#timeline: i am the shell of my people.

[spokewar]

@demonstigma /✶ ── starter call.

"I'm afraid you have misjudged me, my friend, I am no jedi." It was spoken half-heartedly, not necessarily a lie so much as it was a suggestion; he was no more a jedi than a hill was a mountain. For now, he was something else - something untitled and wandering in search of purpose. It was the furthest from the order he had ever been and, perhaps, that was why he'd been so reckless with letting his mind wade into the force after months on end of isolation and silence. His late master had always said they should take no more from it than they could return back and lately, Obi-Wan had been doing nothing but taking and taking. Although short lived, it had been welcoming to open his shields again—the ones he kept so meticulously maintained lest someone find him or worse, his new grand mission—and it wasn't until now that he'd realized how vulnerable and detached it had left him. The living force had never felt so empty nor bleak before, part due to the people he'd lost in the final attack and part due to the black hole where Anakin's once radiant (and overwhelming) presence had once resided. It would have been easy to dwell on had there not been so much work left to do. There were holocrons to destroy or bury deep within the crusts of whatever planets he deemed inhospitable enough, younglings to hide and to give new life (far from Coruscant and far from the families who had entrusted the jedi with their safety), and artifacts to scatter and to send into the furthest corners of the galaxy; it would have been wiser to destroy them than risk them falling into enemy hands, but it would have been an almost equal loss for no one to have them at all. It was wrong and painful to admit, but better the separatists tell their story than have them fade into obscurity completely. A mindset he wasn't sure Master Yoda would have agreed with, but Obi-Wan had felt justified with letting his emotions over the matter get the best of him. "And I suggest you get going, even if it seems safe, it is not wise for people like us to be together for too long."

[thelastofhyde]

the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

read on ao3. series masterlist. next chapter.

Distaste is not new in the life of Joel Miller.

In particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. He is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. The years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

If anything, he’s made himself more empty.

Rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. Discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. Lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

An apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. Joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. The man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that Miller guys passed between cowardly members of FEDRA and the keep away from Mr Miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

This plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. Somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become deadweight.

“So that’s all I am to ya, huh? Dead-fucking-weight?” His brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving Joel to do what Joel does best: endure.

Somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the deadweight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

She was an exception, his Tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. They’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

She never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. Contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging Joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

Which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of Tess’ foot against his shin.

“... And then,” Frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. With a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, Bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “Otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. We were finding paw-prints for days!”

Joel's unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. As if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the German Shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“Which means I was cleaning paw-prints for days.” Bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

Frank is quick to shush him.

“I’m sorry, again, Bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “I’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

There you sit, parallel to him.

The sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. It hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

You catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

The threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which Joel can account for, mouth too keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. The battle ends swiftly as you surrender to Bill’s hardened stare, and Frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and Tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“You, sit. No one should have to clean up the food they made.”

They get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

Silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and smothering you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun behind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

Being alone, with you, is something Joel’s never mastered. The affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

Were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

Something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. The dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

Just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

The ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and Joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. He’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

The pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never-ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“He likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

As if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in Joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. Standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and Joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

To envy a creature that licks its own shit off its ass is a new low for Joel.

“Thinkin’ he might like ya more, Sol.” The nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“Most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

He takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and Tess have made.

“You’ve got a whole load in common, you know? I think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“How the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” There he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. It helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“Well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. He’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “And have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

He’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

Discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘S easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. Doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

With you as its protector.

He doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. He watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. Your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

Survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

But I could keep you safe.

He toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. It’s not the first time he’s thought it. Truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

His memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just Bill, Frank and you. A few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night Joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was Frank who’d prompted the question. “Where were you all when... this started?” Tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’d never meet.

He never imagined her working in a bank.

Bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “Was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” He’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. She was barely out of school. “I knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” Frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

Joel had always been a good listener. Being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. Years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. All this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to Frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of Bill.

But you weren’t smiling.

He watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

The desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for Joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. With each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. He’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“You’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “Those we remember never truly die!”). He’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘Could keep you safe. There, then, the thought did cross his mind.

He’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-Could fix it, you know. I’m good with my hands.”

He almost chokes on his own breath.

I'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. And he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“What?” The question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. In the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

The mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face Joel once more.

He sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“Your watch, it’s broken.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “Don’t need ya to fix it.”

You pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. Confusion.

“Don’t you want to know the time?” You ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and Joel Miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“I don’t keep it for the time.”

You smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

The German Shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to Joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

He’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. Nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. It’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“Ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” You’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “I’ve never heard any of the Joel Miller backstory, this should be-”

“I get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

Nature falls silent.

Skies grow dull.

You juggle sadness.

There’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of Tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. The dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

Joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“Sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. Only, the gates have been shut in his face and Joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “But you’re wrong. I don’t like everyone.”

“‘S that so.” His eyes roll. The hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal Joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“Yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “I don’t like you, Joel.”

The hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

We’re staying, for tonight. Tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the QZ for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

The nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading Bill and Frank- mostly Frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. If only Joel could remember which door leads to yours.

The two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

Tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a FEDRA agent’s wife, you whisper that Frank and Bill had been fighting again recently. The memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of Tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly Bill and Frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

At some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. At another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-N’t tell me you’re a virgin.

The words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

A protest rings true in his head and his ears.

Was gonna say. Knew you were young, but not that young.

It’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“God, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. It was alright, I guess. I just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

He’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. A groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping Tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

Neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“Not much to miss?! Sweet Christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” He’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken Tess. Each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. There’s no need to bother opening his eyes, Joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “I’d give up a hand for some head!”

You must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of Tess’ renewed shock fills the room. He wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

Late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“It bores me!”

“It bores you!?”

The couch beneath Joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp Tess gives. The last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

The crueler part of his mind replays your voice, I don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

You like Tess. Love her, even. It’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out Finally someone with a pair of boobs, I’m bored of the sight of my own. Joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

Maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“Must not have been doin’ ya right,” The bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. Joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. You’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. It’s oddly endearing that you think no one has noticed. Because he has, he always notices the little details that surround you. “This fella of yours.”

Joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

He does so, regardless.

“Well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “We were each others firsts.”

“That’s no excuse! Trust I left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time I went down.” Tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights Joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while Tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. No discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

You scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “What, are you offering your services?”

tThis he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which Tess has raised you to heaven on while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘As sure as I am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you I like my women a little older than you.”

He knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the QZ. It should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. But he can’t, and he won’t.

And you’re the one to blame.

You, with the glow of a thousand suns. You, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. You, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

His own self being the first he’d need fight.

Joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. Sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

The next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

He’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. Some small, meaningless little things, that ripple Joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. Others, tsunamis. Big, angry, all imposing. They’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

Amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. But the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. They catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. In the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

The currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

This evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. He reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. The gentle, barely-there croon of a Sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. Across from him is Tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. Snoring comes from below him, where Joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

You take up no space of this room.

Neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. Languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

There are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

He should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. A good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

He could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. Perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure Frank wouldn’t mind. Bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the QZ.

He would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. He imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. Skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Those words stop him from trying.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

With a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. He swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. The door’s already half-opened, and Joel nearly thanks Christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. The darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

The refrigerator.

It’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. A subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly Joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

Keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

She never lived long enough to get either.

He catches something move beneath the artificial light. Cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“Why aren’t ya sleepin’?” The words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

Beneath the light, you shrug. “Could ask you the same thing, Texas.”

He curses Tess for teaching you such a nickname.

He curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

You’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. Whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, Joel remains unaware.

He grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. The door behind him closes over and gives the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“I asked first.” You laugh, at him. Full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. The corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. He hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you. Bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘S so funny, huh?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. Perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “Just never heard the Joel Miller say something so childish. You’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

You make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. A fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. Uncouth and unbothered, Joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“You know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” You call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. The thirst does not budge. He hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

By the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“iIm making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “Make sure you take some with you when you leave. Tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

Would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? Four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his Tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. He’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Of course you would do the same. Not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. Nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. Patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. All words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. They violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over Joel’s entire persona.

He straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. The sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. His hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of Tess and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what Joel hears.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. You’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

And, suddenly, Joel’s angry. At you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. The fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

Only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

A hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving Joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. Without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise Joel gifts you.

You may leave your marks emotionally, but Joel’s will always be physical.

“Why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “Don’t ya like me?”

If not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “Why do you care?”

He scoffs, “I don’t.”

“Hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody Tess was playing in the living room. “Sure sounds like you do.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

Joel knows he cares. It’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to Bill and Frank’s.

What Joel doesn’t know is why he cares. There’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. He’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

Maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

Instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

Not one bit.

Joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. His feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. His chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

He inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“For the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘S just like how I sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. No part of him should ever be compared to you. “I don’t like ya either.”

He’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

The knife never ceases its movement. Back and forth, back and forth. Chop, chop, chop. Blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. It’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding Joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. Perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

The hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“That’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

It’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“You only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. His wandering touch halts. “A little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what I think.”

This strikes a nerve. Fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. The realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “D’ya know what I think?”

Even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“No, unlike you I don’t care what you think about-” Joel tugs on your hair once more.

“I think you’re a brat. A silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” You could. He’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. Knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“You’re hurting me,” you whine, Joel growls.

Animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. His gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

Your dress- red, a colour Joel Miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“You like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“No, I don’-” Dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “Joel.”

He retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. Whoever Joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“Heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and Tess. The blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ Talkin’ bout your past.”

He doesn’t specify.

He doesn’t need to.

You give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“Tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. His hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. Near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “I wouldn’t.”

You say nothing. Joel pulls harder.

“Too bad I’m-” You cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. With a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, Joel watches you like a hawk. The twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. The want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “Too bad I’m not offering you the chance.”

Joel Miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. With notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“Who said anything about an offer?”

The descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

A part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

The other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. You’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

Smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs that seem longer than any tree in the Amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the Himalayas. Arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

Your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. Perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, Joel knows how to read people. And, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

Joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

You breathe in, you breathe out.

One knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. He revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

Inhale, exhale.

Your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“Hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the Texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. All he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. With the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “Don’t move.”

Where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

Lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. One flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. A wet patch, your wetness. The stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

Curiosity gets the better of him- one day, Joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers digging themselves into the waistband of your panties and around the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

In and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

The lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. A heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. He makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

Delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. There’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. Joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. He wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. He thinks it must hurt.

His fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“Ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. Though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in Joel’s peripheral vision.

“Shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “People are tryin’ to sleep.”

You scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “Tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘S that an invitation to see how loud I can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. This, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “Or a challenge?”

“It’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. Asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

As coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some Playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. So he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. He awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

It’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“You’re drippin’,” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. The view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘S actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. Is it 'cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

He can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

But first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. Much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. Perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

Cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for Joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. Soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

Rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

It happens so suddenly, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of Tess. He wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. Joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

So he does the same.

Working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. He breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

Two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“So now you shut up. ‘S the matter, huh?” He’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “Am I too borin’ for ya?”

“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever- Oh!”

A tongue meets skin.

The knife clatters onto the counter.

You lurch forward.

His hand pulls you back.

“Tess was right, ya know?” He can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. He pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. Three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “That boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

The common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better-, if you’d just let him.

‘Could keep ya satisfied.

That’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. He’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“Is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? What ya need is a man, a man like me!” The softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension. God, it’s never sounded sweet, and Joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“Well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. He imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “But if ya insist.”

Diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. The tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

Licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

He’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by experience that only comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. You’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

He’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

What a perfect excuse you are, for Joel to remaster the arts of lust.

It’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. It’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. It’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever remaining days he shall possess on his knees before you.

And all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar-sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

His only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

Hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

Burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. It does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“N- Ah,” You can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “No, don’t, not there.”

Next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

Sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip out every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. The sound of whatever record Tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

And, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

His eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within Bill and Frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. There’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time Tess tells him they’re due a visit.

Except, the oven door is made of glass.

Glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. You, with a hand gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

And then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

The image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“D’ya touch yourself, Sol?” You don’t answer him, but that’s okay. In a sweet change of pace, Joel Miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “Yeah, bet ya do. Late at night, right? Once you’re all alone in bed. Ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

You back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. Becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

Fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “Let me do the honours this time though.”

You don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. He imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

He’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

You’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. Your expression, he can’t quite read. Not sad, not happy, not mad.

Your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

The discomfort of trekking back to the QZ will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“Joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. Hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. Legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

He swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. Strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. He’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“That,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

Joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

People once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. As sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. Not today, however, and Joel Miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

It chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. There’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

That dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

He cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “No, not again. My back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, Joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the German Shepherd’s head. It whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. A scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “Not so bad, are ya? Huh?” Never in a million years did Joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and Tess had set out for their routinely visit to the Bill and Frank’s. Never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

He hears you before he sees you.

“You planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, Texas?”

He tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

The world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

So instead, it sends you.

Peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than UV rays could ever be. He’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. A few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. At the very least, he considers, I’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

The smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. When he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. He does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. Upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“Thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. You’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “Won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

A queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. He’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “No problem, thanks... for feeding Tess and I.”

“No worries!” You’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. He can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “Oh, actually, that’s why I came out here, I was looking for Tess-” Of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “Hold on!”

You shoot off back inside so quickly that Otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. With an idle pet to his head as you pass by, Joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. In your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“I wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and Joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. He can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “I know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“Why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

Pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

You show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him. “There should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

It’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and Joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

So he tries again, louder.

“Why don’t ya like me?”

“And I’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for Tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “Winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

He grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "Answer me." Like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"For someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. You don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “You sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"Answer the damn question, girl.”

“Or, what?” You’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “You gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

Had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. Truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. Perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

Instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

Joel says nothing.

“How about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and Bill make.” Inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. Clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “You get me something, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

He grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “What d’ya want? ‘Cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. I ain’t messing with none of Bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“A dress.”

“A dress?” The statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“Yes, and don’t look at me like that!” It’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “I need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

Unaware he’d even began to lean closer, Joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“Joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

Neither of you dare to break eye contact. Again, his name is yelled. This time, he manages to identify Tess as the owner of the voice. Habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of Tess or you.

His feet remain glued to the ground.

Tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “Think you might be needed inside, macho man. Your missus is calling.”

“She ain’t my-”

“You two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” Tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

Only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does Joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. In her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. You approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“I should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. He decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “Go check on the food, before it burns.”

You’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

Tess and him hit the road by noon. Earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. The bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun breaking through the clouds and heating the world with its rays. He walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from Tess and wracking his brain for answers.

Answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. Answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the QZ. Answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven Bill’s created. Answers to why you don’t like him.

I don’t like you, Joel.

It motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. If he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but Tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

Till then, he needs to find a dress.

[marinerainbow]

Do you have any more information on that when’s were peach fell in love with bowser eyes 👀 it interest me a lot

Powser is my favorite Mario ship... So yes, I do >:3

Let us renember; in my headcannon, Peach is SEVEN FOOT THREE! Imagine how huge Bowser is if he can grab her up like this!?!?

This post shall also be done in dot points for my sanity XD also, this will be referring to the Powser Timeline of my Mario's Galexy.

In this cycle, Mario and Luigi showed up much later, so they aren't around for a good while. So when it came to maintaining the peace of The Strangelands, it fell on our beloved princess' shoulders. In fact, in this timeline, Bowser doesn't get to kidnap her because she approached him first for peace between their nations.

Bowser had been planning to take over the Mushroom Kingdom for the same reasons I stated in my Mario AU post. So you can imagine how surprised he was when he received an invitation to the very palace he was planning on conquering in the first place. He took this as a chance for a surprise take-over, and told his men to prepare as such.

... The thing is, though, he expected to come face to face with a sentient mushroom ruler. Not the beautiful, kind-hearted, and collected Princess Peach we know and love to greet him at the edge of her city. He actually thought she was a passing human, but no. The toads flanking her sides introduced her as their princess. And when Peach approached Bowser with a sweet smile and took one of his clawed fingers in both of her hands, he fell in love instantly... Which was quite the show when his koopa troops surrounded the princess and her toad guards as was the original plan 😅 Bowser had to quickly call them off, and come up with an excuse on the spot as to why his koopas would point their spears at her.

Peach: Wh-What is this!?

Bowser: No! No! It, uh... Y-You see, my princess *totally not squealing on the inside for getting to say that* uh... My people, we uh...

The Koopas: 😶😶🤨🤨🤨🤨

Bowser: We aren't used to uh... Friendly people, such as you.

Peach: Really?

Bowser: Yeah, yeah! It uh... We were expecting an attack, actually-

Koopa: But my lord, you said-

Bowser: *gives him the 'shut the shell up!' Look*

Peach: Oh, you poor koopas! 🥺 don't worry. You will find nothing but acceptance and peace among the toads. And with our alliance, we'll be sure to offer your people the prosperity you deserve ^^

Bowser: *definitly not wondering what Peaches ring size is already* Right, that's why we're here! For peace! Haha...

(Eventually, after they get married, Bowser tells Peach the truth of what happened. To which she surprises him by confessing she already knew, but decided to give him a chance since he called off his troops, and she's glad she did. My Peach may be a pacifist, but she's not blind.)

Anyways, they went inside her kingdom, and Bowser not only got to see a side of The Strangelands he never did get to see in The Darklands, but was also shocked at how peacefully they were able to work together. Peach never spoke down to him or his people, and made sure neither side would be treated unfairly in their kingdoms union. He was honestly amazed, having never seen anything political being taken care of through non-violent means. It made him reflect on his own laws and Kingdom, too. But he wanted to leave a good impression on Peach, so he tried to paint his kingdom and ruling in a positive light... Which failed miserably 😅😅😅 but at least it encouraged Peach to renain in contact with him and help bring his people into a new, kinder era, so... He considers it a win.

There was a lot of work to be done. Imagine if all of the main Mario games focused on Peach and Bowser teaming up and fixing various issues between their kingdoms. That's how much time passed between them after that first meeting (I actually wanna see that 🤔 Bowser being able to use force and offense when Peach's negotiations and defense fail, and vice versa. Kinda like Bigby and Snow from The Wolf Among Us). But it only made Bowser fall for her harder, and eventually Peach started to fall in love with Bowser, too. And since their kingdoms were already united, it seemed like the most natural course of action ^^

Their love and marriage lasted for the rest of their lives. Raising the koopalings and Junior, and changing all of the Strangelands for the better. However, it all ended on the star festival, as it always does with each cycle; Bowser, Peach and their children were all enjoying a night of fun and collecting star bits, and forming the final grand star before their timeline ends with the galexy resetting itself... Unfortunately, Bowser and Peach don't fall in love in the next cycle, but they at least had their happy ending while they had it...

I hope this timeline makes sense 😅 but! Time for headcannons/tid-bits of the Powser Galexy Cycle!

As you can see, Bowser is still a bit of a goof in this timeline. In fact, he's able to show that side of himself more in this cycle than in previous cycles. That's because there's no need for him to be so tyrannical, and because his precious wife encourages him to let this side of him out ^^

Even so, he still knows how to lay down the law. Peach, she is a good and benevolent ruler. However, there were plenty of times when people tried to take advantage of that. Whether it be neighboring kingdoms during negotiations, enemies trying to take over her kingdom, or even their own people trying to get out of paying for a crime they committed. In that case, Bowser is always there to make sure nobody tries to pull the wool over Peach's eyes. He's kind of like her guard dog, standing behind her with his arms crossed and ready to roast somebody if they hurt or try to fool Peach... Needless to say, this does make people think twice about trying to harm the princess.

Though on the flip side, Peach is able to get Bowser to realize when aggression is unnecessary and whether or not a punishment for a criminal is just or too extreme. It's not uncommon in the kingdom to see Peach by Bowsers' side, holding his claw and keeping him calm enough to see reason and keep things smooth during meetings. If Bowser is her guard dog, then Peach would be his emotional support kitty.

Sometimes, just to tease Peach or because he needs he close in that moment, Bowser will pick up Peach just like in the gif above to give her a kiss, whisper something in her ear, or even during meetings and he and Peach need to talk without anyone else listening in. Sometimes, Peach will hop up onto his shoulder to peck his cheek and see him turn red ^^

In my previous post, I said that Ludwig was the first to be adopted, followed shortly by Iggy. They were actually brought in by Bowser before he and Peach were married. Even though they weren't a couple, however, Peach fell in love with them instantly and would constantly ask Bowser how he and his sons are doing. And he even trusted her enough to send them to her palace whenever necessary! 🥺🥺🥺 Peach treated them like her own, and when they came back, the first thing Iggy asked his dad was why aren't he and mama Peach married yet? This was actually what encouraged Bowser to finally confess his love to her ^^ (Ludwig was in his emo phase at this point, so he was just like "Yeah, she's alright." // "Shut up, Luddy, you still have the violin Peach got you." // "SHUT UP!-")

As such, Ludwig and Iggy are the only koopa kids who remember having only Bowser as a parent. The other koopa kids, even though lived under the rule of Peach and Bowser, were adopted after they got together.

After they were married, they built their own palace on the borders of both of their kingdoms. Peaches' original castle is the families' summer vacation home, and Bowsers Castle is their winter vacation home.

The Mario Bros come to The Strangelands during Bowser and Peach's wedding planning, actually XD when they were due to be married within a week, in fact. Larry found them first and showed them to his parents like they were cool bugs or stones he found XD "Mama, look! They look like you, but very small!" They were able to fix some plumbing issues in the castle that would have potentially interferred with the wedding, so Peach and Bowser promised to help them find their way back home for their help ^^ (I like to think Mario may have developed a mini crush on Peach, but since she was getting married, it obviously went nowhere.)

When it comes to parenting, Peach is the more firm parent. Bowser loves his kids, and he can discipline them. But... He's weak. He can't do it unless it's something serious. And we know he spoils his kids 😅😅😅 Peach loves them to peices as well! But she knows where to draw the line with them and makes sure Bowser doesn't go too far with spoiling them or letting their antics slide. As such, they actually grow up less bratty and not so "we just love being mean!" Then they do when it's just Bowser raising them. Imagine Peach being like Mary Poppins with them, making sure they behave without being aggressive about it. Except she's their mother, not their nanny. Daisy though, is their cool aunt.

When it comes to Junior, Bowser still made him on his own. Even though he and Peach wanted to try for kids, their drastic size and biology differences did make them hesitate. So, to stay on the safe side, Bowser incubated Juniors egg all on his own. Though this time, he had Peach tp take care of him through the draining process and take care of their kids ^^ (and that's how, in the current timeline, Bowser Jr. Still has buried memories of a past life with Peach as his mother. Just not by blood.)

A kinda funny thing though, is that when the palace is under attack, Bowser will go face the threat and the koopalings will surround Peach in their own version of a kill circle XD even though she's their mama, it's no secret that she's the most delicate family member (koopa babies, while still being fragile compared to adult koopas, are still pretty tough compared to humans. I mean, Lemmy and Junior, the youngest kids, already have sharp spikes on their shells 😬). So even though Peach will stand between her babies and any threat, her kids really are the next line of defense if, for whatever reason, Bowser fails.

Though, Peach is still a mama. And any mother worth their salt would break a man in two for touching her baby... That is actually what people find out in this timeline, after the one and only time Peach was actually kidnapped in this cycle. She had Junior with her, so he was taken too. Bowser pulled up with his battleships, ready to destroy the whole galexy to get his wife and son back... Only for him to find his darling, wouldn't-hurt-a-fly wife having tossed her vow of pacifism out the window and curb stomping her and her sons' kidnapper the second she broke out of the cage. That was just more proof to Bowser he found the perfect woman. (He still set fire to the guy when Peach was done with him. The koopa kids all think their mom is even cooler now.)

Oh yeah. Bowser still writes Peach love songs. And Peach writes him so many lovey dovey letters- yes, even after they're married- and bakes him many cakes. They love each other so much 💕

So yeah. They are a pretty dynamic duo with running kingdoms and raising families in this timeline ^^ Thank you for sending this in! I hope you enjoy reading this ^^

[spokewar]

"You know as well as I do that it's not." That he wasn't, likely never would be again. It was a notion that left him adrift; Obi-Wan Kenobi had lived his entire life as a Jedi, a conduit of the Force who served the people, who possessed nothing yet cared for everything. It was who he was, what he was, his family, his religion, and his home. He felt like less than no one without it, as if he didn't exist and at the worst of times, it felt as if he never had at all.

It was only in the presence of other sensitives that he felt tangible and such thing was a rare occurrence. Jedi knew better than to gather lest their combined presences start ringing out and those who lived by the darkness—whatever loose titles they claimed when they severed their connection to the greater Living Force—tended to keep their distance from his frequent haunts. Through no coincidence, Obi-Wan had spent his padawanship visiting the most hostile planets the galaxy had to offer and while he once cursed his late Master for wasting his youth, there was no chance he would have survived as long as he had without it. Though, he wasn't sure what he had to show for it. His destiny had dwindled from leading his people and shepherding peace throughout the galaxy to hiding and shielding two younglings from the person he helped create.

"But tell me, what would that name mean to you?"

with  maul  tending  to  matters  beyond  her  on  mandalore,  qi'ra  was  left  to  face  as  the  primary  leader  for  crimson  dawn.  he  had  taught  her  well,  of  course,  yet  it  was  her  upbringing  on  corellia  that  molded  her  into  an  opportunist  at  heart.  once  a  scumrat,  always  a  scumrat,  she  heard  han  joke  once.  qi'ra  supposed  it  rang  true,  even  if  the  reminder  was  unsavory  at  best.  now,  she  welcomed  work  from  all  those  that  sought  it,  the  crimson  dawn  employing  any  that  braved  the  possibility.

the  man  -  she  was  certain  it  was  the  man  her  master  told  her  about  countless  times  before  -  stood  before  her.  with  the  empire's  eyes  raking  across  every  sector  for  the  jedi,  she  reasoned  that  she  wasn't  meant  to  recognize  him  at  all.  but  no,  there  were  the  signs;  copper  hair,  smug  pale  eyes,  and  an uncanny air  of  ease  even  facing  a  criminal  leader  such  as  herself.  any  apprentice  of  darth  maul  would  know  of  his  determination  to  end  the  obi-wan kenobi's prolific life.  however,  she,  unlike  her  master,  was  not  so  hasty.  the jedi were no enemy of qi'ra's. "and  what  can  the  dawn  for  you,  master  jedi?"  she  asked,  lips  coiling  with  polite  formality.  "it  is  still  master  jedi,  is  it  not?"

OBI-WAN KENOBI / (@spokewar) starter.

[eemamminy-art]

not obligated to answer this but if you have anymore thoughts about alex sdv (or stardew valley at all) please share. i am obsessed with alex

Oh hell yeah anon you've activated my current hyperfixation 😁 I have a google doc where I'm dropping my headcanons and a bulleted timeline for a Alex/m!farmer longfic I've been writing in my head that's up to about 13 pages now ahaha so here's a few things!!

When he first moved to Pelican Town he was actually really quiet and reserved because he was still grieving heavily, so he never really got close to the other kids. He talks about how he played gridball with his mom so I think once he got the chance to play that in school (in another town no doubt) I think he came out of his shell then and made some friends, but all those friends lived far enough away that after graduating high school he's been pretty lonely and never could connect with the other people his own age in town.

He never goes into the saloon to my knowledge prior to the 10-heart event dinner scene, so I headcanon that it's because he doesn't drink alcohol and doesn't want the temptation to try it. I don't remember if it's said explicitly but I got the impression his dad's abuse stemmed from being drunk so I imagine Alex refuses to touch the stuff out of both principle and fear of becoming like his father one day.

I said it in another post but I headcanon him as gay and suffering comphet. He's built himself up as this cool popular guy, so he tries to emulate the sexist straight guys he's seen in movies but there's absolutely nothing behind it. He says something rude to a girl and then is like uhhh (shit what now) bye! 😅 I want to think that in getting to know the farmer he not only does away with that facade but also gets more comfortable in his sexuality!!

and on a sidenote to the above: I hc most of the town as gay or bi and I am toying with the idea of Abby being transfem! Sam/Seb is a given, and maaaybe they're in a poly relationship with Abby but I'm still undecided!! I like Maru/Penny as a concept but need to marinate on that a bit more, I see them always sitting together and it makes me happy but I need to think more on how they met and what their relationship would be like. I don't have anything solid yet in terms of other characters' gender or sexuality headcanons exactly, other than Caroline and Jodi being bi and desperately yearning to run away together 🥰

But back to Alex!! With how his storyline goes of trying to impress others with his jock persona, then trying to switch gears and be super booksmart, I headcanon that he gets close to the farmer via the farmer tutoring him so he can take a community college placement test. :3 My thought for why he's in the rut he's in is that he wanted to play college gridball but his grades in high school were so bad he has done nothing with himself since graduation and has just been stagnating and becoming more and more bitter (which only amps up his shitty attitude when the player first meets him). So trying to get educated is doubly good for him because he can work toward his sports dream (in a way) and try to impress the farmer. Though of course, the thing that brings them closer is Alex learning to be true to himself 😊

This is getting long, so last thing: he's actually a really well-rounded homemaker but does not even think about it really. George has been disabled for a long time, so all of the handy work around the house has to be handled by Alex, and he's so eager to help out his grands. :3 They put a roof over his head so of course he'll climb up onto it to fix the leaks when it rains! Evelyn is always cooking and baking and Alex is so soft for his granny he has been in the kitchen helping her for as long as he's lived with them, so he's actually got a real talent for cooking and baking too! One of the first things he learned after moving in with them was the proper way to set a table, and the best way to wash dishes efficiently. He's spent enough time at Haley's house having no chemistry with the poor girl, but found Emily's whole sewing setup really fascinating and she taught him to mend the holes in his letterman jacket when he asked so he knows how to hand sew! These are all skills that he has but doesn't recognize as skills, he just inherently has this desire to help the people in his life so he picks up this and that to make it easier!

Anyway! Thank you for letting me ramble 😄 Alex is really sweet and soft underneath the mask he wears, and he's been rotating in my head for the last few months hehe

I had bought sdv when it came out but barely touched it, and started it up again on a whim earlier this year and I'm so glad I did!! I really adore the game and it's bringing me a lot of joy currently 🥺

[keeperthemultiversemom]

What could be consider laws of the multiverse?

Or is there no such thing?

Aight aight

Let's go, explanation for time

For this one I will speak as creator

This is infos I've shared before on my site, and I got the greenlight to share it here !

Reminder that @neonross was the og creator of Out of Bounds and I am merely one of the artist and writers ( and alternatively the lore gremlin that make sure everything is smooth good lore lol ( so for lore clarification yeh I'm the good person to ask haha))

So here are the "laws" of the multiverse and how it works in wttmv specifically !

Those rules apply only in our story, but anyone who wants to use those concepts are welcome, of course ! Neon Ross's og intent was to have rules flexible enough for people to make characters and have fun with the concepts, but we don't mean to be an autority of any kind and ruin people's fun... Anyway, explanation time

It's not really "laws" so much as rules for ourselves and for our story, to give it nuances and stakes and the right amount of lore scratching complexity

Some characters however might tell you that these are laws lmao

✨Out of Bounds ✨

___-Lore Guide-___

Out of Bounds (OOB) is a realm existing beyond the multiverse, operating by its own rules and devoid of time. This guide provides insight into OOB's nature, its role in the multiverse, and the mechanics governing its interactions.

Nature of Out of Bounds

Definition :

• OOB is a space outside of alternate universes, akin to the Void Realm in Towags where forgotten characters and places reside.

• Awareness of this space is limited, known only to those who reside within or encounter its inhabitants.

Television :

• Floating televisions within OOB display AUs, acting as viewports or portals for interaction.

• Televisions serve as a primary means for Multiversers to observe and interact with AUs. ( While it is the primary way, note that there are exceptions and other ways to travel )

Shows :

• We call "show" the stories within the multiverse. Includes the Original, Variants, Alternate Universes.

• The Original cannot be touched or interacted with by anyone.

• Variants are copies of the original with very minor changes (art style, design, head canons). They can be interacted with on varrying degree, depending on the creator of the variant will.

• AUs are copies of Welcome Home with major or noticeable changes, from the story, to the characters and their designs.

Vintage Tapes :

• AUs are stored within vintage tapes, with the film inside representing the universe's timeline.

• Tapes categorize AUs into Fixed and Flexible, depending on the level of interaction allowed by the creators of each AUs.

Interference Mechanics :

• Interfering with Fixed AUs poses risks, as altering their storylines can lead to universe corrupt and/or collapse.

• Flexible AUs allow more interaction, often featuring crossovers and Y/N scenarios.

Out of Bound Spaces

Channels :

• Spaces integral to the multiverse system, including the Observer's TV room, the Archives, and Admin's film room.

Shows :

• The AUs themselves, contained in the multiverse, then OOB

Lost Media :

• Spaces not categorized as channels or tapes, such as the Keeper's domaine, Trader's space, and Stitcher's atelier. (Often time those are kind of like shells of dead/collapsed/modified AU, or pocket dimensions)

Pillars of Creation :

• Vast space outside of the multiverse, a galaxy-like zone full of stars, that is said to be where the creators of AUs reside. Very few characters go so far in the OOB.

In between :

• The void between the AUs. It is devoid of breathable air, often dark and lightless as well. Some multiversers are unaffected by the lack of air, but stay careful ! We don't know what lurks or leaks in the in-between

Diagram made by Bloomenvogel and Neon Ross for the Out of Bound as we see it in WTTMV

Note : this diagram applies to wttmv, but feel free to use I with your characters if you want ! Just like all of those rules, we made those to help make the story as a whole

Out of Bound Inhabitants

Natives of OOB :

• The Out of Bound is often said to have a mind of its own... It will sometimes create its own variants of the core cast, for reasons still obscures to this day. Notable characters born from the OOB : Observer, Courier, Messenger

"Refugies"

• Cast or OC characters that had their worlds destroyed/corrupted/collapsed, and who are left to wander in the multiverse. Most often they will end up in Peacekeeper's domaine until they can be rehomed in a flexible tape or new universe, or adapt to the Out of Bounds.

• A character that adapts to the Out of Bounds will then be called "Multiverser" along with the native of OOB

• Characters considered "refugies turned multiverser" in wttmv : Peacekeeper, Filante, Trader, ShopKeeper, Watcheye, Stitcher, Croupier

Multiversers :

• Multiversers are the inhabitants of the Out of Bounds. Often times, they are anomalies that have developped specific abilities allowing them to reside or survive in the Out of Bounds. Those abilities often includes being able to travel to multiple flexible tapes, but not always. A multiverser will almost always be a variant of a cast character, and rarely, if not ever, a y/n or fan oc. (If you wonder why y/n and ocs are excluded from being multiversers specifically, it's because Y/N is at its core a you self insert, but *you* are supposed to be viewers in the story. It's fine when in a pocket universe like Keeper's and Trader, a y/n can exist there, but in the oob it could causes some problems of logic with viewer influence and control, or the focus of the story could go astray to fit a y/n, which is not a story we want to tell. It kinda goes for ocs too)

__________________

I tried to say as much as I could without much spoilers... For the reminder, I already explained the main, general chronology of wttmv on the site

Ik, ik, it's a bit of a hassle to go search and look and all. Tbh the site is kind of a way to give a bit of a treat for the really big fans who are ready to go on a separate site to get lore lmao /lh

But now I get to ramble here too ! Hurray !

TLDR :

OOB is big and weird. The AUs and Variants can be interacted with only if allowed by the creators. Multiversers are the weird cast variants living in the oob. The OOB is kinda like an onion, it has layers. Most characters always stay in the multiverse part.

[doverstar]

Okay, two whole people asked me to share my thoughts on River Song as a character and my thoughts on Doctor/River after I wrote a whole Clara Oswald essay, and it took me 4 days to write that I ship River with the Doctor and I love her, but there are so many problems. The biggest is named Steven Moffat. And because you asked, I will tell you why, turn up your screen brightness here we go-

*huge inhale* In a nutshell, River Song is ridiculous. Stop wait let me explain- *hands you the nutshell and pats your hand* Shh. River Song as a character first appeared in Silence in the Library, right? We were with the Doctor’s tenth incarnation and Donna Noble, statistically the most popular era in the show’s long history. And this episode was Moffat’s fourth-ever story for the show. Blink and the The Doctor Dances two-parter were all so good. He was on a roll. River comes in and she’s so much fun. And she knows the Doctor. Already. And the crowd goes oooooh collectively. She knows him intimately, it seems. And he has no clue who she is, so oooh again, she’s from his future! It is heavily implied that they'll be married—it’s just the first place anyone’s brain goes.  And then she dies. And we loved her, end scene. Then Moffat took over the show and got the opportunity to explain himself, and he explained himself really poorly.

River went from being a very interesting flash-in-the-pan to being an overdecorated ideal. She is Moffat’s ideal woman. She’s crazy, she seems independent and powerful and unattainable, but she’s actually totally obsessed with the protagonist and consistently making innuendos at him. Her sun rises and sets on the Doctor. Why? Because that’s Moffat’s idea of an attractive woman. I kid you not. I think the problem with writing something that is pure self-indulgence is that you’re so excited about what you’re writing, you don’t stop and think, hey, is this working? You don’t measure the quality. You’re not thinking clearly, it’s just wish-fulfillment. River is everything Moffat thinks a woman should be. Mysterious, strong, insane, violent, but only because of the man she’s drooling over. Her whole story is an excuse to write a woman like the one I just described, because it’s hot to Moffat. (I know. Gross.) Here comes a Moffat rant. The man is insanely talented, and I am not silly enough to believe that all of his writing regarding women is fetish-fueled – I just don’t think that way typically when I’m watching something, but it’s really hard to miss with Moffat. Haven’t you noticed every one of his female characters is full of lust for the protagonist? That’s weird. It was weird when Amy kissed the Doctor against his will, engaged to Rory and not interested in “anything quite so permanent”. It was weird when Nanny Clara kissed him after having just met him, in the middle of a dangerous situation, and then not keeping her eyes front up the magic ladder. (It was weird that Oswin was dressed like that and lounging in all of those poses the first time we saw her, as a dead woman in a Dalek shell, go back and watch it. Laugh like I did. You’re [hallucinating that you’re] stranded on an alien planet in a ship that crashed—and that’s what you’re wearing to work? The last survivor?) It's weird that rando Tasha Lem divulges intense, universe-altering danger to the Doctor in a breathless voice with space wine as they creep closer together over a bed. Ew. What? Why is that even happening? And finally, it’s weird that a girl brought up to murder her parents’ much-older alien best friend, who she was brainwashed to believe is the universe’s biggest problem, should want to eat his face off. Especially when their timelines are out of order and she hasn’t gotten to know him for real at all yet.

Is the Doctor attractive? Yup. Was any of that necessary? Nope. Now we’ll transition for a bit into what I think is wrong with the ship, even though I do ship it. (More on the pros of it later.) The more we learned about her, the less River and the Doctor made sense. The only truly wonderful thing about their dynamic (my favorite part!) is that the Doctor and River act like they’re already married, even though they’re meeting out of order. They have that assurance in one another. They each know the other person will become someone they’re willing to marry someday—they each get a sneak peek of that future together. (River in Let’s Kill Hitler, the DoctorinSilence in the Library.) So when they do meet, even when she’s in Instant Kill Mode and he’s in You Scare Me mode, it’s with an expectation that, hold on, eventually I’m going to really really care about you. Everything they do with one another from that point forward is influenced by that expectation, which makes them comfortable around one another. So that’s sweet and I love it. The problem is—River isn’t the Doctor’s ideal woman. She might be Moffat’s, but on paper she should not work with the Doctor romantically. Moffat engineered this woman—who is supposed to eventually be the Doctor’s wife—to be violent, self-centered, insane, very sexual, and willing to shatter any laws of time (or morality) she sees fit. That’s the opposite of what the Doctor admires, chooses, and is attracted to from everything we’ve ever seen of him. (Does the Doctor like smart, capable women who are good in a crisis? Yes! Obviously! That’s not what I’m talking about.) But suddenly after meeting River, being told one day she’ll be his wife, (instead of organically learning why he would marry her and organically learning who she truly is and then growing to love her naturally), very quickly and without explanation he’s all “And unlike me, she really doesn’t mind shooting people. I shouldn’t like that, kinda do a bit!” What? Since when? Since Moffat. Because Moffat is behind the wheel and Moffat finds that hot. Sir, just because you told me to ship it doesn’t mean I’m convinced. Now, is it her fault that she’s a murder weapon? Is it River’s fault that she was brought up to believe it’s okay to choose violence, wear poison lipstick, and be the girlboss of murder? Absolutely not. Melody Pond was kidnapped, tortured, brainwashed, and used as a human/Time Lady weapon just because she was there. She had absolutely no choice in the matter. And when she did eventually, finally get to choose, she chose to rescue the Doctor and start over. She sacrificed every remaining regeneration she might have had to reverse her actions. That last part? That’s awesome. I love that. But that nice moment doesn't fix the rest. The story goes that River was stolen, raised to kill the Doctor, and then fell in love with him along the way—and the special sauce is, she’s meeting him out of order; every time she sees him he knows her less because she’s moving backward along his timeline. (Unnecessarily complicated, but very fun, Moffat! Can’t forget fun in Doctor Who.) The story goes, too, that the Doctor meets his wife from the future in the biggest universal Library one day, watches her die, and waits for her to appear again so he can start a love story he knows the ending to—and the special sauce is, he’s meeting her out of order; every time he sees her he’s getting to know her more and she knows him less, because she’s moving backward while he moves forward. That does make for an interesting love story. You’re excited to see it play out because you and the Doctor expect it to be a doozy based on River’s “not those times, don’t you dare, you watch us run” speech in Forest of the Dead. But the problem is, they were both told they’d marry one day and therefore they treat it as a foregone conclusion, so there’s no organic attempt at really, truly falling in love. They behave as though they didn’t fall anywhere, they were pushedinside and someone locked the door. (I just pictured Moffat outside with the key. “Now KISS!”)

The point is that nobody worked for this relationship. If you’re going to explain how they fell in love, because the audience already knows they apparently will, then actually show them falling in love! When did the Doctor decide he loved River? When he found out she was Amy’s literal daughter? When he found out she was a psychopath? Or did it all begin in the Library when she died for him, because he already knew that for some reason one day he would marry her, and it’s all just placebo from then on? Or did Ten just regenerate into the sort of man who inexplicably “love(s) a bad girl, me”, and really gets off on those moments when River threatens to shoot and kill other life forms? Yeah, that makes sense. When did River decide she loved the Doctor? When Kovarian told her he’s the scourge of universes? Or was it when River heard he's ultimately the reason she was kidnapped and made to be raised by the Silence and forced into a space suit as a child, because one day she has to rid the universe of this man? Oh! Maybe she fell in love with him when her literal parents went to primary school with her as peers and Amy told her about the Raggedy Doctor as little girls and Mels decided she’d marry him for some reason one day even though she was trained to kill him! (*big pause to catch my breath*) Do you see what I’m saying? We didn’t see it happen. We were told, not shown, that they were in love, or that they would be in love enough to marry one day, and then we watched it not actually happen. And so did the Doctor and River. They are both living in a constant state of resignation to their relationship. Moffat didn’t tell a love story, he told an epilogue, and neither of the lovers got to experience the beginning! For all the cutesy times they quipped “spoilers” at each other, they never once just let things take their course naturally. They lived in the spoilers. The spoilers are the only reason they’re together in the first place! 

And one more thing. A side thing. The Doctor did not want to marry River. That’s disappointing, isn’t it? The wedding was not a happy one. They did it because according to River, their history (their relationship’s “archeology”) differed - she’s either the woman who murders or marries the Doctor, and given those choices, the Doctor wanted to choose murderer instead of wife as River’s role because it was the only way to save reality, but she wouldn't listen to him until he called her wife. Their wedding, just like everything else about their romantic history, is something they’re forced into. It’s contrived. It’s confusing. It’s very difficult to believe in. Moffat gave us all the relational-dynamic payoff prematurely and never actually showed us the part where they fell in love.

That’s my problem(s) with their relationship. Now let me talk about (as requested) River as a character again and what I actually do find most interesting and endearing about her and about her relationship with the Doctor. Like I said, I actually do love her, I actually do ship it, and now I’m gonna vomit out why.

The most endearing thing about River to me is that she is insecure, and that humanizes the silly ideal. Now, in spinoff material River led a very long and varied life, and the Doctor was not the only man she was intimate with. But he’s the only one she loves. That love is what makes her so insecure. And it is love—after a while of repeatedly running into him after Lake Silencio, River is consistently choosing to put the Doctor and his needs before herself and her own. She always had it in her; she’s Amy and Rory’s daughter and the child of the Tardis, after all. But it’s the influence that the Doctor has on her that makes her go from psychopath to heroine. She genuinely believes he’s the best man ever, which is saying something when your father is Rory Williams.

And she, River, murdered him or tried to. She was stolen from his friends and made to attack him, made to put them in danger. She had to lie to him nearly every time they met, or at the very least withhold important information from him. Every time she met him, he trusted her less and less and less. 

And the Doctor is not perfect, but think about how River must see him. He must seem perfect, right? He’s so, so kind, he’s so, so good. He’s so brave. He’s so selfless. He’s so smart. He’s amazing, and he uses his time and his talents for other people, saving lives and helping out all across the stars. He even helped her. He even forgave her. That’s why she fell in love with him, not because he’s hot when he’s clever, not because she’s a psychopath and really, Madam Kovarian, who else was she going to fall in love with, what a basic mistake – NO. If you want to look at it from its most compelling angle, no matter how confusing it gets, how contrived, the most compelling angle is that River loves the Doctor because the Doctor forgave her. In spite of everything. And we see how she really thinks of him, how insecure she truly is, what she really thinks he must feel about her, in The Husbands of River Song. That episode is my favorite River episode.

She got to marry him, but it was under force. She got to be with him, but not forever. She got to help him, but not always. They kissed, but he treated it like it was the first time. He forgave her, but he had to bail them all out in the end, because when she tried she made a mess of it. “Trust you? Seriously?” “I don’t wanna marry you.” “You embarrass me.” “Why do you have to be this? Melody Pond—your daughter, I hope you’re both proud!” River is in love with him, but she genuinely does not think he is in love with her. On paper, it doesn’t seem like she’d be someone he chooses to love. Maybe someone he chooses to pity. Maybe someone he chooses to look after, because her parents are dead now and he loved them and he failed to save Melody the first time, guilty to the last. Whichever way she looks at it, he can’t possibly love her. Sure, he flirts with her, but he flirts with everyone. Yes, she’s smart, but he only takes the best. He’s surrounded by smart. She saved him and it was her honor, but she’s not the first to do that anyway. And like I said, neither of them got to see when the other person first started loving them, because it’s all back-to-front and they exist in a state of resignation. I can think of no better way to feel insecure about where you stand with the man you love than literally never ever knowing when it will begin.

But River’s cool. She’s brave and clever and she can do just about anything she wants with whoever she wants. She can live like the Doctor—adventures in time and space, and maybe sometimes he’ll run into her. In fact, she keeps calling on him when she needs help, and doesn’t he always come? Doesn’t that mean something? One day they’ll be married, just keep waiting, okay, now they are married, he’ll get used to it, he still flirts with her, stay cool, stay funny, stay smart, at least he’s still around, just keep waiting— And then after a while she stops waiting. She’s not like her mother. She gets on with life. The Husbands of River Song is genius because their timelines are synced perfectly, at last, for them to be at the peak of their affection for one another. River doesn’t know him, but not because he’s wearing a new face, because he’s actually really, really obvious about the fact that it’s him. He’s constantly trying to get her to see it without outright saying it, but she has this mental block that will not even consider that he’s there, especially the deeper they go into danger together. Why is that? Well, she says it. The enemy says she’s the perfect bait, refers to her as the woman who loves the Doctor, and what does River say? It's right here. And it’s made very clear by her actions throughout the episode before this speech that River really does believe it. Because he’s standing right behind her listening to all of that and she hasn’t seen that it’s him, because of course he’s not here. She suffers from the same mentality her sweet dad Rory did—that the person she loves will never love her the way she loves them. River doesn’t think she’s nothing, but she thinks she’s nothing to the Doctor.

I think it’s beautiful that she was wrong. I think the Doctor loves River, and I think it’s a very different love than what he had for Rose Tyler (or, now that I think of it, Sarah Jane). It’s still love, it’s just not the same. It’s nice that you can ship both, actually.

(If you ask me which I think is the better love story between the two ships, that’s a different essay for a different time, and one that I think will have people drop-kicking me throughout every facet of the internet. Right now we’re focusing on River and on her ship with the Doctor, which I do enjoy.) I may not think that it was brilliantly executed, but the fact remains that at some point, the Doctor did grow to love and care about River Song. And there’s one part of their wedding that I also liked a lot— When he marries her and her parents give consent, the Doctor’s first request of his wife is “help me”. That’s what wives do! That’s what husbands need from wives! That’s marriage. The sticking together no matter what, being the person you both turn to in life’s darkest moments. River understood that concept, because when Amy asks in The Angels Take Manhattan if allowing the Angel to touch her will send her to Rory, who has just died in front of them, the Doctor says he doesn’t know, and Amy asks “But it’s my best shot, yeah?” The Doctor shouts no, but River tells him to shut up. “Yes, yes, it is!” And she’s crying, but she’s smiling too. She knows what she would do if she were Amy. She knows why Amy is going to let the Angel touch her. Because that’s marriage. And that’s what she feels for the Doctor. I do ship it! I love the idea that love helped shape River instead of hate, contrary to Kovarian’s plans for Melody. I love the idea that the Doctor started out untrusting of River and in the end, trusted her implicitly. I love that he had her when he needed help. And let’s face it, they really are so much fun.

[hellcifrogs]

Oh man your big bro Sasuke ask sent me spiraling back into my own AU I made after finishing Naruto I called the Team 7 swap.

It was a swap between Team Minato and Team 7 which switch places and timelines. Naruto took over Obitos place raised by his father during the second and third Shinobi war and founded/joined the Akatsuki under Black Zetsus puppetry planning to get all the tailed beasts together to destroy their collective villages. He uses his Talk no jutsu to convince a lot of people to join him.

Sakura was made the three tails jinchuriki and because of her and Sasukes collective smarts, she was placed under a genjutsu before reaching the village and Minato helped reseal the three tails safely. She is now head of the healing department, under lady fourth and teaching young students to implement Tsunadaes plans for each team to have a healing nin.

Sasuke stayed in the village and wound up a Genin instructor to take on three students. Danzo did the Uchiha massacre but Sasuke was able to stop it before everyone died, but it was still a huge blow to his clan and most of the men died. Luckily, Danzos actions were enough to get him killed. He has his younger brother Itachi, a prodigy in his own right. His genin students are Kakashi, son of the white fang, Obito, one of the last Uchiha, and Rin, a promising healing kunoichi with a dark secret.

Jariya joins the Akatsuki with their justice and peace ambitions after seeing Naruto’s potential and reuniting with Konan, Yahiko and Nagato. Orochimaru doesn’t leave the village, being inspired by Sasukes growth to stick around. Tsunadae also doesn’t leave, inspired by Sakuras growth. Minato however, does leave the village after losing his son and wife, and goes into a drunken gambling fit, becoming a shell of what was once the yellow flash of the leaf. He’ll have a built in redemption to replace the Tsunadae arc.

Okay okay, but what happens to Naruto and Jiraya? How does the Ame trio work here? What is little Rin's big secret? Does three tails Sakura fight as well?? How stressed is Sasuke-sensei? I have so many questions, please tell me you're writing it sonewhere??

[spokewar]

@ofthestcrs // forgotten starter call :(

"You have been on the run—by yourself—this entire time?" She is either very unlucky or very good at hiding (though, given who they are, likely both); Obi-Wan has been making it his business to gather all the younglings he can and scatter them throughout the outer-rim planets to give them the best chance at life. The younger ones are the easiest, families tend to take pity on them and within a few years, they will forget their brief stint in the temple's creche. He collects sabers from the rogue troopers he can no longer differentiate, locks artifacts away in cavern tombs and begs the Force that no one find them until their nightmare is over, and smuggles what he can to the few sympathizers they still have. It never feels like enough.

Obi-Wan would like to think no one actually hates the Jedi, that they just fear what will happen if they don't. The thought does little to help him. Children are still dying, temples are being raided, and he is running out of time. There's a timer on this era of life, the rogue Jedi, and he knows he can't keep running around the galaxy forever. They will find him and his work will be undone.

There is a question he already knows the answer to, but he wants to hear it anyway and he asks, "what happened to your master?"

[magewolf-the-artist]

Domestic K-9: The Worst Pokemon Evolutions Ever

Oh boy, time to explore the ramifications of trauma and how it impacts people!

(Note: I do NOT have trauma or PTSD, although I've done a fuck ton of research on the subject for a different story and am applying the things I learned here. If anybody with any kind of trauma or PTSD spots any inaccuracies, please please PLEASE feel free to let me know. I wish to portray these issues with as much care and respect as possible)

So here I've display the three, I guess, stages of these fuckers. Life, the immediate response to, y'know, everything, and how they're holding up now. Except for Rosemary because I'm kind of an asshole to my blorbos. But obviously with Charles and Susan, they are not in any way "fixed" or even "healed" from their trauma, they moreso stabilized and got used to it. And now let's finally get into it!

SUSAN WOODINGS: So in life, Susan was generally closed off except for a select few amount of people and, while she could be snippy, she was actually pretty chill despite always looking like she wants to murder everybody in the general vicinity. Basically she looks a lot meaner than she actually is.

In death though, that's a completely different story. For the first year or so she had an EXPLOSIVE temper and would blow up over the smallest things, like a powder keg kept near sparklers. If the facility had a swear jar and money, she probably could've funded college for Sophie, Edd, AND Molly. She said many hurtful and cruel things to people she was close to (mostly Charles) that she now deeply regrets. It's all water under the bridge at this point but it still sometimes keeps her up at night.

As of the current point in the timeline, she's since calmed down quite a bit. She's less likely to snap over small shit unless it's Bon, to which she will gladly be just as bitchy as she was. She does have bad days though and is generally much more easily irritated and snippy.

CHARLES BROOK: In life, Charles is the ultimate dad. Easy going, friendly, very jokey, admittedly kinda naive, loves his kid. In death... well...

When they first got to the facility, he was an absolute wreck. He had resisted giving into Bon up until the point where he was starting to fade and, absolutely terrified of the idea of being Thanos snapped out of existence, reluctantly possessed the Boozoo animatronic. But even still he deeply regretted that choice. As well as that, he was extremely distraught about leaving his daughter and wife behind, on Lily's birthday no less, and that he was never found. He spent the first several weeks consumed by the intense misery and grief and was incoherent at best and delusional at worst. As previously mentioned, he got it into his head at some point that if he could just break down the walls, he could escape and constantly flung himself into the solid concrete walls. It didn't help that Susan wasn't terribly understanding and had little patience for this.

After a few weeks passed though, he began to stabilize and was generally able to recover a semblance of his goofy, friendly personality. That's not to say the trauma hasn't impact that though; he has to constantly distract himself or else he'll have a full on breakdown and desperately tries to change the topic whenever his death or his family is brought up. He and Susan have also since smoothed things over and Charles holds no resentment towards her now.

ROSEMARY WALTEN: Everyone's favorite sad mom!

So in life, Rose was generally kind, caring, humble, creative, and introverted, although she had come out of her shell since her younger years and was perfectly capable of being social.

But in death... hooooo boy, buckle up chucklefucks, 'cause this is gonna get SAD

As previously mentioned, Rosemary is a mess. Constantly crying, completely drawing into herself, rarely speaks to anybody but Rocket, and is unable to bring herself to do anything outside of draw, think, or cry. She's kinda just frozen in time, unable to stabilize like Charles and Susan, which is why she has no stage 3. The closest thing to that I can confidently say she's gotten is pouring herself into her art and caring for Rocket, but even still it's not much.

[kammieceleek]

Honest to fucking God, quickest way to get me hyperattached to a fandom (and write for it) is to give me a ship. I'm a writer, romance-fantasy is my bread and butter, and this is my way of announcing that I am currently working on a manhwa-inspired Genshin fic and let me tell you that I have a few ships in mind for who will be starring in this little production.

1. Kinich x Mualani (grumpy x sunshine, typical manhwa romance of disgraced high-ranking noble being in an arranged marriage and gradually getting closer)

2. Clorinde x Wriothesley (business arrangement marriage, marriage of convenience or secret marriage, also Clorinde being Duchess of Meropide sounds cool af)

3. Jean x Diluc (arranged marriage, gradually getting closer, definitely a political drama in the background, possible childcare AU with Klee in the mix)

4. Sethos x Layla (yes rarepair but I love it, kind sunshine ML helps shy workaholic FL out of her shell)

5. Cyno x Nilou (childcare AU or fake relationship for sake of getting people off Cyno's back)

6. Furina x Neuvillette (transmigration, Furina winds up as a doomed character and resolves to change her fate, also possible saintess character)

7. Collei x Freminet (time regression story, one regressed and changes the timeline, protective papas Tighnari and Cyno, supportive Knave and Magician Twins)

None of these are set in stone to definitively be written, but these are a few ideas I've had. I'm gonna try and write a few out, see which ones work and which ones don't because I am sick of this goddamn writer's block and I'm hoping this will help me take a sledgehammer to it.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

My only issue with the idea that the Fidelius Charm was casted +1 year before their death, is that you're implying it's possible to change Secret Keeper while the charm is still working? Because I always felt like it's such a complex charm that once a decision is made you cannot go back on it and just switch your SK so easily.

But honestly it would explain why Peter never betrayed them before: he literally couldn't... And having people like Bathilda in the secret is safe since she cannot say anything.

Although, I don't know why Dumbledore would lie and say to Fudge the charm was performed a week before their death. Could it be that the "evidence" Dumbledore gave to the Ministry to prove Severus was 'innocent' was the fact he was the one to inform him about Voldemort going after the Potters? Therefore he had to pretend he hid the Potters only after it?

Going back to my timeline though, I think it's possible the Fidelius Charm was actually destroyed when Voldemort's spell backfired. It not only destroyed a part of the house, but the powers behind it also destroyed the charm who was already weakened by the death of the caster AND the death of the people in the secret (I imagine it was something along "The Potters are located X"). It was like a crack in the charm and the explosion of magic that happened here destroyed it.

After all, we actually never know if Dumbledore was the caster of the Fidelius Charm on Grimmauld Place, only that he was the SK. It could have been Snape for example. Except if I forgot, it's never actually stated you can be the caster AND the SK, even if people assume Bill was:

“Fidelius Charm. Dad’s Secret-Keeper. And we’ve done it on this cottage too; I’m Secret-Keeper here."

The fact Bill uses "we" means it's possible Arthur was the caster for Shell Cottage and Bill the caster for the Burrow. Therefore, we can theorize that the death of the caster can weaken the charm or even break it. The only confirmed caster who died was James/Lily, and the charm did break.

I also think Dumbledore was not surprised by what Snape told him because he already knew or found out along the way that he was a DE so obviously he would have told what he heard that night to Voldemort. Dumbledore just didn't know yet what Voldemort would do with it (since he is the kind to think that the prophecy only works if Voldemort gives power to it). Maybe he pushed the Potters and Longbottoms to keep low when their pregnancies were revealed, helping them with casting protections but it's only when he learnt from Severus that the Potters were the target that he decided to suggest the Fidelius Charm-- I am going with the idea that you cannot switch your SK once it was casted in this scenario.

I think it's interesting to see different versions of what we think could have happened. Like, we it's pretty open to interpretation but also we need for the details to make sense which is not always easy with the HP world lmao

Referring to this post.

I don't think you can switch Secret Keepers, I think it was always Peter (for all that year and a half-ish) but that Voldemort actively started to look for them much later. Like, I don't think he really believed in the prophecy until after he died. Talked a bit about this when analyzing Voldemort. I just think Voldemort waited a year+ before attacking the Potters.

I mean, even assuming the Fidelius was cast a year after the prophecy was made (which I don't think is the case), Voldemort knew the prophecy and about the Potters' pregnancy before Harry was born, he had a whole year and a half that he could hunt them down and yet he didn't. That's why I think Peter was always the SK and it was Voldemort who decided not to do anything with this information.

This actually lines up nicely with the Order being whipped out entirely in these final few months leading up to the Potter's deaths after July 1981. If we assume that's the point Voldemort started caring about the prophecy for one reason or another, it would explain the drastic change in behavior since we don't see such killings in this war before that point.

But yeah, all of the first war is pretty up for interpretation and heavily depends on how you view the magical theory behind the Fidelius Charm, cause I don't think the spell backfiring could've been what broke it. We also know it doesn't break when the SK dies from Dumbledore, so it could only break if the secret doesn't exist anymore, which would depend on exactly what was the phrasing of the secret (discussed more here).

So, the only way it makes sense to me is if Harry wasn't included in the spell. Especially since the fact that muggles crowded in suggests they could hear and see the explosion of the house, meaning the charm broke before the spell backfired.

As for why Dumbledore would lie to Fudge, there could be a lot of reasons, from Snape's defense, as you mentioned, to obfuscating the existence of the prophecy and its connection to Harry. There are various possibilities actually.

Like, there aren't really definitive canon answers to the timeline, but that's how I think it went down as it's the only thing that makes sense to me.

[abubblingcandle]

Can we hear more about the Darkest Timeline from People Don't Change People (time does)? Sounds very angsty, and I love the Jamie angst!

Of course lovely anon!!! The Darkest Timeline is a little series of mine that just imagines the really bad ways that Jamie returning to Man City could have gone. It dives into more of the football and the image side of it and how his return to Richmond could have gone if this wasn't a comedy show

There are currently four parts planned

Like a Black Hole - Jamie POV of him getting sent back to Man City inc. meeting with Rebecca and Pep's response

Collateral Damage - Jamie tries to get a move away from Man City instead of going on LCA and Ted accidentally fucks it up for him leaving Jamie with no option but to come back to Richmond as a shell of his former self

People Don't Change People (time does) - Ted dealing with the consequences of his fumbling of Jamie and the lack of understanding of football player's careers. Jamie sees everything as mind games and the other players are starting to doubt Ted.

Brittle Trust - Jamie contends with his dad, Ted, his broken self esteem and tries to work out what his future is going to look like

People Don't Change People (time does) is more Ted centric but it uses Jamie and Ted's relationship as a vessel for Ted to realise that while Rebecca was intentionally driving the team into ruin with no regard for who's lives she was destroying, he is doing that accidentally and is that maybe worse?

I haven't written much of that one yet and have just realised there are so many Wizard of Oz references in Ted's head but here's a snippet:

Ted waited until the locker room was quiet and the remaining footballers were locked into their post training routines to pounce. “Sam, could we have a word?” he called from the doorway to the office. No one else reacted apart from his target, who’s head shot up with shock. He looked around like there was some other Sam in the building before taking a settling breath. He looked like he was expecting a scolding or walking into the lions den. Ted never wanted that from his players. He wanted his office to be a place that people felt comfortable and safe. But who was he kidding, it hadn’t even been a place like that for him for months now let alone any of his players. If Sam was walking into the lions den then it was the cowardly lion if nothing else. “Everything alright coach?” Sam frowned, lingering at the precipice and unwilling to cross the threshold. “I trust you Sam,” Ted began, clearing his throat as he stood ready to take the pain. “Oh,” Sam’s frowned deepened. “Thanks I guess coach.” “So I trust you to tell me what you think. What’s the mood like out there? It’s been a little icy and all though I am used to this island’s hostile weather I am not used to it inside,” Ted rambled. “I don’t know Ted,” Sam muttered, shoulders up to his ears and hands deep into his pockets as he leant against the doorframe. “You can be honest, you won’t get a buzzer from this dissection of my character,” Ted chuckled, the hoarseness of his voice fooling no one about the hoarseness of his mental state. Jamie Tartt had come back into their lives like a tornado and Ted was the wicked witch with the stunningly impractical shoes underneath the house of the truth.

[narzissenkreuz-ordo]

My thoughts & feeling about the Imbibitor Lunae's recent story leaks, in regards to Renheng / Xingyue & Dan feng himself

i'm pretty sure other folks have made posts trying to piece together the timeline, but even with the actual story sections the events of Dan Feng's sins are still super unclear

Starting with Dan Feng because he's my skrunkly; this dude really thought his power and position made him god-like with little regard to mortals below him while fighting with the HCQ

i know there were past leaks where DF was vaguely described as pretty emotionless and detached. but man he really does not give a shit people with his active detachment BUT the quick gazes & mentioned sharing drinks with the HCQ really makes it seem like DF went from consistent detachment throughout his current & past lives and then became absolutely ride or die for his (new) friends.

I have a feeling that the constant cycle of being reborn & being forced immediately into preparing to be the High Elder, Being the High Elder & caring out those duties, and dying as the High Elder. The cycle keeps going on and on. He probably had no TIME to indulge in normal ass things like friends or any other non-professional social life. But them he meets these 4 weirdos who treat him as just One Of The Guys and immediately comes ride or die for them.

The mask of emotionless & cold detachment comes crumbling down around his new found friends. This honestly probably punches DF in the gut because these sensations are new and wack to him, I love the idea of him being a lil unhinged and drunk on the power of friendship BUT ONLY with the HCQ. the emotional whiplash the people around him problem experience is probably so hilarious because they see him having a blast with his friends and theyre like omg is that the high elder omg i didn't think he was such a party lizard but then IMMEDIATELY goes back into his cold & collected personality the moment someone else interacts with them all. The moment he starts feeling the power of friendship he's like "am i sick? whats happening to me oh my god why does my brain feel like bees" unable to process the emotions trying to reboot his brain constantly like a fucking windows computer. we love an autistic king!

ok this was supposed to a more serious post abt DF & the actual events in the leaked story but my brain automatically thinks of HCQ shenanigans

do i need to say more about "that exceedingly arrogant craftsman" like holy Fucking Shit this is fucking gay. his emotionless detachment in battle & his quick/mostly neutral thoughts about his other friends, but with Yingxing he goes into gay annoyance/admiration mode.

I really wish that Yingxing wasn't a short-lifed species because this whole dynamic SCREAMS slow-burn to me. DF's standoff-ish behavior & genuine annoyance towards YX and his arrogance but it slowly becomes more & more endearing as the rest of the HCQ get him to come outta his "stick up his ass" shell to eventually the realization hits and becomes giddy & drunk on his overwhelmingly intense love for YX and becomes a slightly feral lizard, even in public with the HCQ And giving YX gay gay homosexual gay immortality dragon heart juice would still be a thing with YX dying in battle.

Before I end this, I'll just touch up on the more Depressing events in DH IL's story leaks:

DF's emotional detachment to others & friendly relationship with the HCQ leads him & YX to wanting to carry out some sort of "Plan" which probably involves whatever conversation DF & YX we were able to listen in on at Scalegorge Waterscape (or was DF just sneaking YX into Scalegorge Waterscape so that he could research Vidyadhara craftsman techniques?). But since these are DH's dreams even HE doesn't know whats going on.

my general thought process was: DF & YX are planning something together (making YX immortal?), weird fucking shapeshifting flesh monster is tthere?, YX telling him to commit to a decision, DF having the star & red bloodcell vision (was he glanced at by Yaoshi while trying to use the Dragon heart to make YX immortal?), Then Baiheng comes crashing into to try and stop the monster (why was she THERE?)

it doesn't make sense that Baiheng was the one DF planning to bring new life to. Since her sudden appearance is a surprise to him & YX was only described as wounded but able to protect and use his sword

since these are DH's dreams & fragmented memories. With out the other story beats, could it be possible that the "bury his old friend" and "grant them new life" were two different people? DF coming to grant YX immortality but Baiheng gets disintegrated thus DF buries a friend & give the other new life.

Were missing a lot of context here, did YX later get injured so badly that DF tries to revive him? or was the Yaoshi flesh monster completely unrelated and they HCQ were trying to stop it and beiheng fucking dies? does DF try to bring Baiheng back while having his weird ass blood and flesh vision & things go Very Wrong and YX gets caught in the crossfire, making him into the monster we know today? is that why Blade is always going on about how him & DF have to pay the price for THEIR sins? They tried to bring Baiheng back and committed the greatest taboo and they created something horrible (Baiheng abomination & Blade's immortality?)

I'm gonna try Not dwelling on the details here since we need even MORE context now. This post is getting SO long, i will leave it at that & think more about HQC domestic bliss

[kekeartzworld]

Sneaky Lil Peep For People Who Actually Care

This is a WIP from IbisPaint on my iPad

It’s grown up/future designs of the gays

This is like 15 years into the future so they’re both in their early 30s by this point in time

What you may be able to notice right away is that Blossom’s allowed her hair to grow out a bit

I see Blossom taking after Miss Bloomie, becoming a chemistry teacher

Symphony

It was a little more difficult to think of something for them

I recall how I’ve given Symphony a rather shy and anxious personality so I had this idea that it does come out of its shell more as it gets older and it becomes a guidance counselor at the school helping students who go through similar struggles that it remembered going through in its youth

Additionally, Symphony never gets rid of its cat Oreo

In fact, Oreo ends up becoming a therapy pet and she stays with her owner in the counselor’s office

I feel this goes too deep into spoilers for my plans with this

BUT

Symphony and Blossom do end up having children of their own in this future timeline

I will not spoil the kiddos backstory but I will say that they are twins and I’ve named them Melodii and Basil

Yes, one of the kids is named Basil… go ahead, Omori fans make your jokes

I think that’s as much insight as I want to give about this future timeline until I EVENTUALLY get it finished

This is NOT gonna be one of those projects that I get halfway done with and give up on because I think that this actually does make for some interesting, more in depth lore for these two

Anyway, that’s all!

I may try and get some sleep… it’s 3:30 AM at the time of typing this

Buh bye! =3

[the-down-upside-finch]

WIP List (Tag Game!)

Thank you for the tag, @anyablackwood!

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

...I don't think you understand what you are asking me to do.

*drags out my folder labeled "WIPs," where each of my stories have their own folders because I have to be organized* So, we have, in an order that descends into the "unnamed" docs: (The * means that this is a big folder with even more stuff inside of it)

Potentially Kinetic (webcomic)* - PK S1 by Chapter - PK S2 by Chapter - Idea Blurbs - Timeline

Stained Integrity (webcomic)* - (1) Stained Integrity (Revision Doc 2) - (2) Stained Integrity - [insert title]

Pentad of Un (novel)

Minding Q's (novel)

Secrets of a Gon (novel series)* - (1) Secrets of a Gon - (2) Secrets of a Gon: Fairling - (3) Secrets of a Gon: Witchery - (4) Secrets of a Gon: Krow

The New Magicians (novel series)* - (1) The Lucky Ring That Brought Bad Luck (The New Magicians) - (2) The Wooden Stick From the Wizard's Castle (The New Magicians) - (3) The Jeweled Heart From the Mage’s Dungeon (The New Magicians) - (4) The Ruby Crown That Shapeshifted When Worn (The New Magicians) - (5) The Glass Box Which Held an Unseen Curse (The New Magicians) - (6) The Feathered Mask That Could See Darkness (The New Magicians) - (7) The Hiltless Sword That Was Held By Shadows (The New Magicians) - (8) The Blue Cloak Worn to Cover a Curse (The New Magicians) - (9) The Spotted Egg From the Dragon Caverns - (10) The Bottle of Dust Stolen From Thieves' Bazaar - (11) The Ghostly Ship That Sank With the Sun - (12) The Arcane Ingredients Needed to Brew a Potion (The New Magicians) - (13) The Shell-Made Throne at the Bottom of the Sea - (14) The Gon Blood of the Last Descendants

Parallel Shadows (novel series)* - (1) Parallel Shadows (Revision Ver.) - (2) Light of the Railing (Parallel Shadows) - (3) Burning in Degrees (Parallel Shadows) - (4) Perpendicular Grid (Parallel Shadows) - (5) Crossed Between Axes (Parallel Shadows) - (6) Divisual of Angles (Parallel Shadows)

Wager and Cursed (novel trilogy)* - (1) Betting on Mushrooms - (2) Flying for High Stakes (Wager and Cursed) - (3) Always Bet on Blackmail (Wager and Cursed)

Shakedown (stream-of-consciousness experiment)

When It Showers

Link & Pin* - (1) Link & Pin — (The Quill & The Feather) - (2) Link & Pin — (Murder of Crows) - (3) Link & Pin — (Blue Overcast)

The Final Straw

A Stanger Comes to Town

Navigating Peril With a Compass and a God

150 Million Tonnes

Lies Von Iash

Shards of Midnight

Something in Retaw

The Neitherling & Champion

Beachcombers

Deck Them All

The Hotel With the Glass Elevator (previously titled "GGD Crew")

Half-Hour Identity

Head Space

Twisted, Entwined

Out Phazed

Non-Stop ∞

My Life is a Comedy (and I am a Side Character)

Two-Faced Flip

(post-apocalyptical world where you can kill someone for like a house)

(the necromancer/holy knight thing)

(Where the knight gets stuck protecting the practitioner)

(Attempt to write mystery)

(that one story idea)

(Untitled WIP, Walled-In Town)

A prince that can turn into a dragon visits a kingdom where he is supposed to marry the princess and he turns into a dragon to share his secret but someone sees him so they have to make up a whole situation where the princess is captured by the dragon and

Like 82957 short stories that I'm not going to list here because. there are literally so many of them.

Y'all. That's like 35 WIPs in my stupid WIP folder, not counting the individual stories within each series. THERE'S NO WAY I FOLLOW KNOW MANY WRITEBLRS BUT I'M NOT ABOUT TO BACK DOWN FROM A CHALLENGE So I'm (gently) tagging: @my-cursed-prince, @athenswrites, @amaiguri, @k-v-briarwood, @the-grim-and-sanguine, @planets-and-prose, @owlsandwich, @card-queen, @zestymimblo, @lordcatwich, @wordswrittenbynight, @worldsfromhoney, @ahordeofwasps, @autumnalwalker, @nettleandthorne, @bassguitarinablackt-shirt, @gwenthekween, @harleyacoincidence, @dancinginsepia, @fire-but-ashes-too, @aziz-reads, @serendipminiewrites, @maskedemerald, @da-na-hae, and literally whoever else wants to do this because. Yeah. Open tag.

(I realize after typing all of that that the game is probably just supposed to refer to only one specific WIP but you know what. I already typed all of that so I'm just going to live with it. Have fun y'all.)