Yes! He’d guessed right! Blaine was Mr. Dapper all right!

Blaine certainly lived up to Kurt’s nickname, as he was dressed to the nines in a tuxedo.

The tuxedo jacket was made of burgundy velvet with black lapels, and Kurt was itching to find out if it was as soft as it looked.

He checked out the other reserved places, and saw Chandler, looking like thunder and throwing poisonous looks in Blaine’s direction. His plus-one seat was the only one left unoccupied.

Kurt drew back from the curtain, and went to have a chat with the security guard, warning him about Chandler, just in case the guy tried to get backstage or to make trouble for Blaine.

And then it was showtime, and Kurt threw himself into the performance with double the energy he’d shown during the dress rehearsal.

Afterwards, while bowing to the audience with the rest of the cast, his eyes strayed to Blaine again, who was clapping and cheering.

See you soon!

Back in his dressing room, he got out of his costume, freshened up and put his regular clothes on in record time, because he wanted to be the first of the actors to welcome Blaine backstage.

When he left his dressing room, he found Blaine attentively listening to John, one of the stage hands, who was explaining how all the equipment worked.

“Hello Blaine!” Kurt said, and Blaine’s attention shifted to him at once.

John chuckled. “I guess that’s my cue to disappear. Once the big star comes out, nobody’s interested in the technical stuff anymore.”

Blaine looked stricken, and started to babble apologies.

John clapped him on the shoulder. “Nah, don’t worry about it. You came here for Kurt and the others, I get it. See you both at the party!”

John left, and Blaine looked after him, biting his lip.

“Don’t worry,” Kurt said. “John’s not offended at all.”

Blaine’s eyes flitted to Kurt, and he flushed and nodded.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” Kurt asked. “At the stage door?”

“Yes.” It sounded timid and uncertain.

“But this is your first time backstage?”

“Yes.”

Kurt winked at Blaine. “A lot less glamourous than you’d think, right?”

Blaine grinned. “Yep. Smaller, too. But I’m still stoked to get to see it. And it’s so interesting, how it all works…”

“I know, right? I remember when I started working on Broadway that I was fascinated with the technical side of things.”

They stood there, smiling at each other for a moment, and then Kurt said, “Oh, right, I should give you a tour, until my colleagues get here, too. Come with me.”

He let Blaine peek into his dressing room and then took him to see the costumes and the orchestra pit, introducing him to everyone they passed on the way.

By the time Blaine had seen every nook and cranny of the backstage area, the other actors were there to greet him and talk to him.

Blaine was a lot less shy around them than he was around Kurt, and when they all left the theatre to go to the party venue, it felt already as if Blaine was part of the group.

At the party, Kurt introduced Blaine to Rachel as well, and smothered a giggle behind his hand when Blaine treated her as if she were royalty (“It’s such an honour to meet the great Rachel Berry – you are a legend!”) and Rachel lapped it all up.

Rachel and Blaine got on like a house on fire, and Kurt left them to it to go procure some drinks.

When he came back from the bar, Rachel had drifted away to go talk to her off-and-on lover Jesse, and Blaine was talking to one of the musicians about his violin, which was apparently an antique.

“You play the violin?” he asked.

“Well, I haven’t in a while, as I told Ashley, because I need to get round to restringing my violin first, but yes, I do. The piano as well, and drums and guitar.”

“Wow. And you sing so well, too! You should have heard him, Ashley, he sang “Heaven on their Minds” on the radio, and he sounded better than Jesse!”

“Don’t let Jesse hear you say that,” Ashley laughed. “He wouldn’t take it well!”

Kurt handed Blaine a glass of champagne, and offered Ashley the one he’d brought for Rachel. “Cheers!”

A few hours later, he and Blaine were still nursing the same drink and talking their heads off about anything and everything when Rachel turned up again, phone in hand.

“I was just looking on the New York Times website, and it’s weird. Usually around this time, there’s a review already. But this time, not a word from IconicWarbler.”

Blaine’s head shot up, but Rachel didn’t notice, she was too busy scrolling.

“Do you think he didn’t come?” Rachel asked Kurt.

“Oh, he came all right,” Blaine said softly. “He’s just been too… busy to write a review just yet.”

Kurt, who’d had a hunch that Blaine might be IconicWarbler, beamed in satisfaction, and Rachel gasped, “It’s you?”

“It’s me.”

“I love your reviews,” Kurt told Blaine. “They’re always so kind and so supportive. I reread them when I’m having a bad day to get the strength to carry on, and on good days they make me want to strive to become even better. It means the world to me to have you in my corner.”

Blaine took his hand and squeezed it softly. “Always.”

After that, Kurt didn’t stay at the party much longer, and when he left, he took Blaine home with him.

As he explained to Blaine, “I don’t do this, usually. Or ever. But with you, it feels different.”

Blaine nodded. “I know. I feel the same. May I kiss you?”

Kurt threw his arms around Blaine’s neck and pulled him closer until their lips met.

A long moment later, Blaine’s eyes fluttered open and found his, and he whispered, “Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you forever.”

THE END

This is the prompt the story is based on:

Blaine always reviews Kurt's performances in the NYT comments section but uses a nom-de-plume. (Blaine is not a critic--Blaine is in love!) Kurt doesn't know who, but he is also kind of falling for the person giving him such glowing reviews.

[magpiefngrl]

3, 21, 28, 34 for the asks, it’s so interesting when you talk about your writing :)

Ooh thank you so much, anon! I love talking about writing but am insecure and always feel no one cares. Thanks for reassuring me <3

3. How would you describe your writing style?

And off we go with a question I don't think I can answer lol

Mentioning my strengths as a writer is easier because I rely a lot on the feedback I receive and what readers tell me. But my style in general is much harder for me to pinpoint, and I'd love to hear from readers as to what they think it's like. I've been humorous in some of my fics and more poetic and lyrical at others. I like to use metaphors. I love to write long sentences and I adorn them liberally with semicolons and colons. I guess you could say my style is baroque, or at least leans that way.

21. Can you accurately predict how long your fics are going to be? If you can, what's your secret?

Nope. I've no fucking clue. I assumed some of my longer fics would be around 10k and they were three times the length. With the shorter ones I tend to write them in one sitting so I can tell that I'm writing a 2-3k fic.

I'm trying to predict how long the original romance I'm working on is going to be. My goal is 40k, but I'm looking at the number of side characters I've created and I fear it's going to be longer than that. I prob created too many and will need to sideline a few.

That's can be a way to gauge, I suppose: the amount of secondary characters will necessitate more scenes establishing all the different relationships. More characters=a longer story. Not a hard and fast rule, but it might help.

28. Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing?

My favourite question! I have a lot of Opinions on writing and I love to be given the chance to voice them.

OK so one tip that always works for me: when I'm stuck in a scene, I stop and describe the setting in detail. This might not be a big help for people who outline but for pantsers like me, it's worth giving it a try.

Say, for example, Draco is at a house party of one of his relatives, Harry's there, they don't talk. They aren't friendly. I know I want Draco to approach him but I'm stuck. He wouldn't go and just talk to him, it doesn't work for this fic. I'm stuck and can't think of how to proceed.

Then I might start typing:

"It was a splendid room, large and airy with velvet curtains that drifted in the summer night breeze. Every piece of furniture was chosen meticulously, antiques paired with design pieces, bold combinations that worked as they were intended to: to impress and intimidate. The chandelier over their heads cast light on the wine-red carpets. A painting of the lady of the Manor hung over the ornate fireplace; her stern gaze warned her guests to behave, or else. Draco had been subjected to her gaze all his life. A desire to misbehave overwhelmed him, to stick a finger up to her and her ilk, smash the delicate crystal flutes and dance on the shards.

Or he could snog Harry Potter in front of everyone. That should do it."

And I go "Oooh so that's why he approaches Harry!" I wouldn't have come up with the reason if I hadn't described the painting. This trick got me out of plenty of stuck moments, and my guess is that when I describe the setting I feel more grounded in the world of my story. I feel like I'm right in it and it's easier to imagine what happens next. I often delete some of the description--it did its job, which was to get me unstuck.

I just came up with the paragraph above and now I kinda want to write the fic lol

34. Do you write to improve? Or is that not a concern for you?

Improvement is a constant concern for me. At times it has actually been detrimental for my health because every single thing I did had to benefit my writing in some way. ("oh look pretty clouds! How would I describe them in a story?") It meant that I got no mental rest. Ever. Luckily, I've learned to take it easy.

Writing isn't the only thing that helps me improve: reading is the big one. Seeing how other authors structure their stories, construct sentences, use dialogue and setting. Also watching TV series and films makes me think about what I can learn to use on my writing.

I don't write fic to improve per se, like it's an assignment, but I do want to improve. I wantt o tell a story but I also think about the writing. Some fics are my attempts on working on a craft element. I've got a wangxian WIP which is a frame story, and I'm very keen on getting that one done.

yet another writing ask

[jiinjiinjarra]

BTS // Magazines // CanCam // August 2019 issue // 2019 // Pt.3

Scan Cr. takejun20522_ // Translation Cr. jinmajitenshi & kookceptional // Source: 1 & 2

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

-JIN-

The Worldwide Handsome eldest member who possess gentle calmness and inner strength

In little moments of our daily lives, (we) show consideration to each other. This contributes to what makes us BTS.

🐹: I’m the eldest of the team, and rather than being concerned about age hierarchy, i’m more of the type that prefers to meet people halfway. I wasn't very conscious of (age hierarchy) in the past, but recently I've started to think something along the lines of the "culture of treating people differently just because they are older or younger isn't good", and this type of relationship (based on age hierarchy) might seem insipid. A part of what makes us BTS is that it's not just me, but everyone in BTS who thinks like that. It can be felt from the little things in our daily lives that we show consideration to each other for everything. If (any of us) thought that "(Any of) the members would dislike this", then the other members would say "It would be better to stop (doing that)" before it happens. Other than that, charms of our members that only I know of... That is probably something that ARMY would know better than me. I don't watch our members that closely (laughs). Ah, RM's interview in the U.S. is interesting if you pay attention to it. His English is fluent, reliably answering questions, and (he) gives (us) the chance to reply with a few words instead of difficult English sentences. In RM's case, he excels in language study like that, for the other members, they dance well, sing very well too... I think that to be reliable and hardworking for each of our specialty is our team's forte and the cool side of each member.

Q. Any small happiness recently?

🐹: I'm into the drama called Walking Dead recently. There's a character that I didn't really like, and when I thought that (the character) looked like (they) will die, a zombie did (them) in (laughs).

Q. What kind of imagery comes to mind when you close your eyes now?

🐹: (When I close my eyes) I see zombies (laughs). (They) appear even if I close my eyes * for a long time. / *can also mean 'ignore'

Q. Something cute about the members?

🐹: Their genuine excitement when they meet their favourite celebrities at the BBMAs.

Q. A favourite part of a choreography in a BTS song?

🐹: When we bang on the table in Dionysus.

Q. How do you refresh yourself nowadays?

🐹: Zombies (bursting in laughter). I've only been talking about zombies today, but is that okay??

-JUNGKOOK-

Singing, dancing, perfect at everything. The "golden maknae" that never stops evolving.

Personally, I wish I had one particular skill that I was especially gifted at

🐰: In our new single "Lights" that's being released this time, there's a phrase in the lyrics saying "No one is perfect", and I love this part so much. It makes me think that I don't have to be perfect, and it feels kind of comforting. Many people compliment me "You can do both dancing and singing well, you're perfect!" but that's not the case at all. I wish I had a particular skill that I especially was gifted at. Trying to find it, I've involved myself in many activities, but right now, I just want to narrow down what's necessary for me, and work hard to make it my own. So with this going on, I get to feel relieved that I don't need to be perfect when I listen to the song. Oh, I don't have a skill I'm especially talented at, but I do have something I'm bad at. Using my brain! This is the one thing I seriously can't do (laugh). Since we're on the topic of new songs, Boy With Luv is also a really great song. After all, within BTS' songs, the choreography is a little bit easy. That makes me happy (laugh). Standing on the stage continuously, it does get difficult to sustain my stamina. completely. Near the end of our concerts, it seems like I'm unconsciously wringing out my stamina forcefully. I sometimes can't move from my muscle pains on the following day. So, my number one priority now is not injuring myself. I do want to get better at maintaining myself though, including building up my body… Oh, the part of my body I'm most confident in? Ah.. (embarrassed smile). Um, I wonder where. I don't know myself. I'll work hard to build a better body!

Q. You're in the middle of your world tour, but do you have any honest thoughts?

🐰: There's a song called "Mikrokosmos" in our album, but it feels like we're looking at it in real life. It's really moving, and it warms my heart. I cherish it thinking how much of a happy time it is.

Q. What kind of a scenery comes to mind when you close your eyes?

🐰: A lot of things come up, but they're not clear. Something is vaguely there…as if I can see it, but I can't (laugh).

Q. Anything that makes you think the members are. adorable?

🐰: Jimin. I can feel how much he loves the stage from the bottom of his heart, and I feel like we really connect in that way.

Q. What ways of refreshing yourself are you currently into?

🐰: I went to Ariana Grande's concert recently, and enjoyed it a lot. It stimulated me as a singer, and it was nice that I was able to enjoy the music from my heart.

Q. What kind of qualities does a person you admire have?

🐰: Someone who I have a lot to learn from, and can connect with me. And someone who is cool!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[intrepidacious]

🎩 haunt these halls no more: i’m not sure if you have already discussed this (if you have im sorry) but where do you pull most inspiration for your fics from? do you get them from books, other writers, songs… or none of these at all??

i mean the short answer is … yes. all of the above. a lot of the time, i will just base my wip in a world that already exists, but with characters from a different fandom. for example, blind roads started with me listening to the bonnie and clyde musical and inserting bucky barnes into the narrative. a lot of the fics on my wip pile right now are essentially just me remixing some of my favourite pieces of media—for the most part that's movies, but not necessarily.

songs are also a big one but i'm very detail oriented, so if a single lyric doesn't quite fit the fic as i'd imagined it, that will completely throw me off hahah!! sometimes other writers are also to blame an inspiration for my fics, whether that's directly (when i'm talking to my writer friends) or indirectly (when i'm just picking up a sentence here and an idea there and turn them into something else)

join the sleepover

[raitrolling]

some disorganised thoughts on Where the Wolfsbane Blooms because i wrote a lot and had a bunch of ideas

good news: miki isnt dead because i would not kill off a main character like that, and his psiionics aren't completely burnt out, he just overclocked them. im planning on writing a follow-up drabble to this to explain exactly what's happened and how he's feeling about it all, but yeah. ice boy will still be ice boy-ing

this bitch was fucking Long and went through multiple edits to cut it down, but i only cut a single scene from it. at the end i had initially written miki thinking about lyvere as well as thrixe, but as much as i did like him having the realisation that 'oh theres someone else i want to come home to as well' i ultimately felt like it was taking away from the main objective of Bring Thrixe Home so i had to scrap it. sorry lyvere, miki is still lowkey down bad for you tho

the use of psiionic stimulants was a call-back to the thread in which miki and thrixe first fought some fae, and thrixe had offered some to miki which he vehemently refused because he knew how dangerous it'd be for him when his psiionics are so unstable. so him willingly using them and going over the suggested dosage was both a sign that A. this situation was dire, and B. miki was more than willing to kill himself and everyone around him if it meant saving his moirail. safety would not bring him home, after all.

i was inspired by ullane's fights with the fae in In Cold Blood to make miki's fight against the royal knight to be a lot more gross and visceral, and i had a little chuckle when ullane speared the fae with tree roots in As Mayflies because id written miki doing the exact same technique with his ice spikes and cloud and i hadnt planned that at all. our deranged trolls are on the same wavelength

other inspirations for the royal knight fight: dungeon meshi (the scene where laios deliberately gets his leg caught in the red dragon's jaws so he was in position to slash its weak point), yuki yuuna (karin's last stand), and... the biolizard fight from sonic adventure 2. originally i was going to use a lyric from supporting me as the title, but then Werewolf Gimmick came on shuffle when i was driving home from work one night and it hit me that it worked way better. and for the follow-up drabble i can use another mountain goats lyric to keep the theme!

idk what disease the royal knight was meant to represent either. i thought of it being covered in boiling hot acid because then there'd be more of a challenge for miki to take it down, and i really loved how julie raur described godzilla in this essay about the responses to the atomic bomb in japanese pop culture and art. so maybe it represents radiation sickness or compilations involving nuclear weaponry, but before i read that essay i was joking to myself that it was an acid reflux fae

originally the fae was also going to be Full Of Acid inside and miki biting it's tail was going to be a lot more painful for him, but then it hit me that if it also has the same boiling acid inside it then miki's plan to freeze it from the inside-out would not work. i also struggled to figure out how to get miki off the knight's back cuz i knew i wanted him to try to go shadow of the colossus on that thing but also get flung off and break his arm, and i'd already gotten him wrapped up by the nautilus fae and i did not want to do the same thing twice (granted it still tried to choke him out but ig that isnt as egregious). but then cloud reminded me that the fae can use magic and was like OHHHH DUH ok woe. binding spell be upon ye

also this drabble hit my favourite trope of a character who has every intention of dying in battle and spending most of their life feeling apathetic to their own well-being realising in their final moments that they actually want to live. these three sentences are my absolute favourite ones in the entire drabble:

and now that im re-reading it i realise i used 'he knew' twice in a row. goddammit how did i miss that after five full read-throughs during the editing process. it always happens huh

[starvinginbelair]

ok first impressions/thoughts:

favourites are who’s afraid of little old me, my boy only breaks his favourite things, title track, and loml

these are all surprising because i’m p sure i thought these were the most ridiculous track names when she first released them

most songs are too long and even if they’re not, the way they’re written makes them so (for an album about poetry, there are a Lot of run on sentences in it)

bad lead single again

there’s interesting elements in almost every track but mostly, they’re masked by how unbearable the lyrics are and how they just don’t make sense at all

please rhyme lines that make sense to rhyme together (the smallest man who ever lived is so bad for this, every line seems like it’s just dropped there)

someone take away jack antonoff’s machine that makes the twinkly noises ! i am probably a bigger fan of his production on this album than most, and think it genuinely saves some songs from being REALLY bad but man, he has some Questionable decisions on this album

not her worst album, but definitely not up there as one of the best either. probably bottom 3 for me, but it’s very meh. honestly makes midnights look really good though, even though that’s also a very mid album 🤷🏻‍♀️

[moondirti]

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

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

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

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll outlive you, old man. 

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

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

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

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

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

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

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

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

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

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

It doesn't exist. 

Shouldn't. 

And yet—

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

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

This should just be a fantasy. 

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

But this isn't a dream.

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

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

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

He's awake. Lucid. 

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

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

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

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

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

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone. 

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

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

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

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

It's real. 

A paradox, then. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

She's a picture, he thinks. 

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

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

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

Hemingway would call her brutal. 

Cat in the Rain. 

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

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

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith. 

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

Dangerous. 

He doesn't know when this started. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But like him, it waned slowly. 

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

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

Joel understands the feeling. 

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

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

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

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

It gives the idea of safety. Of security. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

She'll bite someone eventually. 

(He just never expected it to be him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel's always avoided broken glass. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most people looked away. 

But she's not most people, is she? 

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

She makes men want. 

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

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

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't. 

Not since Tess. Not since—

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

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

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

(Somehow. Somehow.)

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

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

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart. 

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

And that was that. 

But she came back. 

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

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad for anyone's health. 

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

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

It's enough. 

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

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

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

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

It's a bad decision. 

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

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

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

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

Rinse. Repeat.

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

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

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

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

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He likes that about her.

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

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

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

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

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

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

Death cap where her heart once beat. 

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

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

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

It's her he sees. 

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

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

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

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

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

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

She stayed over last night. 

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

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

That's all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

(She never does.)

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

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

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

"Watch your mouth."

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

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

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

Still. 

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

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

Possession. Ownership. 

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

Mutual want. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything to him. 

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

"Joel—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knock yourself out. 

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

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

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

So, he does. 

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

Force himself to do the same. 

But she doesn't 

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

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

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

(The only person she dims for is him.)

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

She leaves with him. 

He drinks alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No one asked you." 

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

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

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

It doesn't matter. It doesn't. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom. 

But she won't push. 

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

Okay. 

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

And it's all moot. 

She never shows up at the gate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She's—"

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

Don't— not Tommy, too—

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

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf. 

A leaf. 

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

"A fucking leaf—"

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

"You'll get in the way." 

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

Doesn't plan on starting now, either. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn't ask. 

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

He knows. Still: "that right?" 

"Gonna go see her?"

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

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

"She tell you that?" 

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

"We ain't." 

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

"What?"

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

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her. 

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

It had to be done. Had to. 

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

Her tone is flat. Empty. 

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

He feels proud. 

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

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

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

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

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

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered." 

Saccharine sweet. 

Rotten to the core. 

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

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

"They did."

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

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's just sex, just—

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

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

Temporary made permanent. 

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

The curtain rustles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a slip. An accident. 

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

He holds on a little tighter. 

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

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

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

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary. 

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

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

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

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

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce. 

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

"Fuck, Joel—"

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

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

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing. 

Cinder. Soot. Ash. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick. 

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

And that must be it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He never does. She leaves. 

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

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

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

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

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

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

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

In response, she bites down on his pulse point. 

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

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

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

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This, he knows, is new. Different. 

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

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

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

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

They're not themselves in this moment. 

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms. 

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

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

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

More—

And just him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows. 

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

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

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

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

"Did you like that—"

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

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Tess left him whole. 

She devours.)

Consumes. 

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

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous. 

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

A slow descent into comfort, kinship. 

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

I'll outlive you, old man. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong. 

But fuck—

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

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

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

[romulus]

Music Tag Game

Rules: Put your playlist on shuffle. For each of the 10 interview questions, select a lyric from the random song that comes up. (Skip if there aren’t any lyrics and make sure to drop the name of the song in your interview answer!) <3

@messofthejess tagged me in this. to answer the question you posed in you post, i do listen to music mostly in complete albums. i never listen to anything on shuffle except my instrumental study playlists.

1. First off, how would you describe yourself in one sentence?

Real men keep cool in the face of a fire/Go down with the ship/And real men don't eat, 'cause they're above that, damn it/Oh, I'm gonna be a real man--Real Man by Mitski

2. What kind of [Sagittarius] are you?

Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down/Yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one--Samson by Regina Spektor

3. You’re visiting your favourite spot. What are you thinking about?

These are the days of miracle and wonder/And don't cry baby, don't cry, don't cry--The Boy in the Bubble by Paul Simon

4. If your life was a movie, what do you think the first review would say about it?

Don't confront me with my failures/I had not forgotten them--These Days by Jackson Browne

5. Say you get a book deal. What are you titling the memoir?

Alone we stand, together we fall apart--Someday by The Strokes

6. What would you say about your best friends?

Thinking of you/There's lightning bolts in my chest--I'll Be on the Water by Akron/Family

7. Think back to when you had everything all figured out in highschool. What was your life motto as a teenager?

Now I find myself always on the ins/And never on the outs--Bellevue by Andrew Bird

8. Describe your aesthetic now

And my life sways back and forth like the light from above--For Sondra (It Means the World to Me) by Passion Pit

9. What’s a lyric that they’ll quote in your eulogy?

And we're just following the flock 'round and in between/Before we smash to smithereens--My Mistakes Were Made for You by The Last Shadow Puppets

10. And for our final question, say you believe in soulmates. What do you think their first impression of meeting you would be?

You lose yourself, you reappear/You suddenly find you got nothing to fear/Alone you stand with nobody near/When a trembling distant voice, unclear/Startles your sleeping ears to hear/That somebody thinks they really found you--It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding) by Bob Dylan

i'll tag @untouchedsoap again

[notessek]

absolute minor vent on my sideblog of sideblogs bc it literally. is so insignificant. and yet. vent. and its got so little to do with this sideblog but i dont want it on main lmao

this is all exclusively irl to be clear. but i get so frustrated talking to people abt dnd - although other things to but its really evident when abt dnd - because it turns any conversation one sided. like i do enjoy hearing about peoples dnd adventures and their experiences w dnd, and i invite them! i ask! but it never turns reciprocal. and when i try and add in my own thoughts it makes me look selfish for interrupting, and i often dont get to say my 2nd sentence that would link my part back to the conversation. and this sounds sooo specific but thats because it is!!! this exact conversational framework has happened so much!!! and its just. disheartening.

like i know my prose is a bit too purple, and i know i often dont feel heard by my peers, which is why i very much make the active effort in my friendships to let people talk about the things they love. to let people wax lyrical about their dnd characters or their fanfic or their favourite indie musician on bandcamp, because when the hell else in life do you get to talk about that? i don’t!! so i want to give people that oppotunity!! and i love hearing about what other people are passionate about!! literally its one of my favourite things. but i just wish sometimes that maybe i could say more than a silly 1 liner joke and people would see that platform for what it was. and offer me the chance to talk about my dnd character or my fanfic or my weird specific petty problem that i never get to talk about. idk man on one hand i literally invite this behaviour and then get mad thats its not about me. but on the other hand this happens every single fucking day of my life and i very much worry that people think i’m callow or shallow or selfish because i didn’t share my weird stories. but it would be worse to have done so!! and be rude!! idk. the pandemic laid waste to my social ability and im not being facetious here lmao. i just wish i knew how to make conversations more reciprocal without reneging my invitation to share.

anyway i have had this conversation so many times over the last 2 months where i mention i play dnd, and i find out all the other people’s thoughts about dnd but no one even knows that i play a cleric- like, the first thing i say about playing dnd - because we didn’t get that far into my dnd experience. and it’s fine, it’s petty, im not foaming at the mouth about it. all of these conversations were fun and good and i hope the other people thought so too. i just know a lot about how other people play or want to play dnd (or insert any topic here, bc this really is recurring) but no one wants to hear my opinion. and it just kinda sucks a bit.

cant stress enough: this is a non-issue, i dont care too much, this is a vent of the highest order. nothing matters with genuine sincerity or gravity. venting for the sake of venting.

[uwusillygirl]

Hiiiii! Normal ppl anon back again bc I wanted to say Spotify recommended me we'll never have sex by Leith Ross today and I only realised it was where depollute me, pretty baby was from near the end but felt very much like a video game character - like an exclamation mark appeared above my head as my brain went oh! First one's free! I had to listen to it a second time, properly paying attention to the lyrics and now I'm utterly obsessed, have been listening to it on repeat all day. It's such a beautiful song, just so lovely and warm, but also holy shit the fof of it all (I mean, I know you beat me to the mark in that so I'm preaching to the converted here but you look perfect, you look different I can't.)

But ALSO, I got here to say hi and saw you liked worst person in the world and wanted to gush because it's possibly my favourite film I've seen this year but none of my friends went to see it so I haven't talked to anyone abt it. If you'd like, I'd love to hear your opinions on it!! I felt so ridiculously moved by it, I had this heaviness in my chest for weeks after seeing it and found myself constantly thinking about it in quiet moments. Not to make everything abt me but I feel like I'm at a point where I'm trying to figure out who I am and spending more time alone and so the whole journey Julie went on resonated a lot and I think it captured the feeling of this age and point in life so perfectly.

Beyond the personal, I loved the use of chapters and narration and explicitly fantastical elements that kind of aim to remind you you're watching a film (I feel like films that you can "get lost in" and "forget you're watching a film" get a lot of praise and I'm not against that but also a story's power isn't necessarily diminished for your knowing it isn't really happening). And the way the two of them not cheating together at the start is somehow the sexiest, most fun and intimate thing ever committed to film and (to bring this back round to fof so I don't get accused of just using this as an excuse to be self-indulgent and talk abt a film I like even tho that's exactly what I'm doing) I'm vibing with the idea of Eddie and Chrissy sharing a cigarette like that absolutely iconic shot from the film.

ALSO ALSO (bc I can't shut up) the single sentence you posted from the fof wip has been living rent free

hi again sweet normal people anon!!! such a fun juicy question to pick at while i’m at the nail salon today hehe

that video game character realization bit is TOO funny!!! i love that song, highly recommend their album Motherwell also!!! such a good songwriter!!!

LOVE your thoughts on worst person in the world! i felt the same! honestly i thought it was good when i first watched it but didn’t necessarily feel like my mind was blown or anything, but then i just could not fucking stop thinking about it… sneakily impactful.

i totally understand what you’re saying! and you’re welcome to make it about you! that’s all good!

those are such great thoughts, truly. i feel like it’s such an interesting thing to see which of Julie’s partners we end up being more attached to… it sounds like you really resonate w the second (understandably!!!) and i really resonate with the first!!! (but that not cheating bit is TRULY so fun and raw and honest!)

as for the wip >:-) ty i am hoping to spend some proper time on it soon!!!!

[finelinevogue]

Can you do one where Harry take his children and YN to one of his concert and their just dancing around singing along on stage with Harry.

i love this concept so much!! i kinda of wanna make it sad though soooo it’s gonna be harry’s final show :/ hope you enjoy;

oli - 29, felix - 27, belle - 24

The concert had been amazing, but unfortunately it was coming to its’ end now.

The final show.

That’s what Harry had decided to call it; a clever play on words with reference to his first ever solo single. The last 50 years had been a rollercoaster for Harry, from growing up just a kid in Cheshire, to going on the X Factor and winning the hearts of millions and from being in the most successful band of the decade to going solo and still being absolutely beloved. Times had changed, though. Harry had changed. He had a beautiful family of 3 now, excluding his wonderful wife. His children were his universe, no question about it, but they were getting older now - Harry was getting older. He was 50 this year and with that in mind he’d decided to retire. Retiring had involved a long conversation with you, along with a bottle of red wine, about whether it was the right decision or not. But it was - is.

You had suggested he put on one final, massive show, to celebrate his life and his achievements along with all that the fans have too. Tickets were open internationally and it was being streamed on various TV outlets for those who couldn’t attend. The tickets sold within 47 seconds. 47 seconds. It was being held in the Olympic Stadium in London, because it was Harry’s home and it held the most number of people he could genuinely allow.

The concert had started with ‘Fine Line’ songs, which merged into HS1 songs with a few One Direction songs as well. The entire set list had been composed by the fans with various polls on social media, with the concert supposedly lasting 2 hours (although with support artists and a few extra surprises it was more likely going to be 3!)

It had been beautiful so far. Magical. Unforgettable.

Every chance he got, without making it grossly obvious, he looked at you. He'd told you to stick your thumbs up at him every time he caught your eye, so he knew that you were okay - and every time, you did.

The concert was coming to an end now, which everyone was dreading. How could +30 years feel like it'd only been thirty minutes? You were devastated, so you could only imagine what his fans were thinking.

"Hey!"

The end Kiwi, for the second time, strummed throughout the arena and you knew it was time for the final song. His final song.

"Mum, is this the end?" Belle asked you, from where she was standing next to you. You had been dancing together all night and gotten progressively more tired. Your feet hurt. Your throats burned. Yet, as always, it was so worth it.

"Yes, Belles, it is." You tell her, and she pouted sadly. "Dad won't want to see you sad love, okay? He can still sing to you before bed?" You teased her, reminding her of a time when Harry would do such a thing, not wanting her to be all sad. It was supposed to be a celebration, but even you could admit that is was pretty hard-hitting.

"Really mum?" She asked.

You booped her nose annoyingly, before answering. "Every night if you want him to."

The lights changed from their green tone, thanks to Kiwi, back to a bright, white light. It beamed on Harry, making him look even more like the angel that he is. He dragged his microphone back to the centre stage and took a deep breath for beginning a speech he'd told you he'd prepared.

"So this is it, my friends." He laughed sadly into the microphone. He brushed his hair back and took out his in-ears to hear the audience. They were all awwing and crying, but what else did you expect? Their favourite artist was retiring - who wouldn't be crying a river?

"I, um. I'd like to take a bit of time to thank certain people." He coughed, something he always did after performing Kiwi due to his asthma. You thought it was lovely that he'd planned a speech to thank his management and crew. They did so much work backstage and you definitely didn't think they got enough credit for their hard work.

"Okay. I've made a little list..." Harry pulled out a tiny bit of crumpled paper from his pocket. "Just in case I forget anyone." He joked to himself, but made everyone laugh anyways. "So I guess first off, I should start with you lovely people." He pointed around the whole stadium, showing he was talking about the fans. "What you have done for me is indescribable. I think to myself, everyday, am I worthy of even being here—"

"Yes!" An army of agreement echoed around the arena, making Harry stop, blush and smile to himself.

"Well thank you! Um. You have been the best fans ever, and I know you will continue to be. I know you don't owe me anything, but all I ask you to keep loving yourselves and treating people with kindness, because I know I can count on you lot to do that, for me." He sniffled at the end, making you bite your lip to prevent the tears from falling for you. He looked so vulnerable right now, but you knew he'd be feeling on top of the world.

"Jheez." He sniffles again. "That's one thank you down and i'm already crying." He looked to his band to share the joke with.

“Dad’s such a wuss.” Oli laughed, holding his arm around Beas waist, making the people around you chuckle in agreement.

“Shut up you - Mr-tears-in-your-eyes!” You pointed out, laughing as he flipped you the bird - which then got him a hit off his grandma Anne.

All of Harrys family and friends were here, in a special cornered off section. It was such a thoughtful thing for Harry to do. All his family, and a fair few of yours, were sat down along with Harrys closest friends. Everyone was sharing laughs and drinks, whilst using every inch of space to dance along to your husbands boastful music.

"Secondly, my touring family. From Jeff and Ben, to Sarah's Kitchen, Adam, Mitch, Sarah, Charlotte and Nyoh, not forgetting everyone backstage and behind the lights, music and cameras. You've all been the greatest. Everything you do is second to none. You're all talented, warm-hearted, people whom I will carry in my heart forever. Thank you." You noticed members of the crew and band starting to tear up now.

"Moving on to my boys. We've been through it all, lads, and I couldn't have asked for four better brothers than you all. Louis. Liam. Niall. Zayn. Thank you." Everyone cheered ten times louder, maybe because this was as close to a One Direction reunion as the fans were ever going to get, but definitely because Harry had mentioned Zayn. You saw a girl faint at the mere mention of all the boys in the same sentence. The boys lifted up their beers to Harry, stood close by to where you were standing.

"I guess I should say thank you to the women who made all this possible. Mum. Gem. Thank you for signing me up all those years ago. Thank you for believing in me. You've made me the - crap, sorry! - the man I am now and I love you both." Harry prayed to them both, whilst bowing, and swiftly wiped away the tears afterwards. Anne and Gemma, on the other hand, were proudly crying.

"Ol, Fix and Belles. You rascals make me get out of bed every morning and give me more of a purpose in life. You four give me so much joy and happiness. I love you all, even if you do drive me up the wall on an early Saturday morning! Thank you, my loves." You stood close to all your children, giving them the support they needed in this moment. Belle was crying against your chest, the ever-so-emotional woman she was. Felix was stood up, with Heather, with his drink raised to his dad. Oli was to your side, trying to remain cool and stoic, but you still caught the tears that ran down his face.

"Now." The audience calmed down again after awing over your babies. Harry cleared his throat before beginning again. "This evening keeps on reminding me of a very special person in my life. Someone who is my everything and that's my beautiful wife, Y/N." His words make your breath hitch in your throat. You never expected him to say anything about you. I mean, what had you done?

"Mum." Belle called out to you, in affirmation that this was real.

"She's more than just a wife. She's a lover. She's my muse. She's my best-fucking-friend, apologises for swearing but sue me. I was hesitant to let go of all this, at first. What would I do with myself now? You know? People tell me i'm 'happiest on stage', and for a time that was true. Until I met Y/N. She's made me realise that family makes me the happiest. She makes me the happiest." He jumped down off stage, taking the microphone with him. He ran his hands along the fans in the front row, but had no intention of stopping until he met you.

You felt Belle leaving your side, but you were too captivated by Harry to fully understand what was happening.

"So what am I going to do now, you ask? Well..." Harry cheekily smiled at you. "I'm going to make her the happiest woman alive, just as she makes me the happiest man." You began to cry again and the chorus of thousands of fans clapping and screaming surrounds you, only to all stop when his lips meet yours. He tasted like a combination of salty sweat and mint, but he was home. After a minute of crying, kissing and 'i love yous' , Harry ran back to the stage before Jeff could shoot him.

"Thank you all. All my love." He said whilst adjusting his microphone. "Please sing along if you know the words." He asked, full well knowing every single person will be screaming out the lyrics to him.

"Just stop you're crying it's the sign of the times. Welcome to the final show. Hope you're wearing your best clothes."