#this is what it was all like back in the day folks

[bbokicidal]

So Bitter, So Sweet. .:. SKZ [H.JS]

Genre : Smut Pairing : Han Jisung x Fem!Reader Warnings : Dom!Jisung, Sub!Reader, Hate Sex, Hair pulling, PinV (wrap it, folks), pussy spanking, bruising

Kinktober Day 5 of 10 : Hate Sex w/ Han

Word Count: 4K

This was supposed to be Day 5 of Kinktober 2024 but I had discontinued the series due to personal reasons at the time. So... Here, have it 5 months later.

“I actually have a presentation for media studies I have to work on tonight, so I really can’t…”

Chris blinks at the comment about a presentation. Media Studies? He had that class with you and he was pretty sure you didn’t have a presentation for that class. There wasn’t even class today, what were you talking about? His brow crinkles in confusion and his nose scrunches up as he looks over at you, opening his big fat mouth and blowing your cover. “I don’t think we have a– Ngh!” His sentence is cut short when your hand collides with his abdomen, knocking the wind from him enough to shut him up. It was too late, though; He’d spilled too much.

“..So… you’re lying just to get out of coming to the party.” Minho’s eyes slowly drag from where his friend is doubling over at your side to you instead. “Is there a reason you don’t want to go or are you just one of those types of people?” He knew you weren’t but he asked anyway.. You’d come to parties he had held before so what was keeping you from coming to this one? It was Halloween - Basically the biggest parties of the year, other than New Years, were held on Halloween!

“I don’t like Jisung.” Your answer is plain and simple. You hadn’t liked Jisung since you met him. He played so sweetly with the boys; Kissed their cheeks, helped them with homework, and he was all smiles and laughs when he was with them. But as soon as you came around he would shut down and his precious little eye smile would turn into a glare pointed in your direction - which led you to assume that the dislike was mutual.

Jisung blinks heavily beside Minho, brows both cocking upward as if he’s surprised by the statement. He stares down at his hands, twisting a ring to fit right on his finger. “Let me just go fuck myself,” He comments shortly after and Changbin shifts on the other side of him, eyeing the younger man as if silently trying to get him to back down. “What the fuck did I ever do to you?” Jisung looks directly at you then, not shying away from the heavier conversation.

You scoff as if finding it ridiculous that he doesn’t know. Is he playing dumb, or is he actually an idiot? “You’re an asshole every time I’m around you. You won’t even look at me half of the time and when you do you just sit and brood. And either way - I don’t need a specific reason to dislike someone. Maybe I just hate your face.” That was… one of the biggest lies you had ever told. Jisung was far from ugly; He has big round eyes, soft cheeks, soft features in general really and he looked like a prince who had stepped right out of a Disney movie. He was gorgeous, actually, but you’d never say that to his face given his ugly personality. All of that, all of his behavior towards you, had simply ruined his image for you. “Remember last week?”

“Last week? Oh, God - You’re still whining about that?” Jisung’s eyes narrow over in your direction, his glare as heavy as your own. 

You scoff once more, anger bubbling in your chest. Chris reaches to rest a hand gently between your shoulder blades, ready to guide you away if the situation turns left. “You poured alcohol on me just because you could - right after I said I was going to talk to a guy I like. That was a dick move, Han!” You point a finger at the man and he smirks at your heated demeanor. Chris’ hand becomes guiding, giving a gentle push to steer you away from the three men before Jisung had a chance to bite back at you. 

He offers a shaky smile to the three, keeping his eyes directed towards Minho and Changbin in hopes he can clear this up at least a little while Jisung calms himself down. Or… tried to. “I’ll.. figure something out with her, okay? Expect us to be there.” Chris chuckles, his voice wavering with uncertainty before he fumbles quietly with the last bit before he walks away with you. “There’snopresentation.”

Minho gives a heavy sigh as his eyes draw to Jisung who seethes between himself and the third, blinking slowly at the younger. Jisung glances up and glares, his snarl looking almost like a pout on plush lips. “She drives me crazy sometimes-! I never poured anything on her on purpose.”

“I can tell,” Minho’s eyes rolled. “You need to tone it down. There’s no reason for you two to have this bad of a relationship with each other. Maybe you should’ve just explained that to her when you had the chance?”

“She never gives me an opportunity to clear it up,” Jisung scowls. “She’s ridiculous.”

Changbin claps a hand on the younger’s back before moving it up to grip at the nape of his neck, giving a subtle squeeze as he pushes Jisung forward to keep walking. “You almost laughed at her anger - right in her face. Don’t think you’re making the best impression.” When Jisung turns to bite back at that comment, Changbin forces him to face forward and keep walking by the grip he had on the other’s neck. “Ah; Keep walking. We’re not having this discussion right now. You two need to talk it out. I’m not involved.”

“I can’t believe you don’t know how to tie a tie.” Your fingers laced carefully through the small knot you had created with the carefully sewn fabric, pulling it through and tightening it with care. The tie sits neatly against the white button up Chris wore, contrasting so perfectly yet matching with the long coat he had on over top. “Aren’t you like twenty five or something?”

“Twenty-six.” Chris smiles, his lips forming a straight line and quirking up at the corners that makes his cheeks dimple heavier than normal. It makes you smile as well, the sight of his face squishing of its own accord. “And I do know how to tie a tie; I just wanted a pretty girl close to me.” His eyes drop from where they had been looking over your head to peer right at you instead. You sigh out a soft laugh through your nose and give a small shake of your head. Ever the flirtatious one, you knew Chris meant nothing by it; He was always calling you pretty, always sticking close to your side, always protective. You were his best friend so of course he was always going to be showering you with compliments; You did the exact same thing. 

As you take a step back and pivot on your heel to look, Chris lets his head tip in the mirror. “What exactly are you supposed to be, again? A businessman?” Your eyes drag over his choice of clothing and he giggles at the assumption, shaking his head in a manner that makes his hair fall down into his eyes. The one white contact made him a little scarier than usual.

“I’m a sexy vampire!” Chris exclaims as if it should be obvious. He turns to look at you, extending his arms and then giving a little turn just to show off. He giggles shortly after when he realizes you’re laughing at him, one hand pressed over your mouth in adoration. You had the stupidest yet cutest best friend in the world. “Can’t you tell?”

Your giggles subside as you answer him, keeping one hand pressing to your lips while you look him over. “Aren’t vampires usually wearing, like, Victorian era clothing or something? The shirts with the ruffles, the high waisted pants… I’ve never seen a vampire in a suit before, I don’t think.”

“Okay, well then I’m a sexy vampire in a suit.” His head turns back to the mirror and he smiles, pushing the little fangs he wore over his bottom lip with a grin. Stupidest yet cutest. “You’re ripping on my outfit but what are you?”

You had just tugged your jacket on as you looked over, listening to him question your own outfit. “A sexy nun; Duh.” He should’ve been able to tell by the veil you wore but apparently that one white contact took away some of his vision. Which also explained why he nearly walked into the doorway on his way out of your dorm, smoothing his hair back to play it off while you laughed. “Go, go.” You shoo him out into the hallway, turning to shut and lock the door behind you as you took your leave.

The drive to the party is short, given it’s only on the other side of campus - but Chris insists on driving you two because he doesn’t want you walking in the chilled night air wearing that outfit. You’d be cold even with your jacket and he can’t subject you to that! So he hops in the car, heats the seats and carefully navigates his way down a few blocks before finding a parking spot across the street. The two of you peek out the driver’s window to look at the house the party is being held in. Minho had snagged one of the nicer, smaller places on campus and all he had to do to get it was find three willing roommates to move in with him; Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jisung.

The windows of the house are flooded with lights colored orange, red, white, and green while music pounds at the walls and threatens to bring them down. The outside is decorated with Jack-o-lanterns and leaf bags colored orange with faces on them, a skeleton dressed in red lingerie sitting in a lawn chair (by Hyunjin’s doing) and a fake Ghostface from Scream sitting on the steps leading up to the door just to scare away any kids who might want to approach. The front door is covered in Caution tape in a rather messy manner but… you have to admit, the decoration job isn’t horrible. From afar, that is; As soon as the two of you approach the house you end up finding out that someone had shoved a fleshlight between the legs of the skeleton in the lawn chair, and you aren’t sure if that makes the decorating job better or worse.

Stepping into the house, you shrug off your jacket to carefully drape it over a chair nearby that has clearly been taken over by other jackets, hoodies, and even a few blankets people had just wrapped around themselves and ran in. Chris keeps his on because he swears it’s a part of his costume and important to the outfit - and after a small bicker back and forth about it you decide to give in and just go get a drink to start off the night. You end up meeting up with Changbin and Jisung in the kitchen, Changbin’s hand holding a solo cup full of a clear liquid on ice while Jisung’s double fisting two different beers and sipping from them continuously as they talk. 

“Oh look, it's a discount Rob Zombie. Glad to see you here.” You greet with a sarcastic smile, looking away from Jisung to Changbin who chuckles at your comment on Jisung’s outfit. He’d worn a black and white striped long sleeve under a black tank top that hung off his body and proved to be someone else’s he had stolen and cut up for the costume. His jeans were a bit flashy with their belt chains hanging off of his hips, clinking together any time he moved where he stood. He even threw on a choker and a longer necklace with a pendant hanging off of it. And the stupid, pretty black gloves he wore with the rings all over his fingers… 

“I need a drink. Something, anything.”

Jisung’s gaze lowers and he glares as you already shit on his outfit when you’d only just arrived. “I’m a rockstar, actually? Jesus fuck,” He growls out the last bit, turning away and leaving the kitchen. He rounds the island and wanders off to find other people to talk to, seemingly no longer interested in conversing with Changbin when you are around.

Changbin extends his arm with a small smile, one corner of his lips perking upward. He watches as you take his drink right from him and take a few large sips, grimacing at the taste. “It’s… sour.” 

And Changbin nods, chuckling at your realization. “Yeah, it’s made with sour. That’s the whole point.” He holds out his hand to take it back whenever you feel like you’re done with it, your expression less than pleasant as you click your tongue and hand it back to him.

Yet every time you returned to the kitchen, you found yourself mixing Whiskey and Sour into a cup together to get another feeling of that sweet, sweet buzz. It fucked you up fast and that’s how you liked it, even if you were being cautious and pacing yourself. Though you’d spent the last few hours dancing with Changbin, chatting with Minho in a quieter corner and even finding Hyunjin on the couch and sitting in his lap during a small game of Truth or Dare, you managed to always come back to Chris.

Minho had retired for the night and gone upstairs to his room, Hyunjin was still sitting on the sofa now talking to a rather pretty little blond in a black cat costume that hugged him just right, and Changbin was… well, he was somewhere - all over the place, if you were honest. Chris leaned back against the counter as he watched you sip from the fourth drink. You looked pretty well-off despite having so much alcohol in your system. “You came in here kind of hot earlier.”

“Thank you.~” You coo against the rim of your cup, sipping again from the drink as Chris bursts into laughter.

“No - No. I meant coming in hot as in coming in fiery. You ripped into Jisung right away, you know.” He comments, clarifying his statement with a small shake of his head and a bright, gummy smile that showed all of his teeth. He’s always so smiley around you and he really can’t help it.

Your smile falls. “Oh.” You deadpan the reply and Chris almost regrets even talking about Jisung at all. Though, now that you thought about it, you hadn’t seen him since you had first arrived - and roasted him like an oven roasted chicken when you walked into the kitchen. “Yeah. He deserves it, though! His costume isn’t even that cool - He just looks like himself. You know, an emo twink.” You set your cup down on the island behind you and sigh out, turning away with a lazy tip of your head. “I’m gonna go use the bathroom.”

“Don’t fall in,” Chris quips with a smile as you walk away from him, unable to help the corny line of goodbye.

Your walk to the bathroom is short, given that it’s right around the corner and just before the stairs. Your hand finds the doorknob after a bit of tipsy fumbling and as you push it open, you’re met with a sight you’d never expected before in your life.

Jisung stood leaning back against the sink, his jeans pushed down to just above his knees while one hand jerked at his cock - hard and leaking and slick with precum that he’d already smeared over his length. His face is flushed and only grows deeper in color when he sees you push open the door to the bathroom, his lips popping apart - slick with spit and drool dripping down his chin as he looks over. “Either get in or shut the fucking door.”

You’re quick to step in - mostly because you panic. Even if you don’t care for him, it’s a little ridiculous to expose his entire cock to the world outside. So you enter the bathroom with flushed cheeks and lingering eyes. Your state of slight intoxication refuses to let you pull your gaze away from the way his hand still strokes over his cock even with you in the room. Your weight shifts to one side and the moment you pull your eyes away he decides to open his mouth. “Fuck, I hate how sexy you look in that stupid costume.”

His comment makes you squirm, your thighs pressing together to try and hide the way your pussy drips at the sight of him alone. And now he was admitting that he thought you looked sexy? You shift against the door and Jisung reaches out to gently pull you closer with his free hand, laying it against your waist while you take the few steps to reach him. He looks you over up close before sighing out, his thumb sliding over his tip just to tease himself a little. “You want it?”

Jisung chuckles at the way you nod feverishly at his question. Yeah, he was fucking annoying, and yeah his face made a bit of anger swell in your chest even if he was really fucking hot in the moment - but he was just straight up offering his dick to you and you couldn’t say no to a guy with big glossy eyes and a leaking cock. He shifts away from the counter and steps in behind you instead, pressing your hips forward to the edge of the sink. You gasp out and reach out to support yourself, your hand laying on the mirror to leave prints behind as Jisung flips up the bottom half of your dress to lay it over your back. He sighs out in admiration at the sight of the black lace that hid beneath it, hooking one finger into it to tug it aside and see what he really wanted to get a look at.

You peek up into the mirror just in time to see Jisung dipping down behind you and a rush of excitement shoots through your veins. You’re under the assumption he might eat you out a little before he gets to the main ordeal - but Jisung isn’t that nice and he still dislikes you even if you look damn sexy in that tight dress and cute little veil. He spits directly onto your pussy after using his thumbs to spread your lips for him, leaning in soon after to use his tongue and make sure you were plenty wet for easy access as if you weren’t dripping already. Jisung stands back to his full height to look down at your hole, both of his hands gripping at your hips as he lines himself up. His spit clings to your clit before dripping onto the floor between your heels just as his cock slips into you with ease.

You sigh out in admiration at the feeling, eyes rolling back into your head with the way he fills you up. It’s unfair how fucking hot he is considering he’s an asshole to you any time he has the chance. Your hand pushes heavier on the mirror as he starts up a steady rhythm, his cock sliding against your gummy walls with the most sinful sounds bouncing off of the bathroom walls; The wet squelch of your pussy forming to his length as he pushes into you harder when he realizes you can take it - that you want to. “Fuck – Mnh, Ji –”

Jisung glances up at you through the mirror, his hair clouding his vision as it fell into his eyes. He peeks down almost immediately after however, reaching down between your bodies to pull up his shirt as it kept falling down and getting in his way from feeling your skin on his own. He tucks the fabric of the striped shirt between his teeth before he chuckles, his eyes turning back down to where the two of you connect - and as you look at him through the mirror you swear you’ve never seen something so fucking hot in your life. His skin was slick and glistening with a thin layer of sweat which meant his hair was beginning to stick to his face, and with his shirt tucked between his teeth his mouth had formed a small scowl. You could’ve swore you heard a couple quiet growls coming from his throat, too, while he fucked into you harder than before.

Your body rocks against the sink as you hold onto the wall to keep yourself steady, moans flooding from your lips that spur Jisung on to fuck you harder, faster. He reaches with one hand to grab onto your shoulder, pulling you with every thrust so you met him halfway and you whined as you felt his tip prodding at your walls, pushing further each time he pushed into you. Jisung used his free hand to grip at your hip, bruising his fingerprints into your skin as evidence he had been there - been in you. His hand slips lower until he can hoist your thigh up, pushing your leg onto the counter so he can stand even closer to you and sink his cock further into your walls. 

“Ohh - Fuck! Fuck, ‘m gonna come –” Your stutters of release make Jisung glance up, dark eyes staring through his hair as he watches your expressions in the mirror; Your eyes closed, head tipped back, fingers curling against the mirror as your orgasm hit. Jisung’s eyes darted back down to watch you squirt around his cock, slowly pulling out before pushing back into your pussy just when you had thought he’d called it quits. He huffs out, his movements rapid but messy now as he chases his own release. He slumped forward a bit and ended up moving his hand from your shoulder to your hair, his fingers tangling in that thin veil to keep a tight grip on you. Well - that, and he’s always wanted to pull your hair when you got on his nerves.

His breathing is labored and ragged as he lets go of his shirt, the fabric falling down while he spills ropes of cum into your walls to claim you as his own. That’s how he thinks of it in the moment at least. Jisung pulls out shortly after, his cum leaking from your slit and dripping down onto the tile flooring of the bathroom. He reaches down, using two fingers to push it back into your cunt while you whine at the feeling. “God, you’re so noisy,” Jisung huffs out, straightening up and glancing at you as his hand meets you again with a slap to your pussy. 

You jolt the first time and relax the second, his hand stilling against your entrance to carefully rub against you and get you to ease up, your body slumping against the countertop in exhaustion. 

He peeks down and watches as both his cum and your slick cling to his fingers as he pulls his hand away, strings connecting his skin to your own. He usually wouldn’t even think to come inside of someone, but with you it was just another form of proof he’d been there. Something for you to think about when he pissed you off in the following days.

And Minho usually wouldn’t care that people had fucked in his bathroom as he often found evidence of it after the parties he held, stumbling tiredly into the room to piss and find meds that would hopefully cure his hangover migraine; But handprints on his mirror? Really?

Permanent Taglist :

@dwaekkicidal @possum-playground

@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

@jeonginsleftcheek @pixie-felix @hwangjoanna

[hivemuthur]

Hi Anons! Happy Freakday! Taking this amazing opportunity to mingle two into one:

Lips Where Lips Were

viktorxfemale!reader explicit. What's in here? Perverted yearning, panty theft and face sitting :v I'm sure the day was stressful for him :< Never lose sight of your laundry, folks!

word count: 3K

author’s note: I listened to Smoke City Underwater Love. @rennethen beta-read and she was sick doing it so double thank-yous! And as per schedule, I name Fridays Freakdays, and on most of those you can expect some Freaktor action.

—

It wasn’t planned at all when you stepped into the laundry room with a basket full of clothes. Pure coincidence—or call it fate, if Viktor dared to entertain such grand notions when it came to something so utterly embarrassing.

He had just been loading the washing machine, half full with his meagre three white shirts and a few undershirts, when the door swung open. You entered backwards, nudging it open with your ass, your face obscured by the tall basket cradled in your arms. But he recognised you instantly—by the back of your head, the curve of your neck, your ankles. Again, utterly embarrassing.

“Oh my God, are you washing whites? Please tell me you are washing whites,” you asked, not bothering with a hello.

Viktor eyed the laundry in your arms, picking up what you were putting down, but simply replied, “Yes, I’m washing whites.”

"Mind if I invade?" you asked, already shifting your weight forward, basket pressing into your stomach. "I’ve mostly got darks, but I’m running out of underwear."

Viktor swallowed, considering. Having your underwear washed with his­—pretty good. You having no underwear to wear? Significantly better. Being unable to come up with explanation to denying you, he forced a nod, stepping back from his machine as if giving you space might help untangle the sudden knot in his throat.

"Be my guest," he said, voice steady despite the way his pulse stuttered.

You wasted no time, setting your basket down and beginning to sort through your clothes. Viktor watched as you moved, as your hands fished out a bundle of whites and dropped them in beside his. Then, with the ease of someone used to efficiency, you loaded a second machine with your darker clothes.

It should have been a nothing moment—mundane, forgettable. But when you leaned forward, he caught sight of a bra slipping from the heap in your arms, a delicate thing edged with lace, straps tangled. His mouth went dry.

A thought, insistent and utterly filthy, flashed across his mind—quick, scorching, and impossible to ignore. He almost turned away, almost shut the machine door to spare himself from his own treacherous imagination. But then, right there, in the tangle of fabric, were your knickers.

White as snow. Thin as paper. A tiny, pretty bow crowning the hem.

His fingers twitched. Good with his hands as he was, before he could think better of it, before his brain could catch up to his body, he snagged them—swift, seamless, a movement so smooth it almost convinced him it hadn’t happened at all. But the fabric in his pocket was real as day whenever he reached to check if it’s still there.

And now, Viktor has a problem.

He’s thought about returning them—washing them by hand and slipping them in with the rest of your white clothes. He’s also considered getting rid of them: throwing them away, tossing them out the window, burning them—anything that might make him stop. But whenever he comes close, he falters.

At first, just the thought of having a piece of fabric that was so intimately close to you is enough. Clutching onto the last ounces of self-respect he has, Viktor does nothing beyond tucking the knickers into his chest pocket, carrying them close to his heart whenever he feels like it.

The idea nearly backfires when Jayce asks him for a pen—the little metal loop catches on the fabric, almost pulling them out and exposing him for the depraved pervert he is.

From that point forward, Viktor says goodbye to your underwear every time he leaves his dorm. They lay splayed flat on his bed when he returns, and his mind instantly drifts to which parts of you they clung to. The curve of your ass, hugged tightly as you pulled them on. The waistband, with its little bow resting just beneath your belly button. And his favourite part—the delicate pouch fabric kissed by your sweet lips.

Then it happens again that his body overrides his mind’s restraint, compulsive in its betrayal. It’s a compulsion, yes, when his fingers unbuckle the belt, his hand palming his aching cock. It’s compulsive yet again when he undoes his fly, rubbing himself through his boxers, thinking of you. It’s compulsive when he pulls himself out and smears the precum pearling at the tip, pretending it’s your gentle fingers touching his heated skin.

And it’s utterly deranged when he reaches for your panties and brings them to his face. If he could snort it all up, he would. Instead, he holds it against his nose, inhaling deeply, greedily. It’s dizzying—the smell of you, sweet and intimate, proof that this was yours.

His fingers tease the head first, gliding over the aching spot just beneath, and he twitches in his own hand. His mind, corrupt and rotten, throws him the worst of images for this occasion—or the best, depending on how he looks at it. You, bending over, the seam of your underwear glaring at him from beneath your skirt. Your mouth, speaking his name. Then moaning his name as his hand is buried between your thighs.

His grip tightens around his cock. At first, slow, as he breathes in the remnants of you. He strokes himself languidly, knees bent over the bed’s edge, feet pressing hard into the floor. His hips thrust up, chasing more—more of anything to quell the ache inside him, the iron grip that coils low in his belly.

Your name spills from his mouth, ragged and desperate. He imagines you here, above him, thighs caging his head as you press down onto his waiting tongue. The thought alone has his cock twitching in his hand again, and he lets out a filthy groan, gripping himself harder.

And even though shame still lingers somewhere in the periphery of his thoughts, he cannot help himself. He splays the fabric over his face and licks where your lips have been cradled. And kisses there. And takes it into his mouth, sucking on it—the poor substitute for your soft pussy.

“Ah—fuck—” His breath stutters, muscles winding tight as he fucks into his own hand now. Fast and hard. His imagination runs wild—your taste on his tongue, your fingers tugging his hair, the way you’d roll your hips to use his mouth like you need it. He lets himself drown in the fantasy, slutty moans spilling from his mouth so loud he doesn’t hear the knocking. Or the door to his dorm room creaking open. Or the soft sound of feet shuffling on the floor.

You do knock. And you do call out, until you mistake a noise coming from his bedroom for one of pain. You rush in, clutching a shirt he mistakenly gave you with your batch of white laundry to your chest. And then you freeze by the door, when you hear the sound of your own name stumbling from Viktor’s lips in the filthiest, most sultry tone you’ve ever heard from him. Oh—the door is ajar.

Not that you haven’t imagined him doing it. Many times, possibly too many to count. But to imagine it and to hear it—raw and real, seeping into your ears so sweetly—is a completely different thing.

For a moment, you squeeze your eyes shut before holding your breath and stepping in carefully. Viktor is writhing on the bed, unaware, unseeing, his trousers slipped down his thighs, and his face covered with—oh. One hand pushes the fabric into his nose and mouth, and the mere sight has your thighs clenching under your skirt as you step closer, transfixed.

Heat floods your cheeks when your gaze drops to his other hand, to his cock—hard and flushed at the tip, sliding in and out of his grip as his hips thrust helplessly. He looks so absolutely, utterly hot like this, you almost want to let him finish—just to see the vulgar act of him cumming all over his stomach. Until, again—oh. You notice it—the panties are yours.

"Viktor," you whisper, bewildered.

He freezes. "Fuck!" The curse rips from him, loud and raw as he throws the underwear away from him like it burned, rolling onto his stomach with light speed. "Fuck." Again, muffled against the mattress. Then your name, a plea. "I'm so... so sorry."

You step closer, gaze flicking to where the discarded fabric landed. Slowly, you bend down and pick it up between two fingers, holding it up as you muse, "I thought I was missing a pair."

Viktor drops his forehead to the mattress and groans, frustration and shame bleeding into the sound. "I can't believe this is happening, I—"

"For how long have you had them?" you ask. There’s no accusation, only curiosity.

He says nothing. You bite your lower lip, eyes drawn helplessly to the curve of his bare ass, the tension in his shoulders, the way his entire body seems locked in mortification.

"Viktor," you try again, softer this time. "Look at me. Turn over."

"I beg you, spare me," he rasps. "I promise I will apologize properly, but please, please, leave."

But you don’t. You see it now—clearly, undeniably. Viktor has been pining for you as much as you’ve pined for him. And so you dare, your mind stunted with the sight conjuring ideas beyond the realm of reason, as you crawl onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight and you settle beside him, sitting on the balls of your feet. Viktor presses his face harder into the sheets, as if willing either himself or you to disappear. "Please," he mutters, your name a breathless sigh, "this is mortifying."

You reach out, running a hand up his leg, fingertips tracing along the muscle, up to the swell of his ass in a gentle caress. Where you touch goosebumps prickle on his skin and you really, really have to resist the urge to bite on his pale cheek. "Viktor," you murmur, voice coaxing, "please look at me. I beg you."

He sighs into the bed, then slowly turns his head to face you, though he avoids your eyes. His face flushed all the way up to his cheeks, shame bleeding into skin. Swallowing hard, he says, “I am so sorry. I wasn’t… This is not—”

"Hey," you say softly, brushing the hair off his forehead. His eyes squeeze shut at the touch. You shift closer, lying on your belly beside him, and blow gently on his face. A breathy chuckle forces its way out of him, and finally—finally—he opens his eyes.

"Hi," you whisper.

"Hi yourself," Viktor murmurs, calmer now.

"I, uh—" you start, then bite your lip. "Can I… see you?" The words come out shyly, your breath held as you wait for his reaction.

"W-what?" Viktor turns, startled—only his torso, though. His hips remain stubbornly pressed to the mattress, much to your disappointment. His brows knit together as he waits for an explanation.

But you have no idea what to say, so you let your body speak for you. You exhale, closing the last bit of distance between you, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead to his. "Please," you whisper, "you looked so… hot."

Your cheeks scald as you wait for his reaction, but disappointment and fear flee the moment Viktor's tongue swipes over his lips and—oh—he rolls over, revealing his pretty cock to you. It had been trapped in the crease of his thigh, held there by the dampness of his skin, still achingly hard.

You reach for him slowly, and he moans—his brows knitting—before you even touch him. Your fingers, palm facing down, trace over his balls before gliding up, the heel of your hand pressing along his length, your thumb circling beneath the head.

“Your cock is so pretty,” you whisper a quiet praise, and he shudders, pressing his nose into your cheek, his lips brushing yours, mouths hanging open. As your hand moves in tender strokes, Viktor can’t help himself, it’s invitation enough. His fingers tangle into your hair, and he presses his tongue between your lips, kissing you sloppily, desperately. "Oh God, yes," he mutters into your mouth.

The sound alone makes you moan, spurring you to move with more intent. In no time, you have him so worked up that the neglected dampness between your legs almost doesn’t bother you—but then Viktor’s tongue grows more insistent, his hands roam your body, and your hips buck involuntarily. He clocks it immediately, rasping into your mouth, “Sit on my face. Please.”

You choke on a sound between a gasp and a moan, barely having time to process his words before Viktor’s hands find your hips, guiding you forward. He shifts beneath you, pressing his back flat against the mattress, and tugs at you again, insistent and needy. His breath is hot against your skin as he urges, “Come here, please.”

Your legs tremble as you move, suddenly all shy and hesitant. You come to straddle his chest first, but oh, Viktor’s shame has melted into impatience once encouraged—his hands slide up, gripping your thighs to pull you the rest of the way until you hover above his face. His parted lips are so close that you can feel the ghost of his breath and it’s so unbearably warm you barely resist the urge to sink into him.

What’s in front of you, is his cock, still flushed and leaking, laying thick on his navel. Swallowing your nerves, you lean forward, bracing your hands on his sharp hips as you lower your mouth to him, wrapping your fingers around the base. Viktor groans beneath you, the vibration rippling against your skin and you can feel yourself leaking obscenely when he whines out his famous last words—“Fuck, you are so wet,” and his hot mouth meets your sex.

It's a sinful swipe, that first one. Has you gasping and gripping his cock tighter, before you remember what is it that you are holding. Your eyes widen, mouth huffing warm air over his length as you try to regain your bearings. But Viktor is relentless, thorough, as if he’s intent on devouring the very essence of you, memorising every crevice. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you down, grinding you against his mouth, burying himself in you.

It’s a thousand times better than a mouthful of your underwear—no comparison, really. Not that Viktor can think straight enough to measure the difference, not when his tongue finds its rhythm, plunging in and out of your hole. His head wrenches back into the mattress, chin teasing your clit, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. And then—he groans, a loud, wrecked sound, because your mouth has just wrapped itself around his cock.

Your lips part around the head, tongue flicking over the slit as your hand works the base, thumb pressing along the thick vein running underneath. He twitches so beautifully under your touch that you pause, pulling off with a quiet pop. Watching him glisten in your palm, this time it’s you who can’t help yourself—you glue your torso to his stomach, bury your face against his cock, and inhale long and deep through your mouth and nose.

Viktor shudders beneath you, a deep, broken groan muffled against your cunt. As if this were a conversation, you moan back, the vibration sending a shudder rolling through his muscles. Emboldened, he buries himself deeper, rubbing his chin against your sweet spot, fucking you with his tongue until your hips begin to move on their own, grinding down onto his face. And you—oh, you take him back into the warmth of your mouth, sinking down past the barrier of your throat. Drool spills down his length, slicking the ridges with every bob of your head.

What was merely an ember when you walked in on him now burns bright and hot in his loins. He snorts up whatever air you grant him between your movements, bracing himself for the blinding twist in his stomach that he knows is imminent. His muscles flex under your hands, and for a moment, he loses rhythm, parts his lips from you—and then he cums with a throat-wrenching moan, hard and heavy, spilling thick white into your mouth. You lick it all up, gulp on it, letting him make as many sounds as he likes, lifting your hips just enough so that your clit stays pressed against his chin.

When his cock begins to border on overstimulated, his hand finds your hair, and he tugs you gently, guiding you back to where you were—pressing you down onto his tongue. And you are so, so close. You straighten, brace yourself on his chest, and rut against him without restraint, dragging yourself over the flat of his tongue.

Viktor groans into you, his fingers digging into your thighs, keeping you where he wants you, letting you use him, consume him. Heat gathers and pools over in waves, tipping you beyond that edge—your body seizing as a raw, broken moan tears from your throat. With the sight of his pretty softening cock in front of you, his name spills from your lips, over and over, as you tremble and grind against his mouth. He holds you through it, drinking in every last shudder and cry until you finally collapse against him, spent and trembling.

Your ass slides off his face, splayed in front of his very eyes and Viktor suddenly realises something—all this time you’ve had no knickers on. “Why are you not wearing any underwear?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Hmm, I thought I miscalculated, but turns out you took my last pair,” you smirk against his hip where your cheek is cradled. You place a soft kiss there to the peak of his bone and whisper, “You can keep it.”

[cheyisagirlkisser]

Rosemary (e.w): Part One

"𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧, 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬."

content / warnings: jackson ellie / fem newcomer reader, loser! ellie, the majority of tlou has not happened (joel and jesse are still alive), mentions of joel (will be in part 2), mentions of cat, jesse and dina are romantically involved, near-death situations (patrol gone wrong), mild violence, slight angst with comfort, lots of swearing, eventual smut (in part 2).

word count: 4.4k

link to part two ( status: unfinished)

Description: Newcomers come and go through Jackson, and Ellie doesn’t pay any of them much thought. However, she catches a glimpse of you. You’re the exact opposite of her, soft and sweet like cotton candy (if that were a thing in Jackson). Now she feels 14 all over again, palms clammy and freckled face hot when you’re around. When you’re not, she buries her face into her pillow and hopelessly pines. Jesse and Dina just won’t let her fumble, though.

Ellie locks the stable door behind her, the creaking of the hinges accompanying her huff. As usual, Ellie is quite sweaty and admittedly cranky after a patrol that lasted longer than it should’ve.

She and Jesse spent hours clearing out a portion of the town North of Jackson, only to find the ammunition cabinets empty and the pantries bare. To come back almost empty-handed leaves Ellie in a particularly sour mood, and now she is in no state to deal with another social interaction for the day. No offense to her best friend Jesse, but he can be annoyingly talkative on the longest days. 

“Hey, have you heard about the new group who just arrived?” Jesse’s voice snaps Ellie out of her own thoughts, and she shrugs. She walks alongside Jesse back to the weaponry to store their pistols. 

“Yeah. What about them?” Ellie has never understood why everyone makes a big fuss out of new arrivals. Jackson gets plenty of travelers. Besides, folks stay and folks go. She won’t be surprised if the entire group is headed South by tomorrow morning.

Jackson isn’t for everyone. It’s mainly for the type of people Ellie is–fine with the harsher, okay with hours of stressful patrols, and usually content to kick infected ass. Also secluded, far from larger settlements that remind her too much of a QZ. 

“There’s a girl. Maria is sayin’ she’s around our age, too.” Jesse informs her.

Ellie snorts at that, shaking her head. “So?” She opens the door to the weaponry, unloading her pistol and storing the gun on the wall alongside his. 

Jesse gives her a ‘what do you mean, so?’ look, and almost laughs at her attitude. He knows that she is more reserved when it comes to new people. Really, people in general. For the longest time, the circle was Jesse, Dina, and Ellie. Like a holy trinity that Cat occasionally popped into before departing when she and Ellie broke up. Ellie has never needed more social interaction than her friends, Joel and Tommy, and maybe a girlfriend. The only problem is that she has the social skills of an incel when it comes to women, save for the fact that most incels were taken out on breakout day. 

“We had new people just last month. What’s so special about these?” 

Jesse rolls his eyes as they walk out of the weaponry, holding the door open for Ellie despite her bitterness. “I was just informing you, jeez. What’s with the pissy mood?”

Ellie sighs, pausing outside of the building. “My bad. Just..didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, and patrol didn’t help.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. “Were you up on that PlayStation you’ve got in your mancave?”

“For the last time, it’s not a man cave,” she speaks with light disapproval in her tone.

Jesse laughs at his friend’s attitude, enjoying teasing her. “Right. Well, you go home and get some damn rest. I’m tired of dealing with your cranky ass on patrol.” He pats her shoulder, giving her a small wave before walking towards his house.

Ellie sighs and mumbles a “whatever” before turning in the other direction and heading for the small garage she has behind Joel’s house, looking forward to sleeping until she is forced to get up in the morning. 

-

Patrol is early, earlier than usual. Luckily, Ellie got plenty of sleep the night before. In her straight jeans and (against Dina’s advice to not risk hypothermia) canvas sneakers, everything is ready, and she feels lighter this morning. Not in a particularly grumpy mood, she walks down the streets to find Jesse. She is a tad bit confused–usually, Jesse is knocking at her door on patrol mornings. She grumbles under her breath at the thought that he is probably at the Tipsy Bison on some cheesy breakfast date with Dina. As much as she loves the two, she hates third-wheeling. Things are already awkward as it is. 

Ellie gets stuck in her mind as always, until a particular view cuts the thought train. There you are, in a pen filled with baby sheep, giggling and petting behind their ears. It’s an overwhelmingly sweet sight, something Ellie would usually find herself thinking of with disgust. Too sweet, like a tooth-rotting confection. But that’s not the case here, no. 

Ellie has seen plenty of pretty girls in Jackson. What is it that makes her hands clammy, and causes her face to redden in pure embarrassment? Her cheeks are so hot you could fry eggs on them. She’s embarrassed to be herself next to a pretty girl. You’re sweet and soft, and you remind her of peaches or a fluffy cake. But really, the thing that truly gets her isn’t the sheep or the way you smile at them in a way that makes even Ellie feel safe around you. It’s that outfit. 

Something she would find in a damn magazine for girls. Ellie would find herself thinking that wearing cute, feminine outfits is just dumb. In this world, where anything can happen, why wouldn’t you go for the practical? Why lace yourself up with soft frills and pink hues? You can’t run in a skirt. But looking at you, how the fabric seems to be made for you, she finds herself wondering how soft it is (and how soft to the touch you are). 

You’re the type of girl Ellie could see herself writing shitty journal entries about, your initial next to hers. You’re the type of girl she imagined tasting when she practices kissing her hand. You’re everything she needs in a daydream she could never confess to anyone else.

And then, the moment is over just before she could introduce herself to you. 

“Earth to Ellie? Whatcha staring at?” Jesse asks from behind her, causing Ellie to quickly turn around. 

“Nothing. Let’s just go.” Ellie’s voice doesn’t hide her defensiveness, and Jesse notices your figure a little bit away. He has a knowing smirk on his face, and Ellie groans. “C’mon, I’m not-”

“Didn’t say anything,” he points out with a surrender. 

The patrol goes normally. Kill infected, raid for supplies, endure Jesse’s dirty jokes. The only difference is, Ellie feels the need to ask about you on the way home.

Mounted on horses, Ellie decides to speak up. “Hey..do you know anything about that new girl?” 

Jesse shrugs casually. “She’s good friends with Dina already.” Ellie nods. Dina is the most social out of the trio, so it makes sense. 

“Is she nice?” Ellie asks, taking a small glance at Jesse. 

“Why? Interested in her or something?” Jesse replies, slightly smiling. It’s clear that he enjoys the fact that he knows how to get to her. 

Of course, she scoffs, raising her defenses. “No! Why do you think that?”

He laughs, eyes roving over her face. “Well, your cheeks are red. That’s the first sign. Secondly, you keep interrogating me over this chick.” 

Ellie sighs and looks down at Shimmer’s mane, trying to focus on something other than Jesse’s stupid face so that she can admit it. “Yeah, maybe I think she’s pretty cute. But she’s probably straight, so it doesn’t matter,” she mumbles quietly. 

“You’re such a pessimist, Ellie. You don’t know what she is.” He reminds Ellie, tone laced with tough love. 

“Yeah, well, how am I supposed to?” She asks though she doesn’t expect an actual answer. 

Jesse almost laughs at that. “By asking her?”

“What?! I can’t just ask if she likes girls! What if she gets offended?” 

“Dude, chill. I mean, just talk to her. Don’t you have a gaydar or somethin’?” He quips, making her crinkle her nose in protest.

“Yeah, right. All gays can just sense each other.” Ellie says with a half-hearted glare.

Jesse sighs. “Look, why don’t you just ask her to that summer festival thing? You know, the one with the dance?”

Her eyes widen at that. “A dance? That sounds like a nightmare.” 

“You are a lost cause,” he says as he rolls his eyes. 

It was around 7 p.m. when Ellie and Jesse made it to the gates. Ellie sighs outside of the Tipsy Bison. 

“Do I have to come in with you?” Ellie asks while already knowing the answer. 

“Yes! I need one of those cheesesteaks for dinner, and you could use some grub other than whatever is in that pathetic fridge of yours.” Jesse says, giving Ellie a smirk that suddenly sends her stomach feeling uneasy. He knows something she doesn’t. The only other time Ellie was given that look was the day before Jesse put a corn snake in her garage house as a “prank” for her 17th birthday. Still, Jesse is right. All she has in that mini fridge of hers are leftovers and a pack of instant rice. Her stomach growls in contrast to her protests.

“Ladies first,” Jesse teases, holding the door open for her.

Ellie sighs, feeling a bit cranky as usual at the end of the patrol, but walks into the building. She finds herself immediately freezing at the sight of you there beside Dina, laughing at an inside joke and munching on cheese fries. 

“Oh my god, fuck me.” Ellie curses under her breath. She can already feel the heat rising to her cheeks, pink mixing within the freckled surface. She just hopes that you won’t notice. 

“Don’t be a wimp, go say hi.” Jesse orders lightly behind Ellie, pointing to the area where you’re seated. Ellie swallows, and her boots feel almost like bricks on her feet. Jesse rolls his eyes, practically dragging her over to Dina and you. 

You seem to look up from your meal, eyes scanning over her. She feels like she is being evaluated. God, you must be thinking about how awkward she looks. She can feel her hands get all sweaty like they did when she first laid eyes on you, and her hands shake. She tugs her jacket sleeves down and nearly expects the worst. 

“Hi!” You smile, and you tell Ellie your name. All of the anxiety bubbles into a mix of dread and something giddy. Dread, because she can’t function properly around the one girl who makes her nervous as fuck. Giddiness, because you’re so sweet and lovely and pretty and kissable-

“Hi.” She manages to croak out, struggling to make eye contact. Fuck, how do I look at her? Do I focus on one of her eyes or can I blink and look away? I could wink. Oh, hell no. Don’t do that, Ellie. Instead tries to force an extremely nervous smile onto her face. “Name’s Ellie.”

“I know.” You simply say, still smiling slightly before stabbing a couple of fries with a plastic fork. There is some awkward silence before Dina fucks up Ellie’s momentum with the most nerve-wracking conversion starter. 

“Ellie here has a tattoo.” She brags to you, gesturing to Ellie’s arm. Your eyes light up, and you turn towards her. 

“Really?! I’ve always wanted one, but my parents would kill me.” You say excitedly. “Can I see?” 

Ellie quickly nods, a little flustered with the attention thrown onto her. She shimmies her jacket off, leaving her in a pale blue sweater. Pulling the sleeve up to her elbow, she shows you the moth and fern inked into her skin. You scooch to the edge of the booth, closer to her, and she swears she can smell your perfume. Something sweet like vanilla, perhaps? It just reminds her of cake and whipped frosting. Her mind is suddenly less focused on your eyes roving over her arm, and more on wondering how you taste. She realizes how shitty that is and quickly tries to back out of her thoughts, but she looks down to find you looking up at her expectantly. 

“Ellie here zones out 24/7, don’t mind her,” Jesse informs you, trying to push the sudden agenda he and Dina have going on. Ellie is practically burning right now. The air in the room feels limited, and the clashing of dishes in the background that she suddenly can’t seem to tune out isn’t helping. Ellie suddenly clears her throat, pulling away and putting her jacket back on. 

“Woah, where are you going?” Dina asks, not paying attention to the obvious nerves emitting from her friend. 

“Gonna go home and take a shower,” is all Ellie can find herself saying before making a beeline for the door. 

The air is humid, but it isn’t much different from what Ellie felt inside. Ellie sighs, leaning against the wall. She really fucked tonight up. You were so sweet and inviting, and all she could do was tremble like a leaf and say a few boring words. Not only that, but you probably think that she is rude now, just walking out right after meeting you. She just hopes your feelings aren’t hurt in any way. 

-

The universe officially hates Ellie Williams. 

There, in bold letters, are the patrol assignments for the week. The paper is pinned to the corkboard outside of the town hall. This morning, with you? Ellie can’t tell if she wants to cry or laugh. Either way, she is dreading today. 

“Hey, partner!” You greet her, clearly in a cheerful mood. She wants to kiss the corner of your lips on both sides just to feel your smile against her lips, but she is way too much of a pussy for that. Plus, you could be straight. You’re probably straight. 

Ellie has to process how fast you found her, but when she wraps her head around it and finally can think of a coherent thought, it’s a confused one. 

“Uh, hey..aren’t you new here?” She asks, scratching the corner of her mouth. 

“Yeah. Tommy said you would be helping me out with our patrol today?” You told her, watching Ellie’s face grow from confused to almost panicked. “I can find a new partner if you don’t-”

“No!” She basically shouts at you, visibly cringing when people nearby stop to look at her. “I just mean, it’s fine. I just haven’t trained anyone in a long time.” 

“Right. Well, we better head out then, huh? I was warned that the trail Maria gave us is one of the longer ones.” You say, looking at Ellie for a response. 

Ellie doesn’t know what it is about you, but you make a conversation feel like a trip down to the first ring of hell. Even thinking that may be rude, and she curses her thoughts, but you’re pretty and kind. Ellie is a sweaty, awkward loser. She knows it must probably be hell for you to have to talk to her, too. 

She swallows, nodding. “West trails go on for a while, but it’s fine. We’ll make it back to Jackson before night.” 

You smile and nod in response, seemingly unbothered by her odd behavior as you follow her to the stables. 

One thing about horse riding is that it is one of the most calming activities Ellie has available for her. Even when Jesse or Dina yaps her ears off, she finds peace on the back of a horse. After a long, stressful patrol, Ellie can always have a bit of respite with Shimmer. A girl with plenty of nerves can surely calm herself with the feel of coarse hair, accompanied by a comforting neigh. However, on this particular patrol, nothing about the horse ride along the Western trails is peaceful, or even tolerable. 

Your soft chest is pressed up against her back. Even through the thickness of her hoodie, she can feel your rapid heartbeat. Her mind wanders–not to filth, but pure curiosity for you. If she were to confess, you’d surely find her obsession with you to be weird and possibly creepy. She just can’t help but wonder what makes your heart race so fast, though.

Are you not used to riding horses? It could be possible that in past experiences, you just had to walk from place to place. That doesn’t make sense, though. You have a family, don’t you? Your parents came with you, and there is no way you all just walked from the middle of nowhere to Jackson with just–

Ellie’s internal rambling ceases when she feels your arms, currently wrapped around her waist, squeeze her. Suddenly is she so conscious of the fact that your palm must be able to feel her stomach expand and falter with each breath she takes? That means you know how uneven her breathing is. You probably don’t ramble in your head about Ellie’s stupid lungs, though. 

“Sorry. I’m just trying not to fall off of this huge thing.” You say, and Ellie can hear the hint of fear in your voice. It makes her heart jump, and a strange feeling of protectiveness enters her system. She stops herself from showing it though, not wanting to scare you away from her.

“This huge thing?” She questions, never hearing that term used for a horse before. 

“Yeah, yeah!” You laugh softly, the sound music to her ears. “I just have an irrational fear of falling off of horses, okay?”

“Fair. I’m just, uh.” Ellie trails off, trying to find her train of thought as it keeps slipping through her grasp. “I’m used to horses, bein’ here in Jackson for a while.” 

Your hands are warm, resting against her stomach. She can feel the heat through the fabric of her shirt. 

Through the nerves bubbling up in her stomach like the usual acid, she finds the courage to take one hand off of Shimmer’s reins. It finds your hand, giving you a comforting squeeze. She is half-expecting you to be uncomfortable with her action, but to her surprise, you let out a soft sigh. 

Like music to her ears. 

-

Ellie is still tying Shimmer up as you scope out the area. Her hands are sweaty from the contact with yours, and her heart is beating through her chest so fast it almost hurts. 

The sudden croak stops her in her tracks, her head turning towards you. You’re stepping back and nearly tripping over yourself to scramble away from a clicker, the gross-looking creature emerging from a hole in the fence you were just studying. 

“Shit!” Ellie grits through her teeth, her feet carrying her fast. 

Ellie has always been on a sort of adrenaline through every patrol she goes on. She has good instincts. She works well under pressure. For some, thinking so impulsively can be fatal. For Ellie, it’s just natural–how she was raised. 

Ellie fights for reasons other than survival, however. Her own life isn’t always plugged into the equation along with the actions she takes. However, her mind flashes with a thought: what if I died right now? Would she be able to defend herself?

And suddenly, her life means everything. The fight becomes more intense. 

Her hand harshly grips the creature’s jaw, tilting it upward to plunge her switchblade into its throat. It lets out a blood-curdling yell and falters. She lets its body drop and rushes toward you without another thought to the corpse a few feet away. 

You’re on the ground, tears brimming your sweet eyes. The adrenaline rush still courses through her body as her eyes scan your body for any sign of a bite. 

Not again, please. Not after what happened. 

A relieved gasp leaves her when she realizes you’re safe. She looks over your face, and her chest aches when she sees the fear in your eyes. 

“You’re okay. It’s all okay, it’s dead.” 

You only nod in response, not trusting your voice at the moment. Ellie doesn’t mind. She crouches in front of you, fingers stroking through your hair, coaxing you to calm down. The only sounds left in the area are your quiet sniffles and the wind blowing through the trees behind you. 

During the ride back to Jackson, you clutch onto Ellie just as tightly as the first time. 

-

The summer festival. The small group that plans social events in Jackson hosts one every year in July. Ellie has always preferred winter when she could layer up her body and subtly admire Wyoming mountain ranges on lookouts. Summer is hot and filled with mosquitos, but Dina and Jesse love the summer festival, so Ellie goes every year. 

The summer festival always left Ellie overwhelmed. She gets sweaty in her flannel, couples love to swap spit in the lines for face paint, and little kids get especially loud after sugary treats. The worst part? They include a dance along with it. The majority of Jackson dancing with each other accompanied by hot weather is as much of a nightmare as it seems. It isn’t Ellie’s ideal Friday night, especially when she could be at home strumming her guitar, or even just asleep. 

“She’s going to the festival with us, by the way.” Jesse grins, leaning against Ellie’s front door. 

“Oh, great,” Ellie says, a failed attempt at sarcasm. In all actuality, her pulse races when she pictures dancing with you.

Jesse laughs. “Dude, don’t act like you haven’t been daydreaming about her every day since that patrol.” 

“Sure.” Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I’m in love with her or anything. I just think she’s cute.” Even admitting that causes embarrassment to plague her cheeks, however.

“That is exactly how it starts, smart one.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ellie asks, voice thick with exasperation. 

“It starts with a ‘oh, she’s just cute.’ And then before you know it, you’ll be wearing matching ugly Christmas sweaters with her every year, just like me and Dina.” Jesse says.

“Oh, for god’s sake. I’m not whipped like you are. I just think she’s pretty, and I wouldn’t mind getting to know her.” She explains. 

“And she wouldn’t mind getting to know you, either.” 

“Oh my god, will you stop talking in riddles for five minutes?” Ellie groans, lightly smacking his shoulder. “Can’t you just..say what you mean?”

“I mean that she’s been gushing about you ever since you saved her. Something about a patrol and you comforting her. She has this crush on you, it’s adorable.” Jesse tells her, a grin on his face. 

Ellie’s heart skips a beat. So you like her, too?

“Like I said before, you gotta ask her to be your plus one,” Jesse suggests. 

The thought of spending her night with you instead of being the festival’s wallflower seems appealing. Even more appealing than just staying in like a recluse. Still, her nerves nag at her. 

“Are you sure I should? Isn’t she already going with us?” Ellie asks with uncertainty in her tone. 

“Yeah, but you want to make it clear you at least want something to do with her, right? If you don’t talk to her, she’ll think it’s just a friendly thing.” 

“True,” Ellie mumbles. 

“So do it. Go talk to her.” Jesse urges. 

“Jeez, okay. I don’t have to right away.” 

-

Joel has always conveyed the importance of gift-giving. He is a man who isn’t the best with his words. He bottles it up so easily and explodes just the same. Ellie has the same habit, so she uses that advice–gift-giving. 

Joel himself has given plenty of gifts and services. He’d gifted Ellie with her first guitar. He made sure she didn’t go without a nice meal when she holed herself up in her room after her and Cat’s breakup. That voice is simply lodged in her head after the amount of times she has had to hear him say it. 

“How are you doin’, kiddo?” 

Gifts come in all shapes and sizes. Some gifts are the ones you think thoroughly about before you offer them. Some are unintentionally impactful, the type you keep with you for years after, even if the person who gave it to you doesn’t realize what it means to you. 

Ellie likes to think gifts can be physical, too. You can give a kiss or a hug, and that proves the notion that certain gifts are special to certain people. You’d want to be given a kiss from someone you romantically love. 

Ellie thought it over before knocking on your door. She heard things about what people had given their love interests before the apocalypse. As Joel said, bouquets and candy were cheesy but it worked. Ellie doesn’t have a local grocery store, however, unless you count the one with its workers being infected and its interior neglected, surrounded by overgrowth. 

Ellie isn’t much of a baker, either. Her garage home’s oven is sparsely used, her microwave in favor; the previous night, her oven was used. Three times, actually. Two times resulted in charred, burnt remains of what was supposed to be a cake. The third time, Ellie put her dignity aside and went to Joel for help, and she reluctantly let him in on her intentions. 

So here she is, in her red flannel that doesn’t have any holes in it and a pair of boot-cut jeans, painfully styled with crusty Converse. She knocks at your door, a container with a vanilla cake in the other. 

Ellie’s eyes fill with hearts when your head peeks out. You open the door wider when you recognize her face, and your eyes naturally trail down to the item in her hands. 

Ellie clears her throat. “Uh, brought you something.” 

And of course, you’re already smiling ear to ear. “Yeah? What’d you bring me?” 

Something as sweet as you. That is what Ellie thinks, but instead, she gives the blunt, not unkind answer. “Cake.” 

Ellie holds out the container for you, and you accept it without hesitance. For just a split second, she feels the warmth of your fingertips as they brush against her rough, calloused ones. And then for another second, she lets herself dwell on her deepest thoughts–she wishes she could intertwine her fingers with yours and know what it’s like to be loved by the sun herself. 

“Also–” Ellie scratches her lip, trying not to sputter out her thoughts. “Since Dina and Jesse are going to be all over each other at the festival, I was thinking we could hang out. If you don’t mind.”

You beam as brightly as the sun. “Yeah! And thanks for the cake, Els.” 

Els. That name has her face hot and her hands clammy. She just stares at you for a moment, giving a nod and as polite a goodbye as she can manage before she heads back to her garage house to think of the fact that you just called her the cutest thing you could possibly call her. 

Els it is, then. Els is taking you to the summer festival tomorrow. 

taglist: @hotpinkskitties, @mars4hellokitty, @jhyoos, @elliesngirl, @moonfloweredprincess, @morticeras, @starryeyedlovergirll, @l0veylace, @abbysmeatrider, @ferxanda, @vahnilla, @frillynpinkprincess, @plasticl0v3r, @meow4510, @eriiwaii, @g4ys0n, @mitskimisfit, @ruelezz, @bewareofmyglock, @witzs

fic taglist: @piercedome, @violetszn, @ellieshothousewife, @natscloset

want to join my taglist? click here

[gourmand-cookie]

could i get a platonic shadow milk cookie with kid y/n? just like including one of his stage plays, dressing reader up n such, id think that would be a little cute

cant wait to see where youd take this 🐊

Funny friends that make you laugh

title taken from Glass Animals - Youth! hoo boy, im tuckered out so if there's any typos that's why, also, Y/N's fit is a mix of the MyCookie Sweet Lies and Deceptive Whispers set :3

You were Shadow Milk Cookie's little white lie.

Dressed in milky pale robes and boots, the only splash of blue being that of your hat and broach that was a smaller replica of the older cookie's soul jam, armed with a lance that was just the same size as you.

Cute as a button, you fit the part well.

Tags: Child!Reader, Shadow Milk Cookie & Reader, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Accidental Kid Acquisition, Platonic Relationships, Canon Divergent, Silly, Hurt/Comfort, Taking Creative Liberties, Mentioned Black Sapphire Cookie, Mentioned Candy Apple Cookie, Complicated Relationships, Shadow Milk Cookie and his innocently evil godchild friend

Your origins were never really known. One day, you just popped up in the Spire of Deceit and you had been there ever since.

In all technicalities, you were Shadow Milk's first minion, if you could even count as one.

He didn't know what to do with you back then, fresh off of corruption, high off of tapping into the darkened magic of the moon.

Oh but you were a lovely audience member who oo'ed and ahh'ed at everything he'd done, clapping happily at the sight of cookies dancing to his tune, so he let you stay.

You were Shadow Milk Cookie's little white lie.

Dressed in milky pale robes and boots, the only splash of blue being that of your hat and broach that was a smaller replica of the older cookie's soul jam, armed with a lance that was just the same size as you.

Cute as a button, you fit the part well.

So his disappearance left you wondering what role you had to play.

You didn't grow like Black Sapphire, nor were you prone to chaos like Candy Apple, the other two disciples that were left with you, running out the spire to do whatever task their master had left them to do.

At least you had the other residents to keep you company, the painters loved your paintings, the weavers wrapped you up in soft unseen sheets and the show never ended, not knowing the reason why.

Unbeknownst to you, it was a given. You were their ringleader after all.

Almost immortal, not that any would dare to see if it was a lie or not, they lived in the belly of the beast that shifts and purrs at the whims of the young cookie.

Even Candy Apple Cookie would blanch at the thought of raining her hammer down on you, why would she? You were one of the only ones who enjoyed her efforts.

Least of all, Black Sapphire Cookie, don't you know? His microphone was a gift to his master, attuned to his being and it's eyes were always watching you with a protective gaze.

You were more than what you thought you were.

It became more apparent when you woke up one night to twist the Spire here and there, you rarely change the labyrinth yourself and the residents noticed the new behavior, rumors abound already.

"Do my eyes deceive me, folks?" Black Sapphire Cookie announced to us, smile lax as always but his eyes shined with anticipation, "It looks to me as if we're preparing for guests."

"We are." You stated simply, focused on your task in raising the highest tower you could coax out of this place.

"Is Master Shadow Milk Cookie coming home?!" Candy Apple sprung up to your side, voice crackling just as she fell into excited squeals when this time, you nodded eagerly.

(And when the Beast settled into the Spire, he was welcomed first and foremost by a spectacle lead by you.

He couldn't be more proud.)

A hand ruffled into your icing messily, the familiar laughter was no longer a hollow echo through the halls but a tangible thing that rung in your ears.

"Look at you! Dough still as soft as ever, little one. Did you miss little ol me~?" The teasing made you pout but you would rather have it than nothing at all.

"Your shows are better. Are we gonna do a play?" Shadow Milk laughed, delightfully mischievous as he floated circles around you, tapping your nose.

"But of course! We've got new actors coming along. I'm calling this The Liar, The Thief and The Tower! Marvelous tower by the way, you've set the stage nicely, my deceitling! That's going to be center stage."

You beamed as the blue cookie picked you up into a twirl, giggling with the cackling master, the Spire shaking with his laughter.

(And when the Thief fell from the very tower you made, you cheered and clapped at the sight of a new friend to play with.)

Yes, Black Sapphire breaking the fourth wall is real and fun, I love him.

Also the thought of Reader being the one who made the tower Pure Vanilla fell from was too funny for me, I had to add it in.

[dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth]

To respond to prev tags:

The two major retailers I worked for were Five Below and CVS. Both had email quotas, as well as many other quotas to fill.

Thing is, our corporations really REALLY pushed for literally every customer to give their emails and phone numbers to us. We were taught, at both places, to greet customers at the same time we asked for emails, and to word it in a way which made it hard to deny giving an email.

For exmaple:

"Hi there, hope you're well! What's your email?"

"Hope you found what you needed today! Your email, please."

In both scenarios, you don't offer the customer a yes or no choice to deny or offer their email. You simply just ask for it outright instead of leaving the option to deny at all.

Now, a customer can deny, obviously, but then corporate got really fucking angry because a lot of people did say, "I don't have an email." Or something like that. And corporate would see that the number of emails added to their distribution system by our store was not what they expected, and they'd send our boss constant emails or give calls and send reports recording our quotas that were lacking, explaining they need us to do better.

Sometimes this was as low as 20% of customers giving an email, sometimes it was as high as 50 or 60%.

And it didn't help when half the customers didn't speak English (can't blame them, this language is a nightmare to learn) and therefore didn't know what I was asking, or that the ones who did were our regulars who signed up years ago and therefore wouldn't count being added again to the corporate email distribution system.

When folks went to checkout, the pin pads to insert or swipe cards would show a screen asking for email verification if one was listed, or asked if they wanted to add an email, and said customers could not swipe or insert their cards without selecting yes or no on the pin pad screen. It literally did not move on to payment until after the question was answered.

That was a nightmare with the non-English-speaking customers. They knew the process to pay with card, obviously, but how do you tell someone who doesn't know your language that they need to select yes or no in order to pay at all???

I often literally just spun the pin pad to myself and selected "no" for these poor folks, then spun it back to them so they could continue to pay.

Five Below was the worst because they ALWAYS ask a survey question before you can pay. It's because they have survey quotas to meet, and since those weren't met by the stores, it became mandatory by implementing it into the payment process.

Those surveys ask 1 or 2 questions that you have to select usually from a 1-5 scale, and are about either the customer service satisfaction rating, store cleanliness, or stock availability, etc.

And anything under the top most rating by Five Below was considered worthy of repremandation by the boss because it should only ever be 5/5 or 10/10 since you need to offer only the absolute best and nothing short!!!

But again, most of my customers didn't know any English, so it wasn't like I could explain this survey or tell them why their payment isn't working.

For CVS my boss printed out and highlighted and circled the quotas made vs those expected for each thing we had to meet, one of them being emails added.

I was hounded every day at both retailers I worked for to get as many emails as possible, but the large majority of customers, as in almost 100%, denied their emails to me or made excuses, and I can't and don't blame them!! I got bogus emails left and right, I was insulted left and right for trying to ask for the emails when folks were the stingy type that got defensive if I asked anything at all (and that's way more customers than you'd ever imagine), and some people threatened me, even.

But I was reprimanded constantly at both retailers by my bosses and managers if I did not ask every single customer for their email. I got told I wasn't doing my job at all or well enough, I was told I wasn't up to standards and shit.

One coworker I had would hear a customer say, "I don't have an email." And she'd ask them, "What about your wife/husband? Your sister/brother? A friend? Anyone you can think of." She tried so damn hard to get any email just to meet the quotas because that woman worked way too hard in attempt to overperform at a damn opening-level position that demanded way too much from far too few employees that were all overworked.

So yeah. Honestly, it's all stupid, and corporate is stupid, and I truly hate both Five Below and CVS for more things than just these quotas, but that was a large contributor for why I no longer work in retail.

everywhere I go people are asking me for my email. my email is in high demand. it's rare for me to visit a website without someone getting on their hands and knees, begging me for my email

[taylorklosscomeout138]

Woke up to Tayliar at it again so I'm here to make it very clear that "Lucy" is NOT Lucy Dacus. Lucy refers to Lucy Simon, Carly Simon's sister. We all know Karlie is named after Carly Simon, so who does that make Lucy? Karlie's sister, Kimby Kloss.

Lucy ELIZABETH Simon

Karlie ELIZABETH Kloss

Carly ELISABETH Simon

If you don't believe me that Carly Simon, Lucy Simon, and James are entirely relevant to TTPD, here is some concrete proof. TTPD released on April 19th, you know what else came out on exactly April 19th in 2016? Taylor's 73 questions with Vogue interview where she said that her favorite song lyric was "I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee" from You're So Vain by Carly Simon and then she made this lyric the visual ending of the KARma MV. Right after the Carly Simon comment she filmed the iconic "You should take her to Big Sur" scene before walking back in where you can see photos of her and Karlie framed on the shelf. .....on April 19th. It is undeniably connected.

Now I'm going to back this up with the HEAPS of evidence that majority of TTPD is through the lens of Karlie and Taylor being the reimagined do-over of Carly Simon and her exes James Taylor/James Hart. You're going to want to take a seat for this one.

Lucy was in a sister musical duo with Carly Simon and guess what the genre of music was? Folk. Hold onto that thought about Taylor being James in Folklore because she was named after James Taylor, that's important. Also keep in mind Betty is short for Elizabeth, tying Betty to Karlie/Carly.

Lucy Simon is best known for her work as a composer in the musical The Secret Garden. Sound familiar? It should, and it's from the song of Taylor's that puts this puzzle together.

I hate it here starts off with the lyric "tell me something awful, like you are a poet, trapped inside the body of a finance guy." And then goes on to say "I hate it here so I will go to Secret Gardens in my mind".

Now remember how I mentioned Carly Simon had 2 James exes? Sure everyone knows about James Taylor, but what we all looked passed for so long was Carly's second husband, James Hart. And when you look him up, you find something that matches that prior lyric a little.. all too well.

James Hart also known as Jim, was a closested gay poet who worked as an insurance salesman and he did not come out as gay until 20 years into his marriage with Carly Simon. In other words, James Hart was a poet trapped inside the body of a finance guy......

Taylor is James Hart. And this was the James she named herself after in Folklore, not James Taylor. She has metaphorically been James Hart majority of her discography, and she told us in Lover.

Remember how I said James Hart remained closeted for a total of 20 years of marriage to Carly Simon? In Daylight, Taylor says "I've been sleeping so long in a 20 year dark night, and now I see daylight"

This is where we pivot back to the James Taylor of it all because it is important to note that Carly Simon and James Taylor's wedding anniversary is on the first day of Daylight Savings being over, Nov 3rd.

On Nov 3rd 2024, exactly 38 minutes before Daylight Savings ended and after Taylor just played "The Prophecy x This Love" and Maroon x Cowboy Like Me... Karlie posted herself at a WEDDING with MAROON nails in broad DAYLIGHT despite it being 1:22am Central, doing the TTPD peace sign.

You seriously can't make this up.

Daylight Savings ending meant the clocks went back, like going back in time, to change the Prophecy. Now Taylor explains the Prophecy as being destined to not end up with her one true love. And she mashed it with "this love came BACK to me". Which is the entire premise of The Alchemy with lyrics like "making a comeback to where I belong, your heart said it's STILL reserved for me."

And the final piece of evidence that this story of TTPD is told through the reimagined lens of Carly Simon / both James is in The Alchemy. Because the alchemy IS what undoes The Prophecy.

In The Alchemy Taylor says "he jokes that it's her*in but this time with an e." , and many fans have struggled to understand what this lyric refers to... but it is very obvious for those who have paid attention to her use of Carly Simon and James Taylor.

So now we turn to the question, WHY did Carly Simon and James Taylor split in the first place? I'll let you read.

Meaning when you put everything together, the overarching message is that THIS time it was different, THIS time their love came back to them, because the person named after Carly Simon, and the person named after James Taylor, DID end up together in the end. Changing "the prophecy" that destined their love to fail in the same way that Carly and James did.

Also the "heroine" part to the joke is because in this version they are both women.

And it all goes back to Red with Begin Again. Because who would she be talking about that had as many James Taylor records as her, if not the woman who was quite literally named after Carly Simon?

I wonder if she ever gave us any sign that Begin Again was about Karlie.... oh wait.

In the Begin Again MV you can see a CAR license plate in the background, and it literally has Karlie's full name and birth year in code.

11 = 11th letter of alphabet = K = Karlie

EZ = Elizabeth

K = Kloss

92 = 1992

K EZ K 92

Karlie Elizabeth Kloss 1992.

[mentallyadinonugget]

✮soulmate!ellie x soulmate!reader

tags: sfw, some fluff, vvv vague loser ellie, slightly deranged/feral reader, & soulmate au obvs.

word count: 2.3k

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Growing up, you never quite grasped why people believed that having your soulmate's very first words permanently etched into your skin was so undeniably romantic and a true blessing. Perhaps it offered them hope that there’s someone destined to love them, their other half. Meanwhile, most of the folks you encountered had the sweetest meet-cutes and even more charming phrases like, “I’m sorry to say, but you have the most beautiful eyes ever” or “Hi, I saw you from afar and simply couldn’t resist introducing myself.” Your parents, on the other hand, had the most cringe-worthy first interaction imaginable, and heaven forbid you ever bring it up; it only inflates their already inflated egos. Maybe you were just a tad jealous.

Even the more common lines felt agreeable to you, like “Hi, what’s your name?” or “And that’ll be $9.99, tax included.” You knew it would’ve been confusing to receive something like that, but God knows you’d prefer it over what your “soulmate” actually said to you. You scoffed every time you glanced at your right arm, a constant reminder of how the person who’s supposed to love you eternally uttered, “Are you actually deaf, or is your head just wayyyy too up your ass all the time to hear anything?” Ah yes, folks, that’s the love of your life right there.

Whenever someone would mention their insipid, showy, dense soulmate’s first words like “You smell like tulips” or “Mister, wait, you forgot your wallet,” you couldn’t help but feel that pang of jealousy. But could anyone really blame you? People often tried to convince you that maybe it would be funny when you finally met or something vaguely similar, but you always silenced them with a glare, not wanting to hear another word about it.

Today was probably the worst day of your life. You got into a huge fight with your parents about something so silly that you couldn't help but laugh right now. You dropped some good manchow soup on your white T-shirt while getting up to get your plate to the dining table. You weren't sure what you were angrier about, your T-shirt or your soup. Just as you thought things couldn't get worse, your teacher sent a text in the group chat assigning all students extra work so late at night, ruining all the plans you had for the weekend. You couldn't pinpoint what pushed you over the edge or the reason why you were sneaking out to get fried shrimp at 4 in the morning. It was just one of those days.

You were out in your Hello Kitty pajamas and even comfier sweatshirt with your headphones in. You mumbled to yourself, "I would rather lick my tongue with a cheese grater than have someone I know from school see me like this." You texted your best friend, "Should I get the sweet chili or BBQ sauce?" But before you could get a reply back, you were tackled to the ground by someone on possibly a skateboard. Your palms and knees were scraped and bloodied. RIP Hello Kitty pajamas.

You got up to see this pale girl with short brown hair, a baggy T-shirt, and shorts. Her nose was bleeding slightly. Honestly, you would have found her quite attractive under any different circumstances, but right now you couldn't give less of a fuck about what she looked like or what she was wearing. You were having the shittiest day in the history of shitty days, and now your Hello Kitty trousers were ripped and you were covered in blood. Your sweet dreams of getting fried shrimp were shattered. So before you could even think about something reasonable, some vile words left your mouth. To your surprise, she didn't hold back either.

"Can't you see where you're going, you bumbling shit muffin?" you shrieked.

"Are you actually deaf, or is your head just wayyyy too up your ass all the time to hear anything?" she yelled with the biggest sneer on her face, getting way closer to your face than you'd like her to be. You could now clearly see the freckles on her face, her bloodied button nose, her green eyes, and the way her eyebrows furrowed in frustration. Maybe you would like that, tbh.

It took you a minute to realize what just happened.

oh

Oh.

What the fuck

What the absolute fucking fuck, this can't be happening. Not when I look like this, at least you thought, and by the looks of the girl's expression, you were so sure that she was thinking the same thing. Her features softened slightly, and she let out a small chuckle, faintly blowing air in your face. “Oh my god, it’s you,” she exclaimed, her smile getting bigger. But once again, you couldn’t register what you were about to say and started screaming, “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE YOU RUINED MY LIFE!” as you lunged at her, trying to punch her. She caught you with such ease you would’ve considered it hot if you weren’t so angry at the moment. “I’M THE ASSHOLE??? When YOU’RE the one who called me a shit muffin?” She barked a laugh. “Do you know that all my friends call me shit muffin now? I guess I do have to give you points for creativity.” She amused, and guilt took over you. All your anger vanished. “I’m sorry, I guess,” you murmured, avoiding eye contact. Before you could react, she grabbed your chin and enforced you to look at her. “What was that?” She leaned in, cupping her ear, pretending to hear you better, smirking a bit. “Oh, eat cock,” you rolled your eyes and pushed her away. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t swing that way.” She beamed. “I can’t believe it’s you,” she grinned ear to ear. “Why? I let down your expectations?” You half joked now that you finally started to believe that this was indeed happening. God, you were so nervous. What if she thought you were ugly, like a troll, or you frightened her by trying to knock her teeth in? God, how could I be so fucking stop, you introspected.

“W-what? NO, absolutely not. You’re beautiful,” she went on apprehensively, her cheeks quickly reddening as she said it.

“Please forget that I’m not this much of a loser on a daily basis,” she groaned, hiding her face in her hands and sitting down on the sidewalk. You couldn’t help but giggle. God, she was cute. “If it makes you feel any better, I thought you were hot before I punched you,” you said. “TRIED to punch me. I dodged that actually,” she boasted, wiping fake dust off her shoulders. This time you actually laughed. “Oh my god, you’re so lame,” you exclaimed. “NO I’M NOT,” she put up a performance which made you laugh even harder. You didn’t get it, but the girl was staring at you with the biggest smile on her face. “I’m Ellie, by the way, Ellie Williams,” she put her hand out for you. “(y/n)(y/ln),” you replied while shaking it. You got up and pulled her with you, both of you walking for no reason. It was quite peaceful, honestly.

“Well, miss y/l/n, what are you doing here at 4 am? Early morning run?” She asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, as if,” you scoffed and started telling her about your appalling day, and to your entertainment, she made stupid expressions, exaggerating her emotions on everything you said, putting a fake sword through her heart when you told her about how she’s the reason you don’t have your delicious fried shrimp with you right now. And in return, Ellie told you about how much she likes skateboarding, and she was trying to learn this new trick but kept making a lot of noise, so her old man Joel told her to take it outside. She told you how cool the trick is and even attempted to show it to you, failing miserably and making you laugh once again. You then noticed the blood on her face was beginning to dry up, so you asked her to come with you to some public bathroom.

You took out your pocket hanky and began to wet it, putting it on her face, cleaning all traces of blood, while she continued to yap about her other interests, which included dinosaurs and space, and it weirdly didn’t surprise you. You cleaned yourself up too and came out.

“I’m truly sorry for ruining your super awesome pajamas,” she forged an apology, her smile unwavering. “I’m sorry for almost breaking your nose; there’s nothing I can do about that.” You bowed to her, mirroring the energy she had given you, though deep down, you felt a twinge of guilt.

“Well, there is something you can do about it,” she said slyly. “And that is?” You raised an eyebrow. “Your number, maybe? And a date, but only if you want to, of course! You totally don’t have to hang out with me just because we’re soulmates. I mean, who even believes in that anymore? You probably don’t want to; we just met, so it’s reasonable. I could be a serial killer for gods sake.” She laughed nervously, glancing down as she played with her fingers anxiously. “Yes, I’d love to go out with you, Ellie,” you interjected, stopping her from rambling further.

“Oh, thank fuck” she exclaimed, relief washing over her as she pumped her fist in victory. “Ellie, what the hell? Just give me your phone, and I’ll type my number in for you.” You chuckled at her excitement. “So, where are we going?” you asked Ellie.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that; I know exactly what you’d love,” she smirked to herself. “Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever. But right now, I have to leave and get back home before my parents figure out I snuck out, okay?” you said, glancing at the time.

“What? No goodbye kiss?” Ellie teased, and before she could make another witty comment, you kissed her cheek and dashed away. “You better make it worth my while, Williams!” you called back as you fled.

As you neared home, a funny feeling crept in—maybe this soulmate business wouldn’t be as awful as you had imagined. Meanwhile, Ellie stood there in shock, her hand caressing her cheek where your lips had just lingered. She was utterly confused, yet her radiant smile remained unyielding.

Ellie Williams was utterly, truly, and tremendously fucked up over you, but luckily, so were you. _____________________________________________

Hi pretty ppl! this was my first ellie fic and I know this is a bit too long but I was having so much fun writing it I couldn’t stop im sorry okay 😞 if yall like it ill make a part two I just know

once again constructive criticism is more than appreciated but if you want to be mean do not interact with this at all

[butterflydm]

Wheel of Time 3x05 - Tel'aran'rhiod

Spoilers through 3x05 of the show and through roughly Winter's Heart in the books.

Holy shit, they straight-up killed Natti Cauthon! And Bode is confirmed to be able to channel. The Perrin stuff was intense this episode! He and Faile went through a massive bonding experience together, saving Mat's sisters. Alanna and Maksim's storyline was also really good.

I am kinda feeling some death knells because of how much Moiraine and Siuan got to reconcile in that scene together, but hopefully they are wrong and Siuan will not die. But that was a lot of closure.

Cockblocked on my Randgwene breakup for yet another week but surely it has to happen next week. Even Egwene can't brush off what she just saw and pretend everything is fine and chill with Rand.

Okay, so going back to the things that I enjoyed (because the continued Randgwene is basically my only frustration with the show because I am so done with them but the show keeps dragging the corpse of their relationship out for yet another week).

I did really enjoy pretty much everything else.

I called it that Rand is convinced He Can Fix Her after seeing Mierin Sedai in the columns, and I also feel like the show made it pretty obvious that this is their first kiss in the dreams.

Ugh, Rand is in a weird place where he obviously should have broken up with Egwene a long time ago but believes he owes it to Egwene to stick with her because of all she's done for him and suffered because of him and... yeah. Ugly situation. But hopefully it resolves next week.

Rand in Cold Rocks Hold was lovely. Rand learns about polyamory! Rand gets to spend time with a kid and smile and be happy among the Aiel! Cute cute cute!

The Sea Folk ship material was amazing. The weaves looked like the Northern Lights! So pretty! And we did get a tiny reminder of Elayne liking Aviendha in her dream (that Egwene popped into -- that is very book-canon behavior from Egwene).

Mat and Elayne had a very amusing dynamic (probably not helped by the close quarters for 14 days on a ship!), and I am definitely intrigued to see where it goes.

Min had pretty much zero reaction to seeing Elayne. She was pretty much 100% focused on Mat. So that was interesting.

Speaking of! Mat mentioned the Rand thing this episode! And, yeah, so it's made him think that Min's viewings are not all they are cracked up to be, because Rand didn't die. So that scene worked really well for me (and the glimpse of his dreams was so sweet and heartbreaking! All the dreams were very sweet. And then there was the Randfear dream that Egwene walked into, oops).

Aviendha double-checking with Rand that wetlanders definitely don't share lovers, yeah there's no ulterior motive there. She's so mad at the fact that she finds him attractive. She is so mad about it.

Bair continuing her "please just break up" campaign with Randgwene by separating them as much as possible which, yeah, my god, I am there with you, Bair.

Yeah, I should get to sleep soon, so those are my thoughts.

I really do hope that Randgwene can break up for good soon so that I can look back at their relationship with a more objective eye, where I'm not just constantly going, "Why are you still together! You broke up in 1x01!" at the screen.

[lulujamesspencer]

I think for sensitivity/authenticity readers you need to approach it like any other outside reader or editor: approach it as you would a therapist and pick one that fits with your style of working, actually reads and likes your genre, and will be able to give their edits/critiques in a way that is accurate AND kind. This is especially important for neurodiverse folks (solidarity fist bump to my RSD neurodiverse folks).

Story: About 10 years ago, I graduated seminary and had an idea for a theological non-fiction book on mulit-faith spirituality, which also strayed into politics and other issues. I wrote an introduction that I thought was good and interesting, so I sent it to someone who I thought would give me good advice on some of the topics, since she had experience in those areas, and maybe point out if I'd gone too far afield with some of the topics.

When I got their comments back, it was devastating and soul crushing. They ripped it to shreds, and, in areas I thought we shared similar opinions they shredded my manuscript as if they put it in a wood chipper then stomped on the mulch. Much of it the shredding was due, I think, to a mininterpretation of my wider neurodivergent thinking, but it may just be that I didn't explain myself right or... well, I just don't know, since it was hard to get past their criticisms and telling me how I was completely stupid and wrong about all of it. Now, if their comments were more like, "I don't think I agree with this statement. Did you mean for it to come off saying XYZ?" of "This doesn't happen in my experience, could you explain what your thought process was here?" I probably would have been fine, but instead they were angry and mean and assumed I didn't have knowledge about certain areas when I actually did have extensive knowledge. It was my first foray into non-fiction and as I said earlier, it was soul crushing. I really wanted to write that book, and still wish I could, but to this day I can't even start writing non-fiction without thinking about that and getting extrememly anxious. (And yes, I go to therapy, etc etc) For my fiction stuff, I'm much more careful about who I let read my early drafts. My Wife is my first reader/listener and she loves scifi and fantasy and she's able to give me feedback that's constructive, but also kind and compassionate. I have a great editor who is also very good at giving me constructive edits and feedback, but is also very kind and compassionate in the way she does it. I have a lot of friends from different experiences in life that I am comfortable asking questions of if I need to check things and I'm also very good at research. This, so far, has worked for me, and now I have 5 books of fantasy and science fiction out.

This is also why I self-publish. The constant rejection of traditional publishing would stop me from writing all together. I still can't write non-fiction in book form and that was from just one person who didn't really think about how their criticism would effect me. I also don't do writing groups, as many writing groups use a model that would absolutely ensure I never write again. So, if you are an editor, beta reader, part of a writing group, or even an agent or publisher, know that your rejections, harsh criticisms, or tough love, doesn't improve most writers, especially neurodivergent writers. Know that a lot of writers DO want to do justice to characters from experiences that they don't have experience in. I've heard stories like mine with really mean sensitivity/beta readers, and a number of those people will never write again, or never write publicly again. Please be aware that you can kill someone's passion and talent, possibly permanently.

And writers, be careful who you ask to read your stuff, and if someone has been mean, know that it's not you or your writing. Try not to give up, or give in to the tapes in your head that tell you you're horrible. Find better people to read your stuff.

On sensitivity readers, weakness, and staying alive.

The other day I was part of a Twitter conversation begun by a fellow-author on the subject of sensitivity readers, in which he said that no serious author would use sensitivity readers, and spoke of work being “sanitized”. The conversation devolved, as it often does on Twitter, but it got me thinking. It must have got someone else thinking too, because a journalist from the Sunday Times got in touch with me the next day, and asked me to share my ideas on the subject. Because I have no control over how my words are used in the Press, or in what context they might appear, here’s more or less what I told her.

I think a lot of people (some of them authors, most of them not) misunderstand the role of a sensitivity reader. That’s probably mostly because they’ve never used one, and are misled by the word “sensitivity”, which, in a world of toxic masculinity, is often mistaken for weakness. To these people, hiring someone to check one’s work for sensitivity purposes implies a surrendering of control, a shift in the balance of power. 

In some ways, I can empathize. Most authors feel a tremendous sense of attachment to their work. Giving it to someone else for comment is often stressful. And yet we do: we hand over our manuscripts to specialists in grammar, spelling or plot construction. We allow them to comment. We take their advice. We call these people editors and copy-editors, and they are a good and necessary part of the process of being an author. Their job is to make an author’s work as accurate and well-polished as possible.

When writing non-fiction, authors sometimes use fact-checkers at the editorial stage, to make sure that no embarrassing factual mistakes make it into print. This fact-checking is a normal part of the writing process. We owe it to our readers to be as accurate as possible. No-one wants to look as if they don’t know what they’re talking about.

That’s why now, increasingly, when writing about the lives and experiences of others, we sometimes use readers with different specialities. That’s because, however great our imagination, however well-travelled we may be and however many books we have read, there will always be gaps in our knowledge of the way other people live, or feel, or experience the world. Without the input of those with first-hand knowledge, there’s always a danger we will slip up. That’s why crime writers often consult detectives when researching their detective fiction, or someone writing a hospital drama might find it useful to talk to a surgeon, or a nurse, or to someone with the medical condition they are planning to use in their narrative. That’s why someone writing about divorce, or disability, or being adopted, or being trans, or being homeless, or being a sex worker, or being of a different ethnicity, or of a different culture – might find it useful to take the advice of someone with more experience.

There are a number of ways to do this. One of my favourites is The Human Library, which allows subscribers to talk to all kinds of people and ask them questions about their lives  (Check them out at https://humanlibrary.org/). The other possibility is to hire a specialist sensitivity reader to go through your manuscript and check it. Both can be a valuable resource, and I doubt many authors would believe that their writing is sanitized, or diluted, or diminished by using these resources.

And yet, the concept of the sensitivity readers – which is basically another version of the specialist editor and fact-checker – continues to cause outrage and panic among those who see their use as political correctness gone mad, or unacceptable wokery, or bowdlerization, or censorship. The Press hasn’t helped. Outrage sells copies, and therefore it isn’t in the interest of the national media to point out the truth behind the ire.

Let’s look at the facts.

First, it isn’t obligatory to use a sensitivity reader. It’s a choice. I’ve used several, both officially and unofficially, for many different reasons, just as I’ve always tried to speak to people with experience when writing characters with disabilities, or from different cultures or ethnic groups. I know that my publisher already sends my work to readers of different ages and from different backgrounds, and I always run my writing past my son, who often has insights that I lack.  

Sensitivity reading is a specialist editorial service. It isn’t a political group, or the woke brigade, or an attempt to overthrow the status quo. It’s simply a writing resource; a means of reaching the widest possible audience by avoiding inaccuracy, clumsiness, or the kind of stereotyping that can alienate or pull the reader out of the story.

Sensitivity readers don’t go around crossing out sections of an author’s work and writing RACIST!!! in the margin. Usually, it’s more on the lines of pointing out details the author might have missed, or failed to consider: avoiding misinformation; suggesting authentic details that only a representative of a particular group would know.

Authors can always refuse advice. That’s their prerogative. If they do, however, and once their book is published, they receive criticism or ridicule because their book was insufficiently researched, or inauthentic, or was perceived as perpetuating harmful or outdated stereotypes, then they need to face and deal with the consequences. With power comes responsibility. We can’t assume one, and ignore the other,

Being more aware of the experiences of others doesn’t mean we have to stop writing problematic characters. Sensitivity reading isn’t about policing bad behaviour in books. It’s perfectly possible to write a thoroughly unpleasant character without suggesting that you’re condoning their behaviour. Sensitivity is about being more authentic, not less.

People noticed bigotry and racism in the past, too. Some people feel that books published a hundred years ago are somehow more pure, or more free, or more representative of the author’s vision than books published now. You often hear people say things like: “If Dickens were around today, he wouldn’t get published.”

But Dickens is still published. We still get to read Oliver Twist, in spite of its anti-Semitism. And those who believe that Dickens’ anti-Semitism was accepted as normal by his contemporaries probably don’t know that not only was he criticized by his peers for his depiction of Fagin, he actually went back and changed the text, removing over 200 references, after receiving criticism by a Jewish reader. And no, it wasn’t “normal” to be anti-Semitic in those days: Wilkie Collins, whose work was as popular as Dickens’ own, managed to write a range of Jewish characters without relying on harmful and inaccurate stereotypes. 

But it isn’t automatic that a book will survive its author. Books all have shelf lives, just as we do, and Dickens’ work has survived in spite of his anti-Semitism, not because of it. The work of many others has not. Books are for readers, and if an author loses touch with their readers - either by clinging to outdated tropes, or using outdated vocabulary, or having an outdated style – then their books will cease to be published, and they will be forgotten. It happens all the time. What one generation loves and admires may be rejected by the next. And the language is always changing. Nowadays, it’s hard to read some books that were popular 100 years ago. Styles have changed, sometimes too much for the reader to tolerate.

Recently, someone on tumblr asked about my use of the word “gypsy” in Chocolat, and whether I meant to have it changed in later editions. (River-gypsies is the term I use in connection with Roux and the river people, who are portrayed in a positive light, although they are often victims of prejudice.) It was an interesting question, and I gave it a lot of thought. When I wrote the book 25 years ago, the word “gypsy” was widely used by the travelling community, and as far as I knew, wasn’t considered offensive. Nowadays, there’s a tendency to regard it as a slur. That’s why I stopped using it in my later Chocolat books. No-one told me to. It was my choice. I don’t feel as if I’ve lost any of my artistic integrity by taking into account the fact that a word has a different resonance now. On the other hand, I don’t feel that at this stage I need to go back and edit the book I wrote. That’s because Chocolat is a moment in time. It uses the language of the moment. Let it stand for as long as it can. 

But I don’t have to stay in one place. I can move on. I can change. Change is how we show the world that we are still alive. That we are still able to feel, and to  learn, and to be aware of others. That’s what “sensitive” means, after all. And it is nothing like weakness. Living, changing, learning – that’s hard. Playing dead is easy.

[for-a-longlongtime]

WIP on Wednesday Thursday

Well, first of all, my WIP folder is currently looking like this:

But fuck it, we ball right?

I got tagged by @din-cognito and @avastrasposts this week, and @the-blind-assassin-12 and @lotusbxtch last week, so I've got some catching up to do! I've been all over the place working on different docs, so you're getting a few tidbits this week.

I've posted snippets of this before (and lo! a hozier title! I'm gonna have to change that though because the story ended up going differently than planned), and after it having been on hold for months, the pieces are coming together at last.

let me wrap my teeth around the world (working title) | Santiago x Frankie “You think we did the right thing there?” Santiago says, staring at the ceiling as he avoids Frankie's eyes. Unsure he really wants to hear the answer, because of how likely it is that he is the only person who can’t answer that with a decisive yes. Fish was the only one on their team - besides Tom - who'd had a family to take care of, who needed that money probably more than any of them did because of his pilot license being suspended. “I mean... Following his lead with the money.” No answer. The deafening silence lasts for much too long. Santi grimaces as he closes his eyes. Shit. Why did he even ask? He keeps fucking up like this.

Next we've got a WIP that I haven't worked on in a bit (it wanted to go on break, bummerrr) but that I'm hoping to pick up very soon.

Untitled | Reynaldo x Matthew It’s those large hands that draw Matt’s attention first.  That, and the golden chain partially but-not-quite hiding under that checkered golf shirt, glistening every now and then in the bright afternoon sun. It’s almost as bright as the gleam in Sophie’s eyes when she throws back a shot and listens to the older man introduce himself as Reynaldo. Matt is only vaguely aware of the prepared talk that the man launches into, a few words standing out, such as ‘exclusive members only’ and ‘the best golf club in all of Arizona’. Things that everybody wanted to hear, and that gave Sophie all the more opportunity to coo at the man how this was ‘one of the best premium golf clubs’ she’d ever been at. It probably isn’t all that premium though, considering the Scotts and Dale had been able to book this place on a budget. And truth be told, it’s still unclear to Matt why they are here on a ‘vow renewal bachelor staycation’, which seemed a contradiction on its own. Or even why Sophie showed up here, acting like one of the guys, just long enough until she found someone who was willing to give her the attention she was clearly looking for. He’d seen the pattern before, especially with the girls on the Kel-squad. None of that matters though, he tries to remind himself as they make their way up to the golf course. He’s simply glad to get away from Kelsey for a couple of days - not just for some peace and quiet, but also so he doesn’t have to wonder if she’s talking to Domingo every time she smiles at an incoming message on her phone.

Finally, this last one is still in the VERY early stages, but ngl... I'm excited. Thank you to the folks who encouraged me to keep going with it! This is hella out of my comfort zone but what the hell, that's where the fun is, right? This one is going to more filth than I'll probably be able to shove into an one shot... so it may end up becoming two or three parts. We'll see.

for glory (working title) | Harry Castillo Harry is speechless, shock painted over his features, and it takes him a moment to find his voice. "You wouldn't dare to," he finally manages to say, and what had previously been surprise in his eyes has now flipped into unmistakeable rage. "Mmm, is that so, Harry? What - you think I've got morals or something?"

EDIT: WAIT!! I forgot to add one final excerpt! This is from a yet to be decided chapter from Joel and Marcus Moreno' story. I spent way too much time trying to find the right face claim moments for them at different ages, and this is what I settled on for their mid-twenties:

Joel in his mid-twenties (a.k.a. Zach Wellison in Brothers & Sisters)

Marcus Moreno in his late twenties (a.k.a. looking like Comandante Veracruz from the Burn Notice movie).

Yes, I'm as shocked as y'all are about the latter, but I promise it'll make sense. As for the excerpt:

Untitled series | Joel Miller x Marcus Moreno Marcus folds his arms as he leans back against the wall, looking every bit the charismatic guy most people know him to be. But Joel has known him a long time and can see where the varnish has cracked, and the parts he so desperately tries to cover up.  "So you don't like it. How I look. You don't like me anymore," Marcus says after a moment, and there’s something about all that combativeness on display - as well as the bitter irony of those words - that hits Joel much harder than he was prepared for. He doesn’t have the same defense system that Marcus clearly is equipped with; the mask that he can put on and off so easily after years of practice. So he just shakes his head. "Think it's been too long since you've had someone push back against you, M." "The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Joel tries to hide his sigh by drinking from his coffee, but the beverage has gone cold, the stale taste of it now bitter on his tongue in a way that feels oddly specific to this situation. "Don't pick a fight with me because you're unhappy, Marcus," he says softly.

I know a lot of y'all already posted a WIP Wednesday, so I'm just gonna link a couple of folks, no pressure as always (apologies if you've already made your weekly WIP update):

@perotovar @sin-djarin @lotusbxtch @mountainsandmayhem @qveerthe0ry

@letsgobarbs @gothcsz @milla-frenchy @guiltyasdave @oliveksmoked

@magpiepills @arcanefox207 @reallyrallyauthor @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @clubsoft

@romanarose @the-blind-assassin-12

[apollabarnes]

Smoke on the Game Changer Set

inspired by @maygrcnt's gorgeous posts here and here

"All right everybody, we've gotten a call about smoke inside. It's a studio, so lots of lights and wires. Eyes up, extinguishers out, and we should find this before it becomes a thing," Bobby said, swinging out of the captain's seat. "Chim, talk to those folks over there, they might have a better idea what's going on. Buck, Ravi, Hen, with me." "On it, Cap," Chim snapped his gum, hopping out and heading for the small group of people. "Afternoon folks, you mind if I ask you a few questions?" "If this is a studio, any chance that the smoke is from a special effect and someone's overreacting?" Hen asked, shouldering an extinguisher. "Definitely my hope," Bobby said, heading through the front door. "Any day we don't have to put a fire out is a good one in my books." He waved down a production member. "Where can I find the person in charge?"

"First doorway on the left, ask for Sam," she said, eyeing them curiously. "Sophie, we've got four firefighters asking for Sam," she continued, keying the headset she was wearing. "I called them. I'll meet them there." "Mm, okay, look for the woman with the headset that looks like she's running everything. Good luck." "Good luck?" Buck asked, falling in behind Hen. "Not going to turn it down, but don't most people want us to have good luck when we're fighting fires?" "It's Hollywood," Bobby sighed. "You should have heard some of the grips on Hotshots." "Great, you're here! I'm Sophie, I called 911." She shook Bobby's hand. "Sam's this way, you can just tell him what's going on and he'll help clear everybody out." "How many people are on set right now?" "Twenty… five? There are a few outside." "I've got a firefighter with them," Bobby assured her. "Everyone, hang here for a minute, we might need to escort them out in groups." "Ooh, is this a game show?" Ravi asked, stepping through the curtains. "This place looks like the seventies threw up on it. I love it." "Excuse me," Bobby said, beelining for the man behind the main podium. "Sam? We need to get everyone cleared out of here while we make sure there's no risk of fire." Sam craned his head around them, looking backstage. "Sophie, did — right, okay, everyone outside. We'll let the firefighters check the stage out and then resume after. Zac's still — uh-huh, outside. Don't come back in, we'll come to you." "Wait a minute. No." One of the contestants leaned across their podium, smoothing their shirt out. "These aren't firefighters. They're way too gorgeous to be firefighters." "Well, thank you, but this is serious and we really do need all of you to evacuate while we make sure that nothing is burning," Hen said, aiming a disbelieving smile at the rest of them. "He didn't say Sam Says," the other contestant interjected. "This is just another one of his plots to make sure that I can never win!" "Brennan! I've never put any of you in actual danger before, there is an actual limit to what I'm willing to do. —There's no limit to what they're willing to do," Sam told Bobby, "I've had one of them offer to give birth on stage and others volunteer to get actual tattoos." "Uh, maybe I don't want to be on this game show," Ravi agreed, blinking at Sam. "Of course you don't, it's a torture nexus specifically designed to drive me insane," Brennan cried. "Ally, help me out here." "He really didn't say Sam Says," Ally agreed. "Definitely suspicious." "Sam Says if you go outside everyone gets a hundred points," Sam announced. "Zac's already got them because he's outside." Brennan frowned at them, squinting at each of them in turn. "That one's a nurse, he was on the episode of Hotshots where Banner came out of his coma!" He announced, pointing at Buck. "They are actors!" "Okay, well yeah, I-I did do that, but it was only because Brad was shadowing Bobby at work," Buck stammered, looking at Bobby. "Cap?" "If they refuse to leave, carry them out. We've already got most of the crew headed out the front," Bobby said, sticking a thumb over his shoulder. One cameraman had stayed behind, but otherwise the set was empty. "I swear, Sam, if this is part of the game I'm going to be extremely angry," Brennan said. "Can I get carried?" Ally asked, raising their hand. "For uh. Science." "No," Bobby said decisively, herding them towards the door. "Buck, hang back with Hen and try and find that smoke." "On it!" Chim had gathered up the rest of the crew on the other side of the truck, waving towards Bobby. "Took you a minute, did you run into trouble?" "Apparently they didn't believe that it might be an actual emergency." "Yeah… the rest of them mentioned something about that. Buck and Hen looking for the source?" "We'll wait to go back in until we know if we need the hoses or not." "Great! While we wait — Ravi, come here, I want to introduce you to Zac. Have you ever heard of a dance called the Wenis?"

[quxxrpearl]

Jon knew something was wrong. Something was missing. He couldn't really grasp what it was, but he much probably could point his finger at the area where things went wrong. It was just there: under his heart, near his stomach, cozzed up against his liver.

He tasted death. That much most of his men whispered, so did the Free Folk. They called him a God. Other of "The undead," another awkward title that he had to withstand while his presence was announced. But when asked, he couldn't really say what the Stranger felt like. It was just like a dream, like he was a wolf running free alongside The Wall, nothing much, really. And then he was back, quick and easy.

And still, he came back wrong. His men made his hand tremble under his thick gloves when they spoke, and he flinched ever so slightly when heavy hands patted his shoulders. It worried him that they would notice, sniff it on him, the hesitation, the shivers, the frowned eyebrows, the unevenness in his breath.

Tormund noticed, Jon suspected. The man kissed-by-fire always looked at him carefully, as if waiting he would snap and hold his sword against the same men that made him shake. "Nothing is more dangerous than an animal afraid of death with nowhere to run", Tormund mumbled the other night, while they both were staring at the fire. Then Jon knew that his friend smelled the wrongness in him.

That wrongness only got a name when Sansa showed up at the Night's Watch, small and dirty, afraid and cold. Hugging her was a warm balm that soothed his stab wounds, lessing the throbbing, taming the ache, licking his wound clean, and calm. It took him only a day to feel restless again because since his men turned their back on him, what could they do to his poor Sansa? His younger sister who already suffered so much?

It was the restless night, Sansa's first night, where Jon didn't lock himself up in his chambers, instead kept himself up all night, pacing around his office, clutching Longclaw's pommel, the wolf head rough against his fingers, nervously wondering about Sansa's safety. About her smile, sweet rose cheeks, blue eyes, sharp lines, soft kissed-by-fire hair, her life, about how she could lose it at any given time. How Jon could go to her chambers tomorrow morning and find a corpse.

What would he do then? Rage against his men? Point fingers? Shower them with Rage and Blood? Give them sentences and executions? Ride, horseback, south and kill the Boltons, and then go to King's Landing and rampage until he got himself killed? He knew nothing good would come from it, but if something came to happen to Sansa, then wouldn't his fury be justified?

The Stranger was as twisted as any other Seven, and Jon feared it would come to Sansa to visit and torment her. Would hurt and make her suffer, leave that emptiness with her all the same as it did to him.

It was that night, Sansa's first night at the Watch, that he stomped his feet all the way to her chambers, sneaking from Brienne's tired vigil, restless until he saw Sansa's peaceful resting face, that his heart settled down understanding that she was safe.

It was that night that he finally named what came back wrong with him: he came back afraid.

Afraid of his loved ones losing their lives, since life was a fragile and fleeting thing.

Jon Snow came back so afraid that he would prefer to throw himself to Ramsay's hounds and Daenerys' dragons than take the risk of his lady losing her life or her home and realm.

Jon came back afraid for the lives of others. For Sansa's.

"came back wrong" what about Came Back Afraid. You used to be brave. Too brave maybe, defying the odds at every turn, a fighter, cocky, playing with fire, first to throw yourself at the enemy. Until one day it all caught up to you. You came back, somehow, but now you know all too intimately how it feels to lose, to die, to be destroyed. Now you flinch and freeze and cower at the slightest provocation. Who even are you now if you can't be brave? The grave may have let you go, but the mortal fear still grips you tighter than ever.

[ficnoire2]

A Little Legendborn/Bloodmarked/Oathbound Nick Davis Top 15 Moments

Oathbound Spoilers Ahead!!!

Well, well, well.  It appears we have finally made it to the Nick Davis portion of my series!  I guess Tracy wanted to quiet the voices that said Nick was boring and only smelled like laundry.  I have to say, in book three, Nick came with that energy.  Bust right through the door and let you “Study him” before letting you know that he is not the one or the two.

The chaotic Gemini/Incubus is a tough act to follow, but Nicky did NOT come to play.

As a refresher, I’ll take you through Legendborn and Bloodmarked to the delicious yearning and heartstoppers of Oathbound.  Happy reading. 

15. Calling Bree by Her Whole “Gubment” Name

“Briana Irene Matthews! I freeze, then pivot slowly to look for the sort of asshole who calls out someone’s full name in public to get their attention.”

I love this moment because, upon rereading it in the context of what we now know, it left so many delectable clues to Nick’s character. First of all, he is bold.  This is the child who denounced his throne and gave the proverbial middle finger to his father and the Order, but it also lets us peek into what he will become. 

“I found out when your last class ended.  Made a guess as to when you’d hit dinner, then estimated how long it’d take for you to get through the buffet line in Lenoir, find a table, and eat at that hour of the day.  All I had to do was show up and wait outside the exit closest to Old East.”

This gives us a glimpse into how cunning Nick can be and how innately calculated he is. He later hits us with, “Not a creep, just clever.”  He will later go on to show us how clever he can be.

14. Reminder For Selwyn

“Using the momentum of his next step, Nick throws a fast, hard punch to Sel’s jaw.  The hit knocks the sorcerer back into the same oak that stunned the fox…”

“You know I can’t strike you in return.”

“In a voice made of iron, Nick says, ‘Precisely.’”

At this point in Legendborn, Nick had been attacked more than once and had been getting his ass handed to him.  It was clear that he and Selwyn had a rift, but this was a show of force.  A reminder, not just for Sel, but anyone else who meant to harm Bree.  It also showed the imbalance of power between the two.  For all of Sel’s outright disdain, this showed cracks in the mask of congeniality that Nick wore so expertly. 

13. Nick Selects Bree as His Squire

“I, Nicholas Martin Davis, Scion of King Arthur Pendragon, first-ranked select Page Matthews, as my Squire.  With her agreement, we will be bonded.  For this war and beyond.”

Again, if Nick is nothing else, he is BOLD.  I saw this as another proverbial middle finger laced with “F@%K all y’all!”  The fact that he knew the tightly wound Vassels, Order folk, and some Legendborn did not like the idea of Blackness being so close to power made this moment gleeful.  Of course, like Bree, he didn’t think it through, but he was ready to risk it all, come what may, as long as he had her by his side to do it.  It was a moment that let the masks slip off of these puddle-deep spectators, showing that they never cared about the people, only the power and what they could siphon from being close to it.

12. Off With His Head

“Nick’s head jerks up, eyes red and shiny with grief and fury both.  ‘No, you aren’t.’ In an instant, full armor flashes into place around his body, and twin blades appear in his hands.  Max lunges. Faster than a Merlin, Nick’s crossed blades meet his opponent’s throat, then part–cleaving Max’s head from his body.”

“Daaaaamn!” is what I shouted when I read this.  I am sure like most, I grew tired of Max and his brand of asshole.  He had it coming in so many ways and I was glad that Nick was the one to give it to him.  I also enjoyed how Nick has found what I like to call the “End you” point.  The neck.  In Oathbound, he chokes the shit out of his cousin for suggesting Bree stole his destiny.

“You choked me!  Donovan croaks.  He rubs at his throat while I search internally for remorse for my own actions.”

Then there is this moment with Zoe.

“‘These blades are razor-sharp and about a quarter inch from your jugulars.’  Nick’s voice is calm and deadly above me.  ‘All they need is a little push.’  When I look up, I find Zoe’s red eyes glaring down at me from between Nick’s glowing aether swords.  He is on one knee between us, arms up, holding the sharp edges of his blades in a tight cross beneath her throat.” 

First of all the way he does not play about Bree is top tier, and secondly, this has become his move!  At first, his own brutality scared him, then he decided “I like this shit!”  I won’t get into the symbolism of going for the neck and the mind-body connection, but I will say that he also kisses Bree here, often. 

11. Nick Flees (Goes Trouncing Through the Woods) Cue @paigeagainstdamachine

“The opening is here, now.  Sel and Nick turn back to each other, eyes meeting again.  Then some unspoken, silent understanding passes from charge to Kingsmage, and Sel sucks in a breath. ‘No…’”

“Nick takes one step back.  Then another. And then I’m saying it, too. ‘No.’  He shakes his head, and the meaning is clear.  He’s leaving.  Without us.”

This moment stressed me out!  I knew that Nick had to be leaving for good reason.  Especially after telling Bree where they were.  What we know now is that he saw Selwyn’s death at the hands of Erebus, and he was not having it. It was such a tense moment because we finally had them all together, but I know Nick is a play it close to the vest type of dude.  He won’t show his hand until he needs to and this moment shows how far he is willing to go to protect those he loves.  

10.Nick Goes After Bree in Arthur’s Fresh Hell 

“‘No!’ Lancelot’s helmet is gone now.  I can see the scruff on his chin now, the dark blonde hair matted in sweat against his forehead.  ‘I can’t lose you; I won’t lose her…’”

This scene in Bloodmarked is one of those that is so hard for me to go back to.  The pain and willing sacrifice from both boys do me in. I am a sucker for devotion and reverence and unwavering love.  Nick is literally holding her as she continues to try to burn him away while Sel consumes her Root, knowing the outcome.  This moment stings!  It shows that they are willing to go to the ends of the earth for Bree, but it also shows Nick’s love and care for Sel.  He is ever-present in his mind, and though their relationship has been tumultuous, you can begin to see how Nick is letting that mask of resentment slip.  He says,

“‘We had faith,’ he says quietly.  ‘That you’d know how to get us all out safely.’”

Bree describes his voice as a bond that encapsulates all three of them, and he describes the world being broken, essentially if the three of them were not in it together. 

9. Nick Invokes the Curia

“No, I don’t think I will listen here,’” Nick says brightly. "In fact, I think you will listen to what I have to say.  Every single word.”

When I say this was a boss move, and the fact that it pissed off the Regents?  De-lish!  In moment 15 I talked about how cunning Nick was, and I thought this was a full realization of just how cunning he could be.  He used the structure of evil against itself and to read how it pissed them all off (Cestra in particular) filled me with joy.  Plus, the fact that he was talking cash money shit to all of them, making them face themselves, was epic.

“Your supremacy," Nick says, brows tight. ‘Your misogyny.  Your racism. Your cowardice.’” 

I just know ass cheeks were clenched! Especially Aldrich (whom I hope Bree personally destroys and makes good on her words).  Nick worked overtime to use his power and privilege to make the Regents bend to him.

8. Nick Reveals Abuse

“Nick scoffed. ‘Sel can hit me if it’s done in the name of 'training.’ William, you know that.  He can do more than hit me if he’s been brainwashed to believe that hitting me is for my own good or praised for 'preparing' his Scion for battle.  My father knew the way to Sel’s heart–and fists—was to tell him that sometimes, protection looked like violence.  That was the only language Sel knew for a while.  Until I renounced my title and we both learned better.”

This was another difficult scene to read.  These kids have been so abused that even Willilam, with everything laid out for him, had a hard time believing his cousin would participate in such cruelty.  It shows how Sel was used as a battle axe, crushing Nick in the name of duty and training.  It shows how the machine of hate and power is fueled by the bodies of the young and vulnerable.  It also shows that Nick is not okay.  He is the veneer for the Order.  He looks the part, and it does not matter to them if they break him in the process.  They probably think that makes him a more formidable warrior. We saw that his father was willing to force his hand if he did not agree with his plan.  The problem is, they did not count on Nick’s goodness and heart, which is hard to fathom when you have neither.  

7. Nick Learns About His Inheritance

 “The enhanced vision can’t be predicted or stopped.  The first thing to know is that ‘vision’ is a complicated word.  It’s both something you can possess and something you can receive.  Something you use and something you create…”

While Donovan was a PhD level asshole, he was dropping knowledge about Lancelot’s abilities because that is what he prepared for.  It was a treat to learn the inner workings of how Nick sees in the dark so to speak.  That his vision is tailored to meet his King, a holy weapon in an earthly hand as it is called. It’s information such as this that lets us in on everything Nick has done in the prior two books.  It explains his understanding, his running away, his rage.  We see him move with much more confidence in this book because he is learning and honing his skills (as they all are), and I am here for it!

6. Nick Threatens Valec

“But when anger touches Nick, it only hardens his resolve. ‘You need to walk away, Valechaz. Now.”

“That so.’” Valec’s chin tips up, exposing glinting fangs beneath the stage lights. ‘Nicholas?'”

“Lightning flashes in Nick’s eyes. ‘A soul to kill and die for, right?’”

 Well, shit! I adore Valec, but Nick said, “Not too much na!”  Valec understood the assignment, and because he is also with the shits, he recognized his error and needed to step out (that made me chuckle).  This is Nick’s Fuck around if you want to, era and ANYONE can get it.  Nick is not one to raise his voice and rant and rave, but he has the quiet kind of rage that the well-versed in it see coming and promptly get out of the way.  It is the Nick that Will saw clearly at the Curia and it scared him because he understood that this Nick would scorch the earth. 

5. Spy Kids

“I send a fiery fist flying to his face, a deadly, root-powered right hook perfected from sparring with Elijah–and he catches it—God, he’s fast—grunting with the effort.  Before I can jerk my fist away, he takes a slow breath—and the flames of my right hand disappear.”

The Mission Impossible vibes of this scene were palpable.  One spy comes in to steal the precious object while being thwarted by another spy hell bent on doing the same. It was a far cry from Bree describing him as the newly recruited secret agent (even though he low-key was for Ava’s funky ass) at the Selection Gala.  This scene shows how Nick’s precision combat and brute force made him vicious in a tight space.  When he punched Bree in the face, I winced.  I did however see the parallel of him kissing her in the elevator and avoiding her injury to when he did the same after they dispatched hounds on campus in Legendborn.  He is attuned to her body as Sel is attuned to her essence (soul). 

4. So Drown 

“‘I…’” Nick steps closer.  He searches my face, torment pulling at his features.  His gaze claims my brows, my eyes, my lips.  When he finally answers, his voice is a desperate rasp. ‘I’m drowning in you, Bree.  I shouldn’t want to.  I should fight it.  But I can’t.’”

Lawd have mercy!  My God, Tuhday!  Why did Ms. Deonn make these dudes mannish!  When I was this age, not one boy spoke this way, and if they did…I suppose that is a story for another day.  The yearning is strong with this one!   The tension here is pulled tighter than day one cornrows.  I honestly don’t know how either boy was able to maintain, but the fact that he and Bree are playing married couple in this shared space is wild.  His resolve is ironclad, but so is his respect for Bree (who is with the shits).  The want, the desire, the heat…Tracy ain’t no good!

3. Nick Takes the Shard 

“There, right at his breastbone, lies a small black fragment of metal no more than two inches long.  Surrounding it is a layer of blue crosshatched magic.”

Nick revealing this arrangement with Ava was heart-sinking.  He is determined to not have Bree feel the sting of Arthur’s possession again and made a huge leap to try and thwart it. He made a bargain and did not sort out the ways it could be harmful.  He is not necessarily concerned with himself, but the impact to Bree and Sel.  The ache from him saying that essentially, because Sel is in “Demonia” his loss will not hurt as much.  The thought that he sat with this and thought about the impact without truly internalizing the hurt had me shaking my head.  The implication is that this is a journey that he will need to take on his own.  He says,

“Let me do this.”

Followed by “Not for this,” in reference to Bree reminding him that it’s “You and me.”

The parallel to the Firefly scene where Sel also utters “Not for this,” in reference to not trusting Bree to keep her eyes covered.  The through-line of a character doing or not doing something that would call into question their logic and trust regarding their decisions. The way these three are willing to fall on the sword for each other is a painful reality that all of them have readily faced.  I can’t wait to see how this unfolds in the last book. 

2. My Blade is Yours

“When I finally whisper, ‘And if I want to burn it all to the ground?’ His answer is a quick grin against my lips. ‘My blade is yours.’”

The heat of the rooftop scene almost set my book ablaze.  Almost melted my earbuds and fused them to my eardrums.  Excuse me?!  Considering that Nick and his clever hands had Bree rolling her hips and doing the dutty wine on his lap, this line was bathed in innuendo.  The fact that his voice is described as a warning in this scene, like, are you sure? Because I am going to give you what you need right now. His focus on her throat, that mind-body connection,

“Nick paints reverence across my throat and seals wonder to my mouth.”

This scene was a culmination of him holding back, but giving Bree what she needed in the moment, what she asked for.  He puts on full display his control of himself and his tenderness.  He gives room for her be vulnerable, he listens to what she wants, he gives her space to think.  He operates in her want, her desire.  Come on, then Davis!

1. Confession

Look at you, you made it to my number one Nick moment.  I hope you are okay!  The scene at Penumbra when Nick takes on not only his questions but Bree’s had me taking a walk after I read it. When Mikael asks if he suspected something more than friendship with Sel, Nick says,

“I don’t think it; I know it.” 

Nick says this through clenched teeth, from the fight to resist the demon and his feelings.  When Mikael asks him how it makes him feel, he says,

“Relief, our lives are hard. Short.  They both deserve happiness where they find it.  Heartache.  Because I don’t know what or how I’ll feel if…if their happiness is found with each other.”

When Mikael asks why he is not angry with Bree/Iris, he says,

“Because she is worthy. And while I have lost my faith in the world…I never lose faith in her.”

Nick lays himself bare in this chapter.  The confession of knowing that she and Sel share an intimacy, a love (even if it is not named as such from her), a closeness and that he would be willing to accept that if they decided to take it further was like Mikael took that dagger to my chest.  Sel also does this in the woods when Bree kisses him.  He stops her and basically says he does not want her like this, especially if the three of them have not talked.  

They not only prioritize Bree, but they prioritize each other.  Though I know the two of them would internally melt if she chose one over the other, nobel shit aside, I love how Nick and Sel love each other.  He reveals he ran into the woods because he saw Sel’s death.  In Legendborn (shoutout @justbrainrot), he decided to answer Arthur’s call because he saw Rhaz hit Sel, possibly causing his death.

It is the love he has inside of him that wraps Bree and Sel in its safety.  Loving people that deeply is a bond older than anything the Order can fathom.  It is something the Shadow King cannot relate to, which is why his court is in shambles. It is the connective tissue that will see them defeat the Regents, the Order, and the deadbeat Shadow Daddy.

They won’t know what hit them.

Whew!  You made it to the end!  That was a hell of a ride, wasn’t it?  What are some of your favorite moments from Mr. Davis?    

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

❤︎ first meeting ❤︎

❤︎ Butcher x Sunny ❤︎

Warnings: language.

Word Count: 1,555

Butcher met you in a fucking meadow.

No, seriously. An actual meadow. Wildflowers and all. Looked like the cover of a bloody indie folk album.

He was already in a foul mood—hay-fever, jetlag, the vague threat of another supe hiding out somewhere nearby. Should’ve been a quick recon stop near the safehouse. Should’ve been quiet. Uneventful.

Instead, you were there.

Sat cross-legged in the grass like a little gremlin hippie elf thing, bashing away on a tiny portable keyboard propped on your knees. Headphones on. Daisy chain looped around your wrist. Yellow fucking Converse tapping along to whatever sunshine bullshit you were playing.

You had a picnic blanket under your arse, speckled with sheet music, cracked-open poetry books, and two jars of honey—one already half gone. You were eating it with your fingers. Straight out the jar. Like Winnie the bloody Pooh... if he was even more of a cunt.

Butcher stopped dead, mid-step, and blinked like he was hallucinating.

Didn’t look like you’d clocked him. Too busy giggling to yourself at… something. Maybe the music. Maybe the honey. Maybe the cloud shaped like a cow overhead. He had no idea. And frankly, it pissed him off how curious he was about it.

He crossed his arms and squinted.

What the fuck were you doing all the way out here? No car in sight. No phone. No weapons. No backup. Just a yellow bag spilling with god knows what—he saw a feather boa, a kazoo, a bloody banana with glitter on it. Christ.

“You lost, sweetheart?” He called out eventually, gravel in his voice.

You jumped. Blinked up at him with the widest brown eyes he’d ever seen—like two pans of hot caramel left too long on the stove—and pulled your headphones off with a bashful little grin.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there,” you said, brushing grass off your skirt. “You’ve got eyes like a storm, huh?”

Butcher stared at you. Then at the field. Then back at you.

You beamed. And he fucking hated it.

Butcher didn’t move. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking like he was trying to decide whether to shoot you or set up camp and die quietly.

You didn’t seem bothered. Just turned back to your keyboard, tapping a few keys with honey-sticky fingers, humming something that sounded like a lullaby dipped in glitter. Not a care in the world. No fear. No backup. No fucks given.

He squinted. There was something wrong with you. There had to be.

“What the fuck are you doin’ out here?” He muttered.

You didn’t answer straight away. Just reached into that ridiculous yellow bag beside you—stuffed to bursting with sheet music, flower crowns, and what looked like a kazoo—and pulled out a plastic tub.

“I like the way the wildflowers sound,” you said, like that explained anything.

Butcher blinked.

You held up the Tupperware. “Pineapple?”

He stared at it. “You always feed strange men sittin’ in the dirt?”

“Only the ones with a jaw that could cut glass and a face like a thunderstorm.” Then you popped a chunk into your mouth and closed your eyes like it was transcendental. A little hum slipped out of you. Soft. Pleased. Fucking dangerous.

Butcher should’ve turned around. Left you to your fucking fruit and your keyboard and your absolutely concerning levels of optimism.

Instead, he stepped closer.

You opened your eyes and smiled like he’d just passed some secret test.

He crouched—grunting, knee popping—and accepted the pineapple. You watched him, chin in your hands, like he was the most interesting thing you’d seen all day.

It was sweet. Warm from the sun.

So were you.

He glanced down at your fingers—sticky with honey, glitter smudged across the knuckles. You looked like a fever dream. Like a hallucination with good taste in fruit and no sense of self-preservation.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You high?”

“Nope.” You beamed. “Just happy.”

He scoffed. “Same bleedin' thing.”

You tilted your head. “You always this grumbly or is this just for me?”

Butcher huffed out something like a laugh. It startled both of you.

“There it is,” you whispered.

“There what is?”

“That sound,” you said, grinning. “Sounds good.”

He stared at you. The way the sunlight hit your braid. The way your skirt fluttered in the breeze. The way you looked like you belonged here, in the middle of nowhere, like some kind of sun-drenched cryptid who only came out to feed people fruit and ruin their day with joy.

You pulled another pineapple chunk free, then tossed him a look over your shoulder.

“If the world’s ending, might as well eat fruit in a meadow with someone mysterious and grumbly, right?”

Butcher blinked.

Once. Twice. Then looked at you like maybe—just maybe—you were something worse than a supe.

You were hope. And that scared the ever-loving fuck out of him.

Butcher was seriously debating fucking off.

He’d had enough of this sunshine-scented acid trip. Enough of the yellow shoes and sticky fingers and the way your laugh kept slipping under his ribs like it was trying to make a home there.

You were draining the fuck out of him. Like staring into the sun too long, all squint and ache and after-burn.

But still, he didn’t move. Just sat there on the edge of your ridiculous little picnic blanket like some war-torn gargoyle, pineapple chunk halfway to his mouth, watching you play your shitty plastic keyboard with all the focus of a concert pianist.

And then—

“What’s your name?” You asked, voice like sunlight on wet grass. Bright. Soft. New.

Butcher looked at you. Didn’t answer.

Gave you the smirk instead—the one that made people flinch, the one that said you don’t wanna know, love. That sharp little curl of lip, tongue pressed to his teeth, head tilting like he was about to say something unholy.

Your eyes widened. Big. Innocent. Fucking gleaming. Then you smiled.

“You’re handsome,” you said, so sincerely it made his brain short out. Like you were complimenting the weather. Like it was just a fact you’d noticed, and weren’t planning to keep to yourself.

Butcher snorted. Loud. Ugly. Real. It ripped out of him like he’d been holding it in since the war.

“You’re fuckin’ weird,” he muttered, but he was smiling. Almost.

You held out another pineapple chunk like it was a reward. He took it.

“Butcher,” he said after a beat.

You blinked at him. “Like… a butcher?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Exactly like a butcher.”

You nodded solemnly. “Cool.”

And you meant it. Fucking hell.

He stared at you, trying not to grin, and then said, “Alright, sunshine. What about you?”

You brightened even more—if that was possible—and said, “Sunny.”

Butcher barked a laugh. Loud and sudden. Shocked even himself.

“You’re takin’ the piss.”

You shook your head, curls bouncing, that same honey-smile on your lips. “Nope. Swear. My mom says I came out smiling.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, still chuckling. “Sunny.”

You kicked your feet out in front of you and flopped back into the grass like a kid at recess. “You don’t like it?”

He looked at you—really looked. Daisies in your braid. Glitter on your fingers. Joy in your bones.

No. He fucking liked it too much.

Butcher swallowed.

Thing was… he didn’t think he’d find anyone cute again. Not after Becca. Not after all the blood and bile and blackened shit he’d crawled through. He thought that part of him was dead. Gone.

But here you were.

This mental little sunshine gremlin in a pissing meadow, eating pineapple and honey like a bear on acid, playing music like it kept you alive.

And you’d looked at him like he was something worth feeding.

Fuck.

He was in trouble.

You were watching him. He could feel it—those big, sunlit eyes studying him like he was a song you hadn’t learned the words to yet. Like you were trying to figure out where the chords were off.

It made his skin itch.

Then you said it. Casual. Kind. Catastrophic. “You look like someone who’s forgotten how to rest.”

Butcher froze. Just for a second.

Like you’d cracked something open without meaning to. Like the words had found a wound and pressed.

He coughed once—gruff, sharp—then looked away.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You always go ‘round psychoanalysin’ strangers in meadows?”

You just shrugged, smiling like you hadn’t just kicked him straight in the ribs. “Only the ones who need it.”

He hated how warm that made him feel. Like a sip of whisky you didn’t earn.

So he changed the subject.

“Right,” he said, glancing around. “How the fuck did you even get out 'ere?”

“Oh!” You sat up, brushing grass off your skirt. “I rode my bike.”

Butcher blinked.

You pointed vaguely toward the treeline, all cheerful and useless. “It’s somewhere in the forest. Maybe near a big rock? Or a log? Or… maybe a weirdly shaped stump. I dunno. I left it when I found this spot and kinda wandered off.”

“Wandered off,” he repeated, flatly.

You nodded, popping more pineapple into your mouth.

He stared at you. At the glitter on your face. The scuffed-up yellow Converse. The sheet music fluttering in the breeze. He tried—really tried—not to find you adorable.

Failed.

“Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “You need a fuckin’ lift home?”

You lit up like he’d offered you a puppy. “Would you?”

“‘Course I would,” he grumbled, already regretting it. “Not lettin’ some mad pixie keyboard goblin get murdered in the woods on my watch.”

You beamed at him. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.”

He shook his head, but there was a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth, and you saw it.

He hated that.

He hated you.

He also thought you might be the most dangerously lovely thing he’d seen in years. And that scared him more than any supe ever had.

A/N: AHH! My first ever Butcher x Reader fic (obviously I've written him before, but never as the main character/main love-interest.) I hope I've done him justice. I think I have. It helps that I'm also British, but we'll see what you guys think! I am SO excited for this storyline, guys. Honourable mention: Sunny is largely based off of Zoe, because she is actual sunshine, and massively gives me Sunny vibes. <3 I hope y'all likeeeey! Please let me know. All the love.

@losers-clvb @drakulana <3

[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

Yeah, the whole "ask the autistic kid a pointed question to get a funny answer with which to demean them" thing was a real motif for me too, back when I was growing up. Actually, I think it's part of a wider trend with bullies. They're not clever, but they possess the low, animal cunning of rat, or maybe a ferret. They'll find the thing that seems trivial to the authority figures in your life but which matters SO SO MUCH to you, and that's what they'll use to get at you. I do think being the kid on the receiving end of that has one thing to be said for it: it gives you a really good sense of what humans are. I went through a lot of bullying - most of it baiting me to see how long it would take me to blow my top and go beserk, but quite a bit of physical abuse, too. I don't consider myself traumatised as per the original post, but I think I have a very fucking clear idea of what the human animal is when you peel off its mask of civility and sophistication. When people see you as a victim- as someone who can't defend themselves- they get very comfortable showing you who they really are. And more often than not, who they really are is a mean-spirited scumbag with the IQ of pond-slime. The good news? They're mean-spirited scumbags with the IQ of pond-slime, so sooner or later your life is going to be much richer, more interesting and more fulfilling than theirs, just because you're capable of joys and sorrows and passions that their invertebrate minds could never aspire to. Consider this the inspirational part of the blog post: you will love more fully than they will. You will live with less compromise. You will not be defined, as they are, by the miserable cycle of work, consumption and recouperation that capitalism has made of human existence, because you will have a developed and complex inner life denied to those insensitive blocks who seek to torment you. And, because you have seen what humans are really like, you will have an easier time identifying the people who aren't like that. One day, you will find your tribe in a way that they cannot, and belive me: you are mighty with your tribe. Yes, while you're going through bullying, it feels like they're predators and you're prey, but here's the thing: being predators is all they have. It's the only thing in their pointless, empty little lives and if they ever experience happiness, it's only because they're too dumb to realise how miserable they ought to be.

Now for the less inspirational bit. Yes, things do get better, but you've still got to get through the bullshit first. My advice? I don't have any, but I know what worked for me: violence. I think a lot of the reason I'm not wholly traumatised by my childhood and why I'm so much less bitter than I might otherwise be is that I defended myself in the most literal and primal sense at the time. That counts for more than we're willing to admit to in this neutred fucking age. Not every time (I was smart enough, even then, to realise that getting a reputation as a violent person could be a serious problem), but often enough that I can look back fondly on those rare, wonderful occasions when I just stopped taking it and lamped a cunt with the nearest blunt object instead. I can look myself in the eye (well, if there's a mirror handy, anyway) and say "I gave as good as I got and acquitted myself well". Doesn't do jack-shit in the short-term, because bullies are usually too fucking dumb to fear physical reprisal, but years later it helps keep the wolf from the door. I know that violence can backfire. I know that it can get folk institutionalised and that I was, in some ways, very lucky to grow up with a family who understood its uses and value on some level. I know that it can lead to escalation. But I also know that I've never regretted throwing a punch at someone who earned it and do regretted quite a few missed opportunities to throw one.

So yeah. Take that or leave it.

the thing that always gets me ESPECIALLY about autistic representation in media is that we are universally portrayed as happy-go-lucky, whimsical children, completely oblivious to the fact that the world constantly judges and scorns and HATES us.

We notice. I noticed. The reason I am as messed up as I am today is because i spent 20 LONG years in an environment where every day i was subjected to that. To noticing.

what an absolutely neurotypical view of us. Coddling themselves, getting to act like the way they treat us is fine because we don't understand that our peers dont respect us. Why would we? We're so subhuman to them, it's like asking if your cat notices you playfully insulting it.

Every autistic person I've ever met is on some level bitter and angry and TRAUMATIZED at their upbringing. Of having to go through school as the laughing stock, as the weirdo with no friends who no one wants to talk to, as the animal in the corner you can make do cheap tricks so they can experience some Simulacra of what genuine human connection is.

Now tell me, does it sound like I didn't notice?

[oonajaeadira]

where you been, adira?

Yes, I've been on here at least once a day just to scroll and take a few breaths, because it's... been a time.

I AM JOEL MILLER I'm currently working on a show that opens tonight. Hence the little extra breathing time this afternoong. (Normally I'm at the theater 4 hours a night, but the show is only 75 minutes, so I get a little more time to myself from here on out.) The SO and I are both in it though (it's his company), so it's nice to spend time with him on a project we both love.

It's a devised, modern retelling of Little Red Riding Hood, but set in 50s/60s Appalachia. There are no sets or props, we make everything with our bodies, including the 4-part harmony shape note singing and a few mountain folk songs I have to carry. It's a lot of physical work, but it's a beautiful show.

Red is a girl that grows up in a small mountain town. She has no parents, so spends time rotating between caretakers, and is told that her place is to stay at home and not go into the woods with the woodsmen. But she loves the woods and when she's a teenager, one of her adoptive fathers makes a move to assault her and she runs away into the woods.

There she meets a solitary woman (me), a grouchy root worker/conjurer with a past of her own (it's revealed that she had a daughter about Red's age that wandered off into the woods and died out there). The two have trouble getting along at first, but they end up healing each other.

I was explaining this to @grogusmum on a polo the other day and she said she basically said it out loud at the same time I did.... "so I'm/you're basically Joel."

Not me finding inspiration in the damnedest of places.

My costume, no lie, includes a green plaid flannel. With the sleeves rolled up.

.

MY HEART NEEDS FIXING I often get heart flip-flops, extra beats, that kind of thing. I went to a cardiologist about 6 or 7 years ago once when it went on for a whole week and they took an ultrasound and basically told me "less caffeine, more sleep, more exercise."

It still comes and goes, but clears up on its own.

Until this January.

When it lasted a whole month.

So I went to my doctor. They took blood and ran all the tests. They hooked me up on machines and slapped a 24/7 monitor on me. When the monitor results came back, I got a message from my doctor: "Go to Emergency Services. Today."

I spent that day, that night, and then next day in the ER, and @feathersandfoxtails can attest, that place is a little crazy, but ultimately everyone's really nice and took good care of me. I must have talked to 30 different doctors, RNs, residents, learning teams, including at least 5 cardiologists. I had 2 EKGs, 2 ultrasounds, a stress test, 5 different blood draws from an IV, and was monitored all night (you try sleeping when your blood pressure cuff goes off once an hour). And this week, baby had her first MRI, which I actually found rather relaxing.

The diagnosis is that I am not in any immediate danger of attack or failure, my pump is good and my heart structure is normal and healthy.

What I have is bad wiring that sends extra signals. It's probably been there from birth and is now just coming to light. So I'm on medication to keep my adrenaline low (so I don't faint--low possibility, but they're just being cautious) until mid-April. Then they're gonna go into my heart and burn away those bad wires. It's endoscopic (and I'l be awake on the table????), so I'll most likely be in and out in a 12 hour span. (They have to wait until my show closes because of the physical activity.)

Weirdly, I'm not stressed out about it. Everyone's been very kind and responsive, and I trust my care team explicitly. Modern medicine is fascinating and amazing; I am in good hands.

.

ALL THE OTHER STUFFINS ...is not exciting. It's onboarding this year's batch of 90+ artists to help produce all of their shows. It's reading 48 show proposal applications in a week's deadline and winnowing them down to 1/4 of that to help another organization to produce. It's writing 2 high-stakes recommendations for colleagues that are highly worthy of the fellowships they're applying for. Both the SO and I are in "show mode" which means the cleaning doesn't get done and the dog is often lonely so the house is a mess and Gordy is a bit more anxious than usual.

It will get easier after this weekend.

.

WHAT'S GOING ON AROUND TUMBLR It's heavy stuff out here. I want to iterate that I'm reading everything and I care very deeply and want to support. The last couple of weeks have been a lot. Forgive me if I need to process and don't have the energy to engage right at this moment. I love and support you all so much.

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WRITING I'm officially on a writing break for a bit. I thought maybe I could catch some moments, but once I landed in the ER and we ran out of time in tech to do line work I said, nope, Adira, you rest. Rest so you can be ready when Joel comes back around...which will be the day after you step out of his shoes onstage and turn it over to P on the telly.

There's a lot to be excited for. And a lot more time to fandom around.

Give me a second and let me catch my (literal and metaphorical) breath. I'll come back around soon.

<3