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justagalwhowrites · 2 months

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Yearling - Ch. 30: Blood

Joel and Tommy run into trouble on patrol. A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-29 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Plot points from TLOU2. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only

Length: 7.5k

A/N: Hi y’all, I’m stashing this whole chapter below a jump because it’s been brought to my attention that the major event of this chapter is less common knowledge and more of a spoiler than I really realized it was. There is a major plot point for TLOU2 below. I’m sorry I didn’t tag the whole fic that way (going back to update that now) and I apologize if this spoiled things for people who were trying to go in blind. This is the first chapter with any big overlap and if you want to bow out now, I totally understand. My DMs are open if you want to know more without full spoilers and if there’s a way to keep reading without knowing the plot of TLOU2.

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Dina kissed me.”

“What!” You yelped and Ellie’s eyes went wide before she clamped a hand over your mouth.

“Shhhh!” She looked around, her breath rising in front of her. But the only people out right now were inside the stable, a good 50 feet behind you and far enough away that you doubted any of them heard you, even if you were loud. “Jesus, Bambi…”

She released your mouth and you tried not to giggle.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “Good for you, kiddo! Told you not to count the girl out because she also fucks men…”

“There’s no way she meant it,” Ellie rolled her eyes. “Get real.”

“Why not?” You asked, brows raised. “Why shouldn’t she mean it?”

“Because she’s Dina,” Ellie said, as though that explained everything. You just looked at her and she rolled her eyes again. “She was just trying to stir shit up because her and Jesse split up…”

“Uh huh.”

“And I was convenient,” she finished. “That’s it, that’s all it was…”

“And you know this because you asked her, I’m sure.”

“Fuck off,” she snapped. “Look, I didn’t drag you out here to figure that shit out…”

“You sure about that?”

“I dragged you out here,” she said, ignoring you, “to try and figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.”

“Kiss her again,” you shrugged. “That’s what I’d do…”

“I’m being serious!” She hissed at you. “I have to go on patrol with her in like half an hour, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

You sighed and smiled a little, putting your hands in the pockets of the coat Joel had given back to you that morning. He said he hadn’t been wearing it but it had to have been hanging close enough to things he did wear and it smelled a bit like him.

“First, you need to calm down,” you said gently. She looked like she was going to snap at you but you silenced her with a look. “I know it’s hard but regardless of how you want this to turn out, try not to be in your own head about it, OK? She’s still your friend and I’m guessing you want her to stay your friend, right?”

“Duh.”

“So eloquent,” you said and she rolled her eyes. “Look, you have two options. You can pretend it never happened and see if she brings it up or you can be up front about it and ask her.”

“Is there a way to bring it up without looking like a desperate fucking loser?” She asked, brows raised.

You shrugged.

“Tough line to walk but I think you’ve got it in you.”

“Jesus…”

“Ellie,” you took her shoulders and made her actually face you. “It will be OK. Might be awkward for a bit but it’s not the end of the world. I promise. You can talk to her. She’s your friend for a reason and it’s because you’re kind and you’re smart and you’re funny. Even without the help of Will Livingston. None of that shit changes just because you kissed. Alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, dropping her head to your shoulder with a heavy sigh. You put your arms around her and gave her a little squeeze but when she pulled back from you, her eyes were narrowed. “You’re in a weirdly good mood.”

You frowned.

“No I’m not.”

“Uh yeah, you are,” she said, stepping back and looking you up and down as though she she were inspecting you. You just raised your eyebrows at her, expectant, when her mouth dropped open for a moment before she shifting to a shit eating grin.

“Ellie…”

“You fucked Joel!”

“We need to have another conversation about the fact that what happens between my legs is none of your business,” you muttered, turning her around to head back toward the stable.

“No we don’t,” she said. “This is great, you two have been so depressing the last few months…”

“We have not!”

“Please,” she rolled her eyes. “You were basically dead for weeks and Joel barely left the house for who knows how long.”

“That… was less recent,” you said. “And it’s not your job to worry about us so let’s just…” you stopped just short of the stable doors. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About…” you lowered your voice. “Joel. Not that I’m admitting to anything.”

She smirked.

“That coat’s been hanging in his front closet since you left.” You looked down at yourself and groaned. Her cocky smile grew. “You wanted the coat again. Bingo.”

“Well just… keep it to yourself, alright?” You said, heading for the door. “I have no idea how to handle this with Savvy yet so cool it for bit. Please.”

“I can keep my mouth shut you know,” she said as you opened the door to the stable and she went in. She opened her mouth to keep talking but Dina came up to her, smiling, and she froze instead.

“Hey Ellie,” she smiled a little bigger before looking at you. “Bambi, good to see you.”

“You too,” you said, clapping Ellie on the shoulder. “Have fun out there.”

She glared at you over Dina’s shoulder and you just shrugged and winked at her before taking care of the final things you needed to before getting everyone out the door on patrol.

You seriously considered, for a moment, taking Joel’s hand and just dragging him back home when he told you that you’d be going out separately. Things with him were so raw and delicate and new again. Neglecting it for two days felt dangerous somehow, a tension setting into your limbs before you and Julie headed out.

You were always last to leave the stables, always waiting until you knew the rest of the patrol was situated even though you knew Olivia could handle things just fine without you. She smiled - a vaguely amused look on her face - as you went back over everything for the third time.

“I promise, it’s all good,” she said eventually. “Please go focus on killing infected and staying safe and leave managing the horses to me.”

On the way out of town, you stopped by where the working dogs were kept and asked if you could bring Gatling along, Julie looking a little skeptical as the dog jumped on Renaissance and settled between your legs, her head draped over your bicep.

“Used to ride like this with her all the time,” you said, kissing the top of the dog’s head. Gatling licked her lips once and curved her body into yours as you sat back in the saddle to make sure she had room. “I’ll let her down once we’re good and underway, she’ll keep up. She’s great at spotting infected and I’m guessing she could be a great patrol dog once we get her adjusted to working with more than just me…”

“She definitely looks like she can hold her own,” Julie said, watching as Gatling started scanning the horizon, her ears perked and listening, ready to jump off your horse and run down any apparent threat. “What kind of dog is she, anyway?”

“She’s a Belgian Malinois,” you said, giving her a scratch behind the ears. “They were police and military dogs before. She saved my ass from infected more than once and she kept my girl alive when I couldn’t…” You kissed her head again and she turned to lick your cheek before going back to watching for threats. “She’s a good girl.”

“Good to know I’ve got someone out here who can really watch my back,” Julie teased lightly. “Not sure I trust you to do it…”

“Why not?” You asked, gaping at her. “I’m a great shot, keep you alive no problem…”

“You forget I saw you trying to show Ellie and Savvy how to shoot a basketball that one time,” she smiled a cocky smile. “You barely hit the backboard…”

“OK shooting a basketball is a completely different animal,” you waved her off. “Where it counts, my aim is solid. Saved Tommy once.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true,” you said, nudging Renaissance a little faster. “Ask Joel…”

“Joel, hm?” She brought her horse alongside yours. “Things happening there?”

You tried to hide your smile but felt the edges of your mouth curve up, anyway.

“Good for you!” Julie said. “Both because you’re my friend and I want you to be happy but also because I like being right and goddammit, if I’m going to get shot down for a man of all people at least it’s a man I was right about.”

You laughed a little before you remembered you had things weren’t just magically fixed with Joel yet.

“Do me a favor and don’t mention it to anyone?” You said, looking down at Gatling. “I need to tell Savvy…”

The dog looked up to you at the mention of her name and you gave her a small scratch.

“Oh, right,” Julie winced a bit. “Yeah, that might be rough.”

“Yeah,” you sighed heavily. “I need to figure out a way to do this without losing both of them. I can’t do that again, I just… I can’t.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said gently. “It will be OK. Just have to believe it, it’ll happen.”

“I’ll do my best,” you smiled a little at her. “How’s shit with Karen, by the way?”

“Oh God,” she laughed. “I’m not sure how much I should tell you…”

The patrol was easy enough until the snow started flying. It was still, the two of you talking, Gatling sometimes running ahead and acting more like a puppy than you remembered her being before, making you smile. It felt like if she could be like this - young and free and more than what survival had made her - so could Savvy. She would get there someday. You could get her back and make her understand once she was ready.

Once the snow picked up, you and Julie decided to hunker down instead of pressing on to what was meant to be your final spot for the day. Though you were pretty sure you were only an hour or so shy of it if the weather weren’t working against you.

“OK this is bullshit is what this is,” Julie said as she stomped snow off her boots and shook it out of her hair. You laughed a little as you got a fire going in the fireplace of the old house you’d reached for the night. It was just at the edge of a small subdivision, a spot you’d ridden past before but never spent much time in. The two of you had gotten the horses settled in the garage and Julie had done a quick walk around the immediate area to make sure there were no threats before coming in to settle for the night. “White, fluffy bullshit.”

“Not getting you in the holiday spirit?” You teased. “Thanksgiving is coming up, Christmas right after that…”

“Yeah, I’m already counting down until spring,” she said, shucking her coat and joining you by the fire. “I can only live with this for so long.”

“I kinda like it,” you said as the fire caught the larger log and you watched it start to go up. “I like that seasons actually change here. It definitely made it easier to mark the passage of time when I didn’t have a calendar.”

“Well I guess when you put it that way,” she sighed dramatically and you laughed. “But now that you’re in Jackson, we’ll keep you straight on the passage of time. The snow can go.”

Julie had brought a bottle of whiskey from the Bison - “A perk of the job,” she said - and you were reminded of sleepovers when you were in high school when you and your friends would swipe booze from your parents’ liquor cabinets and get drunk around a bonfire.

“I feel like we’re going to regret this in the morning,” you said, snug in your sleeping bag on the floor as the fire dimmed, head fuzzy and limbs tingling from the alcohol. Gatling’s head rested on your stomach.

“We can just sleep in a bit,” she scoffed and you heard her adjust on the couch. “What are they gonna do, fire us from patrol for running late? Doubt it.”

You laughed a little.

“Guess there’s not much to contend with out there right now, anyway,” you said, closing your eyes. “Been quiet as hell all day. Doubt it’ll change overnight.”

“It’d better not,” she said, sounding sleepy. “Better not be more snow, either.”

You laughed once.

“Better snow than infected,” you said. “Or raiders.”

She didn’t respond and the room was quiet for a moment before you heard a soft snore coming from the couch.

You laughed and then sighed, pulling a hand from the sleeping bag to scratch Gatling behind the ears. She sighed and curled up tighter to you.

“It’s gonna be different when we go back,” you whispered to her, absently stroking one of her soft ears. “You can still come home with me, though. Maybe sleep with Savvy instead for a bit. I’m sure you miss her.”

You tried to think about how to tell Savvy about Joel. It would have been a hard conversation under any circumstance, you thought. Not one you’d ever thought you’d need to have when you’d started caring for her. The idea of being with anyone long term then had been so foreign it hadn’t even crossed your mind. After Marisa, you’d given up on that. Just the occasional lover when there was a woman around who was interested as she was passing through had been enough.

But Jackson was different. Joel was different. You had safety and security in Jackson and you loved Joel in a way you’d never thought you’d find, especially not after spending so long alone. But how could you tell Savvy something that you knew would hurt her? How could you tell her anything at all when she hadn’t spoken to you in weeks?

“She’s gonna come around, right?” You whispered to Gatling. You felt her lick her lips and sigh against you. You closed your eyes but left your hand on the dog. “I’ll get her to trust me again. I will.”

When the pounding on the front door woke you up, you were barely even aware you’d been asleep. But it was daylight outside and Gatling was standing near the front door, crouched low and snarling.

“Wha…” Julie lifted her head, a groggy look on her face.

“I got it,” you said, head spinning as you shoved your way out of your sleeping bag. “You stay put.”

“Thank fuck,” she groaned, dropping her head back on the couch and draping her arm over her eyes. You laughed and shook your head, going for the door.

“Gatling.” The dog looked up at you, ready to obey. “Heel.”

She fell back from the door and went to your leg, still tight against you, as you opened the door.

“Glad I found you,” Gene, Jesse’s patrol partner said, pushing past you into the house without waiting for an invitation. “It’s a mess out there…”

“That’s why we stopped here for the night,” you said, leaving the door open and nodding to Gatling, who immediately ran outside to pee. You waited by the door and let her back in, the dog sticking to your side again.

“We can’t be that late getting out of here,” Julie grumbled, sitting up and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Not that it’s not just a blast to see you, Gene…”

“We’re missin’ people,” he said, more to you than Julie.

“What?” You frowned, crossing your arms over your chest, the after effects of the alcohol suddenly fading fast. “What do you mean we’re missing people, who are we missing?”

“Joel and Tommy,” he said. “They never made it where they were supposed to last night and we can’t find ‘em….”

“They probably stopped for the night like we did,” Julie waved him off. “Did you not see the weather last night? It was a shit show…”

“Probably,” Gene nodded. “But they’d have made it there by now and we didn’t see them comin’ back down, either. No sign of ‘em. Ellie and Dina weren’t where they were supposed to be, either, but we at least found a fuckin’ trail for them, sent Jesse on to get them back in one piece…”

You were already moving to put your boots on, heart pounding, Gatling giving you a small whine. You put a handful of jerky on the ground for her and refilled her water dish before you started packing up your sleeping bag.

“I’m sure they’re fine…” Julie said, actually sitting up in the sleeping bag now, her legs pulled into her chest and watching you closely.

“We should split up,” you said, pulling on your coat. “Cover more ground…”

“Don’t know if that’s smart…” Gene began but you cut him off.

“I can handle myself,” you said, harsher than you’d really meant to. “I’ve got Gatling, I’ve got my guns, I’ve got my axe. That’s all I had for 20 damn years and I made it just fine then. If you’re worried, you and Julie can stick together but I’m not gonna sit here and talk about how to minimize risk when they’re out there dealing with who knows what…”

“Bambi,” Julie said gently, getting off the couch and taking you by the shoulders. “It’s OK.”

“No,” you shook your head. “It’ll be OK when I find him in one piece, then it’ll be OK, I’m not…”

“Gene and I will go one way,” she cut you off. “You and Gatling go the other. We’ll cover more ground. OK?”

Gene sighed, looking between the two of you.

“You got a death wish, don’t make me stop you,” he said gruffly. “Gonna go get my horse some water, we can head out.”

You watched him go, a nervous energy coursing through your body.

“Hey,” Julie said, taking your face carefully in her hands and making you look at her. “It is OK. It’s Joel and Tommy. They’re very, very good at this. They’re OK.”

There was a pinch of tears at the back of your throat that you had to fight to swallow past. She took your hands, giving them a squeeze.

“I can’t lose him now,” your voice was thick. “I just got him back, I can’t…”

“I know,” she said softly, a sad smile on her face and you were struck, for a moment, by just how pretty she was. She pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, her lips lingering on your skin for a second, before she pulled back. “We’ll find him. We will.”

“Thank you,” you nodded and took a deep breath, one tear slipping free, before looking down at your dog who was watching, ready and waiting.

“Gatling, heel.”

She moved to be immediately with you and you went to the garage, quickly saddling your horse and mounting up. You called Gatling up and she settled at the front of your saddle, already watching for incoming threats with her ears perked as you set off.

You pushed Renaissance harder than you should have through the deep snow, trying to reach some part of Joel and Tommy’s patrol path so you could find some sense of where they might have gone.

It wasn’t long before you found the path cut by a group of infected. A large one, judging by the footprints in the snow. You didn’t see a sign of Joel or Tommy but the swath of disturbed snow and brush from the hoard as so thorough you doubted you’d be able to tell if two horses had come that way, too. And, knowing Tommy and Joel, they’d have tracked the infected…

You looked higher for a moment, above where people would disturb branches and realized some branches on trees were clean of snow - too high for a person to bump on their own but just the height a tall man on horseback would hit.

“Goddammit,” you muttered, steering Renaissance in that direction and pushing her on.

The horse was breathing hard and heavy when you reached a mansion outside the normal patrol area, fully gated with piles of dead infected outside. You looked through your binoculars and saw tracks from the horses leading inside. But something about it set you on edge. Something wasn’t right.

You commanded Gatling down and tied Renaissance to a tree that provided at least some shelter.

“Back soon,” you said quietly, giving her a scratch and offering her an apple from your pack. You made sure your weapons were loaded, rifle at the ready, handgun and knife at your hip, axe across your back. Gatling looked at you, licking her lips once, waiting for a command.

“Gatling, heel,” you said. “Hunt.”

She latched onto your side like glue, crouched lower and keeping her mouth closed and you moved as quickly as you could for the gates of the mansion.

There was no one guarding the place that you could see but you closed the gate behind you. If that had been enough to keep infected out before, you weren’t about to argue with it now. There were signs of plenty of people here, footprints of various sizes all heading for shelter inside. You tried not to think about the fact that you might have to torture information out of someone who left those footprints. If they had taken Joel and Tommy’s horses, you’d have to work quick to find what they knew so you could get to them. Torture could be the best option and, if it meant saving their lives, it was a price you were happy to pay. Because they had to still be alive, they had to be.

The mansion was dark and almost eerily still. It reminded you of some of the places you’d visited when dropping of horses you’d trained to be trail animals for rich assholes before the outbreak, the trappings of extreme wealth couched in some idyllic, fictional version of the wild west. People who in places like this couldn’t handle the real thing. Real wildness would chew them up and spit them out.

You crept through the house, looking for some sign of people, too afraid to call for Joel and Tommy and potentially bring down who knows how many people on you when you heard it, an agonized cry in a voice you knew, one you knew better than almost anyone else.

“Joel,” you breathed, and you were running, Gatling at your heels.

You knew that you should stop, assess, try to form a plan but he screamed again and you plowed ahead. A plan didn’t matter, all that mattered was one thing: getting to Joel.

You had to get to him.

He had to be OK.

He had to be.

***

Joel knew what it was like to die.

He’d come close enough enough times over the years. Even before the apocalypse began he had a few near shaves. A fall off a ladder at a job site and the thought of “this is it” as he crashed down, the contemplation of what would happen with his daughter if he was gone, if he’d done enough to make it that she would be OK. A car accident that knocked him out and disoriented him enough that, for a moment in the hospital, he thought he was dead.

The times since had been different, more acute. For a while, it felt like dying would have been a mercy. There was some innate biology that kept his body pushing to survive when his mind saw death as a welcome outcome when he got stabbed or shot when he was taking what he needed to survive or getting the shit kicked out of him when he got overrun smuggling.

This, though, was something else. He didn’t want to die anymore, not really. He had you and Ellie and even Savvy. He had a reason to live now - live, not just survive - and he wanted it, wanted that life that was hanging there, so tantalizingly close on the horizon as heat of his blood pooled around him.

He still wasn’t entirely sure what happened, how he’d ended up here like this. He’d reached the girl he’d seen through the binoculars as she damn near got bit, he’d shot the infected and pulled her up just as its teeth were getting close to her neck.

“We gotta move!” Tommy yelled, shooting another infected.

Joel gave the girl a once over as quick as he could.

“You bit?” He asked. She was panting for breath but shook her head. “Got a gun?” She nodded. “Good, let’s go.”

He tucked her behind him and led the way, trying to find a way through and out. There were dozens of infected, riled up and searching for something to sink their teeth into, desperate for someone to turn.

“Shouldn’t be this damn many!” Tommy yelled as they scrambled back toward the horses. “Why are there this damn many?”

“Worry about that later!” Joel snapped, dragging the girl along behind him. She stopped and shot two that were getting too close for comfort and, even in that moment, Joel could appreciate that she was a good shot. “We have to get the fuck away from here, try and lose ‘em…”

“Think we can get all the way back to town?” Tommy asked, reloading his gun.

“Hell no,” Joel shook his head. “Need to find somewhere else to hole up…”

“My friends,” the girl said, looking between the two of them. “We’ve been staying at a mansion, not far from here. It’s got a fence around it, we’ve got the perimeter secure, if we can get there we’ll have help…”

Joel and Tommy looked at each other. It was unlikely a girl this young would be running with raiders, more likely a group just passing through as they headed for the coast from a QZ. Tommy shrugged and Joel looked back to her.

“Right,” he said. “We’ll head there, we got horses outside, you can ride with me and just tell us where to go. I’m Joel, that’s my brother Tommy, we’re from a settlement a few hours from here…”

“Joel,” she said, something shifting in her eyes when she said it.

“Right,” Joel said, not paying much attention. That seemed stupid, now. But he’d been so worried about Ellie, about you, about getting out of there to make sure you both were OK. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

“Abby,” she said, an odd twinge in her voice. “My… I’m Abby.”

They made it to the horses by the skin of their damn teeth, infected at their heels the whole way.

The kid was right, at least. The mansion was secure, her friends clearing the area with molotov cocktails, infected burning just outside the gates.

“Jesus Christ that was close,” Tommy laughed, clapping Joel on the shoulder. “Fuck, ain’t come that close in a while…”

“Couldn’t get a good look at ‘em,” Joel said, looking back at the burning bodies. “See any bullet holes? Any sign they might have run into the girls?”

Tommy’s giddy smile over surviving faded and he gave Joel’s shoulder a squeeze.

“I’m sure they’re alright, Joel,” he said. “Shit, Bambi’s a deadeye. And you taught Ellie everything you know. They probably didn’t even come across these fuckers and if they did, they’re fine. They’re fine, both have made it through worse than a few infected…”

“We should get inside,” Abby said, looking more at one of her friends than at Joel. “Now.”

Things seemed normal then. Tommy was trying to get the group to come back to Jackson, Joel was worrying about you and Ellie.

And then they introduced themselves to the group and it shifted. Just like it had with Abby, the change sudden and sharp.

“Y’all act like you’ve heard of us or somethin’,” Joel said, thinking it was a joke. His mind was still elsewhere, still on you, still on Ellie, still on making sure you both were OK. He wanted to be back in Jackson, back in his quiet house, back in bed with you, pillows actually brought up from the living room and you close enough that he could trace little patterns over your soft skin.

“Because they have.”

He didn’t even see the shot coming, didn’t have a chance to warn Tommy to run, his brother on the ground - unconscious? Dead? He wasn’t sure - before he could even think. Joel screamed as the bullet tore through his leg and he went down, straining to get to Tommy through the pain but they swarmed him, these kids his brother had just been trying to talk into coming back to Jackson. They held him down, his back to a wall as Abby knelt in front of him, her face twisted into a snarl. She looked so different than she had when he’d first spotted her, alone and afraid and cornered the way he was now.

“Joel Miller,” her teeth were gritted, the rifle tight in her grip.

“Who are you?” He managed, pulling against the people at his arms, people who looked like kids, fucking kids.

“Guess.”

“Look,” he grunted and gave his arms a yank but they thrust him back against the glass. “Don’t know what I did to ya but I know I didn’t do it on purpose. Done a lot of shit in my time but I don’t hurt kids and you’re a bunch of kids…”

“You kill my dad on purpose?” She pressed the barrel of the gun to his chin. “You slaughter a whole hospital of people who were just trying to save humanity on purpose?”

Joel’s stomach dropped. Of course. Of course saving Ellie would come back for him. Of course now that he finally had a life that was worth living it was getting ripped away for the one thing he couldn’t regret.

“I did what I had to do,” he said, trying to free himself again, even though he knew it was futile. “But it was just me. Do what you need to do, make whatever speech you got saved up, but leave my brother out of it.”

She squared her jaw, a look of disgust on her face as she got to her feet. She shoved her gun into the hands of the man - barely a man, almost still a boy, Joel thought - beside her.

“Tourniquet his leg,” she snapped. The others looked around, hesitating. “Do it!”

She stalked off as another girl obeyed, Joel trying not to scream through the pain as she tightened the belt around his leg. His head was still spinning when she came back into view, a golf club in her hands.

“You don’t get to ask me for a damn thing,” she looked at him with so much rage, so much hate that, for a moment, he pitied her. That someone so young was so angry and in so much pain, that her father had cast his lot in with a bunch of child killers and paid with his life, leaving her alone, was tragic. “And you don’t get to rush this.”

She jerked her head toward the people holding him in place and they looked at each other for a moment before stepping back. He tried to move but his leg was fucking useless and Abby swung the club, catching him in the arm before she forced him all the way to the floor with a pained cry.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here now. Consciousness was hazy. So was the feeling in his limbs. At times, it was like he was floating, far outside his body and somewhere far softer and warmer and kinder than here. Part of him was back in his living room, almost a year ago now, on Christmas Eve when it was just you and him and he buried himself inside the hot clutch of your body by the glow of the holiday lights. He was lost in the feel of you, so soft and warm below him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt closer to another person in his life, lacing his fingers with yours and looking into your eyes as you came. He’d promised to take care of you then and he’d meant it, he’d meant it so far beyond that moment inside of you, he’d meant it for the rest of his life he’d take care of you.

He just hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

At least, he thought, he’d made things right with you. At least he’d gotten to tell you that he loved you again, at least he wasn’t dying wondering if you could ever have forgiven him. At least things were right with Ellie, at least she’d loved him again and she’d let him love her the way she deserved to be loved. At least she had you and Savvy now, people who would love her that way, too, and make sure she was OK. She was going to need someone to make sure she was OK when he was gone, she was so stubborn and she tried to be so much stronger than she needed to be. She needed someone. So did you.

At least he’d get to be with Sarah again. She was so much closer now than she’d been before, barely out of reach now, somewhere quiet and safe and peaceful. Just far enough away that what was happening now couldn’t reach her. At least she wasn’t seeing this. At least you and Ellie weren’t seeing this.

Something shifted in the room, the club not landing on Joel’s body again, chaos drawing him back into his body again.

Everything hurt, like he’d been put through a meat grinder. He wasn’t sure he’d ever hurt this much, at least not physically. Every breath was pain. He’d been lying here long enough that some of the blood pooling around his legs had gone cold.

There was a vicious snarl, the crack of a gunshot and he realized, suddenly, what happened.

“Gatling!” He could barely adjust his head enough to see where you were. Your rifle was on the ground but so was the only other gun Joel remembered seeing in the room. Your axe was tight in your hands as you threw one of the men back with a roar. You kicked the guns at your feet behind you and pointed to Joel and snapped your fingers. “Guard!”

The dog ran to him and crouched around his body, hunched low, snarling and barking. You screamed and Joel struggled to see what was happening, tried to get up but he was only able to make it a few inches off the ground before he collapsed back down, his body too broken to properly obey. You were so close, you were in trouble and he tried to focus on it. He had to get you out of here, he had to take care of you, he’d promised to take care of you. He was supposed to protect you, that’s what he was built to do and he was failing.

“Gatling, bite!” Your command was more of a shriek, sharp and fearful.

The dog shot away from him for a moment, a snarl followed by a pained wail and Joel could see enough to make out that the animal had tackled someone near you as you scrambled to your feet, more of them coming for you. Joel tried again to move but his injured leg gave out that time, collapsing below him before he could put even half his weight on it.

“Gatling, release!” The screaming stopped and he heard another snap. “Guard!”

The dog went back to him, snarling and snapping and

“Bambi!”

Joel turned his head too quick to the door, his neck screaming in pain, to see Ellie standing there, her eyes wide.

“Ellie!” He yelled through gritted teeth.

“Go!” You screamed at her, bringing your axe around, swinging wide on another person coming for you, just catching their arm. “Get help, get Jesse! Go!”

You circled toward the door, axe up, daring any of them to try to follow her.

“You’re not a part of this!” Abby prowled toward you. “Don’t make me kill you, too.”

“He’s a part of this so I am, too,” you panted. “If you wanna try and kill me, you better do it quick and you better be damn sure you do it right because the second I’m down, that dog will rip your throats out one by fucking one. She’s done it before, I’ve seen it. You’ll have to kill me - which she won’t take lyin’ down - and get to the guns behind me to take her down. She works quick, hell of a lot quicker than me. If you’re fightin’ both of us, you don’t stand a chance. You that confident? I am. So is she.”

Gatling snarled as if on cue.

“Other option is to get the fuck out of here,” you said. Joel could just see you around the dog, blood dripping from your side, lip split open. “We got backup comin’, we’re from a settlement of hundreds and we’ve fought off raiders and infected for fuckin’ years, think we can handle a band of fucking children without much trouble. This worth dyin’ for? Right now, I got your death warrant. Up to you if I sign it.”

“Abby,” one of the men said. “Let’s go.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She snapped. “You want to just go? Now? Let him live?”

Gatling snarled again.

“You’re runnin’ short on time!” You growled, teeth clenched tight. “Now or never!”

“You lost control of the situation,” the man hissed. “We’re not all dying for your fucking revenge mission.”

She turned toward Joel and he watched the hatred and the rage move through her. He watched her think about bringing the club down one more time, just to see if she could land a final, killing blow before the dog struck hers. She moved a fraction of an inch toward him and Gatling adjusted, a vicious bark and a snarl ripping from her.

“He wouldn’t want you to die for this,” the man said quietly, so low Joel doubted you could hear. “And Miller probably won’t survive this, anyway. It’s done. Let’s go.”

“Fine,” she bit out, throwing the club aside. Joel tried his best to follow her with his eyes, praying that she wouldn’t go for you. Once the people had moved away from him toward you and the door, you called Gatling to you, the dog standing between you and the aggressors, snarling and threatening. They left, watching you closely, without a word.

The door closed and you dropped the axe, grabbing a gun from behind you on the ground and limping for Joel, blood dripping down your leg.

“Joel,” you fell to your knees beside him. He tried to say something but all that left him was a pained moan. “You’re OK, I’ve got you, you’re alright…”

“Tommy,” he managed, panting for breath. “Check… Tommy….”

“OK,” you said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Gatling, guard.”

You snapped your fingers and pointed to Joel again. The dog obediently came and positioned herself between him and the door, body like a coiled spring ready to attack. You went to Tommy and checked his pulse before adjusting him. Joel heard him groan and you said something he couldn’t quite make out before you were back to him, a bag with you this time.

“They’ve gotta have something in here,” you said, ripping through the contents.

“Baby…”

“Tommy’s alright,” you said, glancing at Joel before going back to the bag. “He’s comin’ around. Ellie will be back soon, she’s bringing help, it’s going to be OK Joel, it is…”

“Baby.”

“Hush.”

You found what you were looking for, a bag with some medical stuff inside. You set it nearby and looked over Joel’s back, wincing as you did.

“Need to look at the front of you, too,” you said. “I’m going to roll you over, alright?”

“Baby…”

“Shut up, Joel.”

Your hands shook and he cried out in pain as you moved him onto his back, flinching when you saw his leg.

“Jesus,” you whispered. “What’d they do to you?”

“Baby,” he said again, managing to lift a hand enough to almost reach your face. You took it, gently guiding his bloody palm the rest of the way to your cheek as you leaned down into it. “You’re bleedin’.”

“Oh,” you looked down at yourself. “It’s fine, I’ll be fine…”

“Need to take care,” he had to stop for a second, grinding his teeth through the pain as it wracked his body. It took him a moment to catch his breath. “Care of yourself. I’m… I can’t make it back, not like this…”

“Shut up, Joel.”

“Promised to protect you,” he said, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Lemme do it.”

“Protect me later,” you said, setting his hand down and ripping the bag of medical gear open with your teeth. “Going to put bandages on your leg, see if we can let the tourniquet off, save the leg…”

“Baby.”

“Shut UP, Joel!”

He watched you work for a moment and you felt farther and farther away with every breath. He could feel himself fading and he wished you’d just stop, that you’d take care of yourself and just hold him while he could still feel you.

“Need you to look after Ellie,” he said as you wound bandages around his thigh. “She’s gonna act like she doesn’t need anyone but she does and…”

“And she has you,” you cut him off with a glare. “So it doesn’t matter.”

You released the tourniquet on his leg and it was more of a relief than he’d expected it to be, the pain of it fading to a dull enough roar that he’d forgotten it was there until the weight of it was lifted.

“Gotta get this spot at your side, too…” you adjusted his shirt and leaned over him and he got a better look at your own side, a bright red splotch growing on your shirt, a long gash going from your ribs down toward your stomach.

“You’re bleedin’, sweetheart.”

“I know,” you said. “Getting you fixed up first…”

“Baby.”

“Joel, I swear…”

“Need to get you and Tommy back,” he needed to stop for a second to catch his breath, the rise and fall of his chest straining his ribs. “Can’t… can’t die knowin’…”

“You’re not dying here,” you snapped, your voice thick. “I just got you back, you’re not dying here, you’re coming home and you’re going to be OK and…”

You sat back, looking at the spot on his side that you’d just bandaged, wiping your nose on the back of your wrist as you did.

“Gotta take care of yours now,” he said, eyes tracing the spot at your side. But you shook your head.

“Outta gauze.”

“Baby…”

“It’s not that bad,” you sniffed. “I’ll just… hold pressure until Ellie gets back. It’s OK, you’re gonna be OK, I can’t….”

“Here,” he ground his teeth, breathing through another wave of pain. “Lay… lay with me. Cut side up, keep the blood from flowin’ too easy.”

You looked at him for a moment before nodding and lying delicately next to him. He adjusted as best he could so he could see you, touch you. You’d been hit in the face at least twice, one of your eyes swelling shut and your lip split open. But you were still beautiful, so damn beautiful.

“I’m so sorry baby,” he said softly.

“Joel…”

“Wanted… wanted so much more time with you and the girls,” he said quietly. Your skin was soft, so soft it seemed like the sensation of it might be the only thing holding him to the earth. “I’m so sorry we’re not gettin’ that…”

“Stop talking like that,” you were crying now, not making any attempt to stop it.

“It’ll be OK sweetheart,” he said. “You’ll… you’ll be alright. Ellie’s gonna need you, keep an eye on her for me. Keep her outta trouble. Savvy, too. She loves you… she’ll… she’ll come around…”

“Joel,” you whispered, reaching out to cup his face, your fingers in his curls, one of the only places on his body he wasn’t bleeding.

“I’m so happy we made things right,” he said, his eyes searching yours. He wondered, if he watched you closely enough, if he could bring the precise color of them with him wherever he was going. “I love you so damn much, sweetheart. Need you to know that, OK? I love you.”

“I love you too,” you breathed. Your skin was so soft and your breath was warm on his skin. “I love you. I love you.”

You said it again and again. It was the last thing Joel heard before he passed out.

Next Chapter

A/N: Hi y'all ❤️

Again, begging for you to trust me, OK? OK.

I do love you but... feel free to yell at me in the comments or in my asks or DMs. I'll be responding to asks about the last chapter soon now that this one is up.

Thanks for going on this crazy ride with me!! It truly means the world.

Taglist: @ashleymsnodgrass@planet-marz1@kalea-bane @juneswonderlust@ilovepedro @h-annahayy @starstruckmusiciansartghost@beccerjune@mumma-moonchild@netonetoneto@mellymbee@purplelye@n7cje@flugazi@evyiione@randomhoex@aliengirl99@orcasoul@reds-ramblings@pedropascalsbbg @fupoola @tinypotatothing @knopes-waffles @lilmizmoz @ayamenimthiriel@jenispunk@panda-pascal@sarap-77@flugazi@your-slutty-gf@daniegraceg@partyofone3413@cumberpegg@noisynightmarepoetry.@fifia-writes@grumpygrumperton @srmacaroni @txlady37 @bigboiseason123@ashleyfilm

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #yearling #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #tlou2 spoilers

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rottmnt-residuum · 1 year

Text

Some Things You Aught to Know (this also the index)

“At the end of it all, what’s left of you?”

The long reaching ramifications of an alien invasion… it all starts here. After the Kraang were defeated, the boys have taken a back step from their usual activities to heal. Which has been surprisingly easy due to sudden lack of activity from their rogue gallery. At least, until Donnie disappears.

Hi! Welcome to the side blog that hosts my comic, Residuum. This little brain baby of mine was conceived in a dream my subconscious cooked up one night and then refused to leave me in the morning! Yes, yes, very interesting, but why is that relevant? Well, my darling reader, dreams can get really, really fucked up. As suuuch, this comic gets kinda, okay a lot, fucked up (￣▽￣|||)

So, this handy dandy pinned post is both the content/trigger warnings and where to find parts. The warnings do contain some spoilers for future installments, so I’ve put them under the read more. I do stress again that this comic is fucked, but to those who don’t read the warnings:

Probably don't read this if you're squeamish. It will contain a lot of, uh. Gore. Seriously. I'm not kidding around here.

This comic will not contain anything sexual, consensual or not. Nothing implied, either. (I can’t believe I have to say this, but no incest, and yes, I am kink-shaming you.)

Directory | F.A.Q.

Parts

Parts that have gore or the more extreme tw's will be red. Parts with mild-ish tw's will be yellow. Censored versions of extreme gore will be blue.

Read it chronologically: [censored gore] [full gore] (only works on desktop as far as I am aware. also! part 17 isn't showing up in either of the links, and i don't know why...)

(Updates every other Sunday at 3:30 pm PST) Update Progress: 25%

Content/Trigger Warnings

Subject to change, I’ll tell y’all if they change when I update. They probably won’t change much, but the creative process is annoying :)

Feel free to message directly for any reason, be it clarification or something else

Desturbing Imagery, Trypophobia, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Guns, Gun Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Ableism, Coercion of Minors, Solitary Confinement, Contractual Slavery, Blood & Gore, Implied Death/Actual Death, Major Character Death, Animal Death, Animal Experimentation, Dismemberment, Disembowelment, Non-Consensual Medical Procedures, Irreversible Alterations, Cannibalism, PTSD, Anatomically Correct Organs, Lobotomy, Imprisonment of Innocents, Medical Experimentation, Body Horror, Police Brutality, Corrupt Government Institutions, Xenophobia

#rottmnt residuum #residuum

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streamingcolors-gvf · 7 months

Text

Skin Deep - Part 9 1/2

Pairing: Josh Kiszka x f!reader x Jake Kiszka

Word count: 6.3K

A/N: If you missed my post, I’m breaking this chapter up into 2 parts instead of waiting to do one long chapter because it’s been taking me so long to update. I am planning on posting the other half at the end of this week. (Also I apologize for any editing mistakes)

I’m feeding my Jake girls with this one!

As always, I appreciate all the love, support and feedback y’all give me ❤️

Warnings: cursing, tobacco use, sexually explicit content- 18+ MINORS DNI! (Unprotected penetrative sex)

Masterpost, Chapter 8

You’re awoken by the rumbling of distant thunder and the patter of heavy raindrops hitting his bedroom window. You stretch an arm over the soft ripples of his cotton sheets expecting to feel Josh lying beside you. There’s emptiness where he should be — only the residual warmth from his body left beneath your searching fingers.

Thinking he might be in the bathroom, you blindly take a pillow to hug close to your chest and fall back into your slumber. When you realize he hasn’t returned in some time, you finally decide to open your sleepy eyes. You rub them until your vision clears, seeing the gloomy blue haze casting the bedroom in darkness.

It could be early morning or close to noon with how the weather is making it difficult to tell what time it is. Looking around for your phone, you note that his is missing from the bedside table. You also notice the cracked window behind his dresser that’s allowing the sounds and smells of the morning storm to trickle in.

You find your phone tucked beneath your pillow, instantly squinting from the brightness assaulting your sensitive eyeballs. There is a message notification from Josh across your Home Screen from 4:29 am, and you quickly swipe to read and respond to it.

Your heart sinks, and disappointment settles in the pit of your stomach. The spot next to you feels colder now knowing he won’t be back. You were looking forward to waking up and spending time with him this morning. Accepting his shift in priorities, you put on a brave face and type another message back.

There’s a grin plastered across your face so wide it stretches from ear to ear while that bubbly, giddy feeling flutters wildly in your chest. But it’s barely past 5 a.m., and you need your rest.

Although falling back asleep is not as easy as you anticipated. You cocoon yourself in the pillowy duvet, only to toss and turn around in the large bed despite the peaceful lull of rain. To your dismay, it does little to calm your racing thoughts.

Your restlessness wins over your determination, so you decide to make the trip into the kitchen for a glass of water. It’s still early morning, and with the overcast, the hallway outside of their bedroom remains dark. Expecting silence, you’re shocked to hear the muffled sounds of the television coming from the living room.

You tiptoe quietly across the hardwood floors hoping to sneak by undetected. It’s been a few days since you’ve seen Jake and you’re unsure how to approach him, especially with how things were left on questionable terms. Once you reach the threshold, you peer around the corner of the wall to see him stretched along on the couch. Your stomach flips and twists until you realize that he’s asleep curled up with a quilted throw while a cooking show drones on in the background.

He’s positioned on his side and nestled into a large pillow that you can only assume was taken from his bed. You pause, questioning to yourself how he ended up here, fast asleep on the couch instead of in the comfort of his massive bed. Everything from the day you met him has felt controlled and restricted — showing you only what he wanted you to see.

Yet, at this very moment, he seems so fragile. You take in the sight of him, that innocence that’s rarely revealed. His long hair is swept back from his face, revealing a pierced ear that’s usually hidden by the dark tresses. With the blanket tucked beneath his chin, soft snores leave his parted mouth.

Taking the chance, you pad over to their kitchen and pull a clean glass from one of the cabinets. After filling it and making it halfway through the living room, you do a final check on Jake before walking back to Josh’s room.

You’re met with open eyes staring back at you.

You freeze in place with bare feet glued to the floor as if you’ve been caught red-handed. Guilt washes over and you brace for his anger, the surge of hostility that Josh once showed to you in his weakest moment. You wait for those harsh words thinking that he might not have as much patience for you, but there are none. The look he’s giving you is not a glare of resentment. It’s not even one of distaste or apathy. It’s vulnerable, perhaps one of defeat. Sadness tips his dark brows and pulls them together as his eyes take in your presence. You stand like this, imagining the thoughts behind those sullen irises, locked in his gaze with only the sounds of the television filling the space between you.

Without a single word spoken, he raises his arm to open the blanket. It’s a simple gesture, one to beckon you over to him. It’s like he’s hooked you with an invisible tether, drawing you in step by cautious step. You fall victim to him, placing your glass of water on the coffee table while he shimmies against the back of the couch to give you more room. You carefully crawl onto the cushion and slide in with your back against him. The second your bodies meet, the heaviness weighing between you dissipates.

When you finally settle into place, he drapes his arm across your stomach and pulls you in close, cocooning you in the heat from his body trapped beneath the quilt. He breathes in your scent and molds himself to you by slotting his leg between yours. The softness doesn’t end there. The comfortable jersey knit of his ratty t-shirt brushes against your skin as he hugs you.

These touches are different somehow. They’re affectionate as if he’s holding you this tight for desperate reassurance. You lay silent and perfectly still under his arm, feeling the tiny puffs of breath leaving his lips with the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Thoughts race faster than they should, processing the fact you’re now cuddling with him. You have a million things you want to say, but none of them make the journey to your tongue.

“What are you watching?” You ask softly, your voice just barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of rain.

He hums with his face completely buried in your hair, “I dunno.” Sleep crackles in his low voice, “Jacques Pepin I think. He was making a lamb roast last time I checked.”

You focus on the famous French chef, admiring the nostalgic quality of the aged recordings. “Looks like chicken to me.”

Instead of responding, he shifts his body to change the position, moving you to your back so he can rest his head against your chest. He nestles into the crook of your neck and relaxes instantly, letting any anxiety he might have felt dissolve into your embrace.

“Why were you sleeping on the couch?”

He doesn’t even bother to lift his head. “Hmm?”

You clear your throat to repeat yourself, “Why are you out here and not in your bed?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles, muffling the words into your shirt. “You know… I’ll never get tired of seeing you in my shirts.”

“Funny. I got this out of Josh’s dresser.”

“This is a high school soccer shirt. Only one of us played soccer, Dove.”

What other secrets do you have? You wonder, imagining a younger version of him — one without the tattoos running around on a field wearing this shirt.

Your fingers develop a mind of their own and start to explore the planes of his covered back. At first, he reacts to your curious touches as they become more deliberate. The faint brushes of your fingertips transform into light scratches of your nails. You draw changing patterns over valleys and ridges of his back until you make your way to his neck.

The cooking show becomes nothing more than background noise, voices lost in the calming sprays of heavy rain washing the back patio. You fall into that peaceful corner of your mind as you play with his hair, twirling those delicate strands of his chestnut locks. It’s when you lightly scratch his scalp that you hear those faint snores again.

You smile to yourself before taking the opportunity to feel across the underappreciated details. He doesn’t stir as you trace along the bridge of his nose, over his cheekbone to the shell of his ear, or even when you tuck the fallen hair behind it. After confirming that he’s fully asleep, you let them wander along his jawline and down the expanse of his neck.

Minutes go by, possibly an hour, interlocked like this until he makes another noise. Nearly drifting away yourself, you barely catch it. It’s not coherent, making you think he might be talking in his sleep. He hums again, but the gravelly sound stays trapped inside his throat.

You then feel the heavy throb of his cock against your thigh. It’s slow, but steady, growing with the sluggish pace of his resting heartbeat. You’ve been more than content ditching anything sexual with him this morning, but it’s becoming obvious how much you both needed each other like this.

You try your best to ignore it, but as it becomes harder with each passing minute, it drives away any innocent thoughts farther from your mind. And with that presence, a familiar ache begins to build in your core, causing you to squirm against him.

He responds by clutching you tighter around the waist. You pause thinking he’s now awake, but the rumbling of his snoring continues. “Jake,” you whisper with a gentle nudge to his shoulder. The only answer you get in return is a drowsy groan that vibrates against your skin beneath his chest. He remains quite stubborn even with his erection beckoning him from his dream state.

Before you can repeat his name, he rocks his hips into you. The lazy movement doesn’t follow a set rhythm, only serving the purpose of finding friction. You question whether he realizes that he’s driving his covered cock against your inner thigh. “Jake.”

The thin fabric of your cotton briefs and his sweatpants doesn’t provide much of a barrier between you. His breathing starts to change, sleepy sighs evolve into steamy pants. Their heat is tacky on your chest, making your t-shirt cling to your skin beneath his mouth.

The feeling of his hard cock pressing against you saturates your senses — persuading you. In an act of shameless need, you rake your nails across his back and grind yourself against him, whining loud enough for him to hear, “Jake!”

“Shh,” he shushes as he slides his hand from under your back and brings it to your hip. His thumb massages the path of skin above the band of your panties before his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt. You writhe from the contrast of the cool air and the warmth of his fingertips dancing up your body.

They circle your breast, ghosting over your already hardening nipple. Even in his current state, he can’t resist teasing you. You wish that you could reach between his legs and return the favor, but the couch does nothing but restrict you, causing your impatience to take over. “Let’s go to your room.”

He shakes his head, dragging the tip of his nose across your chest with the rasp of his voice following, “No.”

While his answer surprises you, he doesn’t deny you. A familiar path is taken from your breasts up along your neck by his mouth, feeling as though he’s everywhere, yet nowhere. You give yourself to him as the heat of his weighted breaths wrap around your flesh once he passes the collar of your shirt. The prickle of his stubble grazes your throat with every sweep of his lips. You swallow harshly, anticipating those playful nips of his, only to be gifted with teasing flicks of his tongue.

Needing that hungry kiss on your lips, you search for his mouth that’s been busy spoiling your jawline. You hold his face, cheeks grasped firmly between your palms to tug him close. The contact is as electric as the flashes of lightning of the summer storm, causing desire to rumble in your chest like the distant thunder as his tongue slips effortlessly past your bottom lip. What was once a fading memory over the passing week, consumes your conscience within seconds. You can’t escape how forbidden he still feels — a temptation you thought you had become strong enough to abstain from.

You’re tossing your sobriety out the window, to be lost and beaten underneath the heavy shower of raindrops. There’s something new this time — a neediness within the warmth. It’s almost as if he’s relinquished all control to you. There’s a tortured romanticism as you breathe in his scent, catching the lingering musk of his cologne in his sleep-tousled hair from the night before, the hints of the last cigarette he smoked, to the strong aroma of coffee that he must’ve sipped on hours ago.

He moves to be fully on top of you, allowing you to hitch both of your legs around his slender waist. It drives his covered cock harder against your core, making him groan into your parted mouth, “I need to have you now.”

With his weight balanced on his other arm, his hand leaves your breast and rushes down your side. You can’t see the clumsy movements, but you can feel him dive into his sweatpants without bothering to remove them. After finally freeing himself through a few deliberate strokes, he brushes over the soaked fabric covering your pussy to feel you shudder beneath him before hooking his fingers around your underwear and pulling it to the side.

“Jake,” you whine, thinking he might use this perfect opportunity to taunt you. But he’s as impatient as you and brings the head of his cock to your entrance. You’re already aching with need, and can’t help but lift your hips to guide him in.

In a barely controlled roll of his hips, he slips inside with ease. The sudden stretch of him makes you gasp in unison while his head falls into the crook of your neck. Breathy curses skitter across your flesh as he nudges himself against your cervix.

He’s only been inside you for mere seconds, but you wonder if you might lose yourself right here and now. You’re already writhing on top of the cushions, feeling and grabbing for any free part of him you can find.

A primal moan erupts in your throat while you crane your neck against the arm of the couch. He hears this, and lifts his head to bring his calloused fingertips to hold your chin as he instructs in a silken tone, “Look at me.”

Your attention snaps back enough to focus on his face hovering inches above you until your eyes meet those burnt-umber irises. The lust-blown pupils cast behind heavy lids admire you, floating down your features to linger on your lips before making their way back. The intensity of his gaze feels so intimate you’re pressured to look away. He licks his lips, asking, “Feel good?”

You nod, giving him a whimper as your only answer. A playful smirk forms on his face as time passes in silence while still buried deep inside you. “Good.”

The eye contact he has with you is unwavering, making you realize that this is the first time you’ve experienced this with him. There’s no smoke and mirrors this time — no makeup or fancy clothes or even late-night drunken implications to mask whatever this is. Even in the throes of your desires, that recurring guilt tries to resurface from the memory of those text messages with Josh exchanged barely an hour ago. Before your mind has the chance to pollute those thoughts, he sweeps his thumb across your bottom lip, tugging at it gently before continuing, “Listen to me, dove.” He pauses, flicking his eyes back and forth between yours. “I want you to think about me and only me right now. Can you do that for me, baby girl?”

“Mhm,” you whine as your brows furrow and your mouth drops. He’s barely moved aside from the slight rocking of his hips with just enough leverage to push your limit, causing you to flutter around him.

“I was beginning to worry that I would never feel you again,” he coos affectionately, sweeping the hair from your cheek to tuck behind your ear.

The small confession is disguised so well that you almost don’t catch it. You want to ask him what he meant by it, even to reassure him in some way, but the words fail to form.

He finally starts to move with purpose, finding a steady pace of deep and shallow strokes. Unlike before, there’s little power behind his thrusts. He’s not fucking you so hard you can’t think or remember your own name. Right now he wants you to think — predict his languid, gliding movements that are meant for you to feel. Feel how much you’ve soaked his cock within minutes, feel him brush against that not-so-hidden spot, feel how full he makes you. As tightly as you clutch onto him, you can’t bother to hold back the pitchy mewls and staggered breaths that break free.

He hums through his own sounds as he creates a trail of kisses toward your ear, whispering in a saccharine-sweet voice, “You love it when my cock worships you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” You admit in your cry, turning your cheek to him hoping to meet his lips. He stills with the heat of your shared breath providing a stark contrast to the crisp, chill air floating through the screen of the open sliding glass door.

“Did you miss me?” He mumbles against your lips as he withdraws himself to the very tip before sliding himself back in. You gasp, holding him close by the back of the neck.

He licks into your mouth with faint flicks of his tongue — soft and sweet. You kiss him back and squeeze your legs around his back, forcing him to stay deep inside. He responds by taking your hand, lifting it to rest against your head, and slotting his fingers between yours. “You know I want to spoil you, right?”

While your mind reels, he doesn’t wait for your answer before squeezing his fingers around yours. “I’m going to keep my promise,” he whispers, his mouth abandoning your lips in the search for the shell of your ear. “No one else will compare to me.”

It’s no surprise how he’s making you feel. He’s done it before, getting you drunk off his cock. He knows it given that little smirk pressing against your cheek. You lay here panting yearning for that divine release. It’s powerful enough to make you squirm and pull your hand away from his. He releases it without protest, watching as you bring your fingertips to your lips.

After glazing them with a coating of your own spit, you drop them between your legs. His eyes fall with your hand, mesmerized as you circle your swollen clit. “That’s it. Touch yourself for me, dove.”

He repositions and quickly finds a rhythm that matches yours. Even though your underwear hinders your movements a bit, you’re so close it doesn’t matter. As you near the cliff’s edge, your focus blurs. You try to watch him anyway, determined to study the changing expressions on his face, how he’s lifting his shirt enough for you to see the patch of hair leading to his navel or the way his sweatpants rest on his tattooed thighs.

He’s having a hard time choosing where to look, ultimately settling on your fingers and himself as he fucks you. Now that it’s threatening to pull you under, you’re desperate to savor the feeling of him. It’s something you won’t be able to replicate on your own no matter how many expensive toys you purchase. It’s him. The intoxicating warmth of his body, and luxury-velvet touch of his cock, the heavy pulse of his heartbeat, the grasp of his calloused fingers around the back of your legs. It doesn’t take him long to notice that you’ve slowed and lifted your fingers. He tells you in a shuddered breath, “Go ahead. Make yourself cum around my cock.”

Hearing him say the words is all it takes to convince you. Looking directly at him, you touch your clit again, making yourself jolt at the feeling. He smiles, praising you, “You’re doing so good for me.”

The roll of his hips slows, giving you full control of your orgasm for the first time. He wants you to be the one to take the plunge into your release. “I’m s-so close,” you whimper.

“I know, baby. I can feel you,” he rushes out, giving away that he’s there alongside you. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

Facing him, staring right into the depths of his eyes is an entirely different experience. A closeness, an intensity to an unmatched level. It scares you but excites you in the best way. Another facet of pushing you out of your comfort zone without you even realizing it.

You come undone within seconds, clenching around his cock so tight he stops moving altogether. A violent cry leaves your strained lungs, making you thankful the rain drowns out your sound. He falls forward, keeping your legs hooked around his hips.

“You make me lose my fucking mind,” he whispers into your hair, so faint you question if you were supposed to hear it at all. His thrusts become weak and shaky as if he’s edging his own release.

You slip your fingers into his tangled mane, holding the back of his neck. “Please. I need it.”

“Say it again.”

“Jake, baby. Please,” you plea against his exposed ear, voice scratchy with unabashed desperation. It sounds innocent, so delicate, like the fluttering wings of a songbird.

You swear you hear him whimper, but you doubt yourself and think you imagined it. He quickly nips at your skin before sinking his cock to the hilt inside you. Incoherent curses leave his mouth, showering your skin like tender kisses. You hold him tight as his cum fills you with every spasm.

He doesn’t move for several minutes, but you don’t argue. You keep him close, letting him soften while his release starts to drip from you. It’s comforting to have him lay with you, like a weighted blanket. You want him to say something, but a part of you believes he needs the silence. You feel across his back, realizing how sweaty he’s become now that his shirt clings to his skin.

He eventually with you, causing your underwear to slide back into place. He’s careful moving around your legs as he sits and settles against the back of the couch. Annoyed with it, he pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor. For a second, you feel tempted to trace the cloaked figure covering his back.

Without saying a word, he reaches forward, pulling up the band of his sweatpants over his ass as he snags the blue pack of cigarettes off the coffee table. You watch as he flips the top with his thumb and pulls one out between his lips before tossing the pack back onto the table. He shuffles over to the sliding glass door and pushes open the screen enough to step out.

Standing against the doorframe to avoid getting rained on, he digs a lighter out from the deep pocket of his sweats. He lights the end of his cigarette and pulls a long drag — an action that’s so fluid it's become second nature. With so much unsaid, everything feels as though it's moving in slow motion. Each passing second is an eternity, a daily routine that neither one of you would have batted an eye out.

But this silence isn’t deafening. Tension isn’t living in his shoulders. Looking at him, you can tell that his posture is relaxed as he blows out each smoky exhale into the outside world — and he’s never looked more attractive to you than he does right now.

Josh is a bright summer day, memories filled with youthful promises and laughter that makes your side hurt. Jake is your impending storm, frightening and hauntingly beautiful. You should look away, and run while you can, but you find yourself caught in the center of it. You’ve experienced enough to see there’s torment behind his eyes, pain sewn within his soul. It makes you ache, questioning why it exists when his other half beams with light. But with the wrath of any storm, there’s a moment of serenity that follows.

You look at him leaning up against the doorframe, lost in the thoughts that he’ll never share with you. You’re never going to be one to complain about seeing the collection of his tattoos. Inside your mind, you gush about how the gloomy lighting looks on his inked skin, the way those worn sweatpants hang low on hip bones, how his knotted hair still manages to look beautiful tucked behind his ears — an image you make sure to paint into memory.

You suddenly stand to your feet and stretch out the stiff muscles while wrapping the quilted throw around yourself to keep warm from the incoming draft. He glances at you, espresso-dark eyes rich with intrigue. You would normally fight it back, but you reveal the smirk trying to show through as you make your way over. His eyes narrow and a brow lifts, but a smile forms the closer you get. You stand before him, holding that smitten gaze up at him for far longer than you planned.

You reach your hand out from an opening in the blanket, silently asking for a drag to which he shakes his head and clicks his tongue at you, “Smoking is very bad for you, dove.” You immediately pout, making him flash a cheeky smile and put on the corniest British accent, “A foul, retched habit, really.”

Defeated, you cast your eyes to the soaked wood of the deck and mutter under your breath, “Josh lets me.”

He just chuckles, luring your attention back to him. You can see the gears turn in his head as he licks across his bottom lip and flicks the filter aggressively with his thumb before taking another drag just to rub it in. He responds to you through the blown smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, well, he’s soft for you.”

You would question what he meant by that, but you know better than to pry. Doubting he would even answer you, you hug yourself, pulling the blanket tighter around your body, and huff, “And you’re what? An impenetrable fortress of mystery?”

A devilish smile flashes in an instant. He peers down at you as he brings the filter to his lips once more instead of firing back at your quippy remark with one of his own. You decide to risk the consequences, plucking the half-burned cigarette from his loose fingers.

Thinking the bratty move would ignite that darkness in him, you’re surprised to see his expression staying soft. The glimmer in his eyes distracts you so much that you almost forget about the stolen cigarette.

You couldn’t care less about the nauseous rush of nicotine, or the harsh taste of smoke now filling your lungs. You’re only doing it to feel close to him again, knowing that his perfect lips wrapped around the same paper seconds before you. His eyes never leave you, making you blush and close the last inches of distance. You finally give the cigarette back by placing it back inside his mouth. He gladly accepts, melting into your touch with a rumbling groan as you wrap your arms around his bare waist.

You nuzzle into the warmth of his chest and listen to the rain, wishing that you could stay in this moment forever. On the surface, you try to convince yourself that this is just the rush of endorphins flooding your brain. It’s the contact post-sex that’s making you feel this way. Deep down, however, you’re just not ready to admit to yourself that this could be something more with Jake. That you’ll yearn for the way his fingers are rubbing circles on the small of your back for days to come. After a few minutes of peace, he ends the silence with a cough to clear his throat. “We should finish that leg piece today. You never scheduled your follow-up, by the way.”

“Today? I thought the shop was closed on Sundays.”

“It is. That’s why I think it will be a perfect day for it.” He stretches, breaking the embrace to toss the butt of his cigarette into the old planter sitting outside the door. “Just you and I.” Once he notices your hesitation, he drops his smile. “Do you have work?”

“No, but I really wasn’t expecting to get tattooed today.”

His eyes drop as he taps the center of your chest even though you’re still wearing his t-shirt. “This one wasn’t planned.” Just when you open your mouth to explain, he interrupts the thought by dragging his fingers up your throat before wrapping them around it. He holds you and leans in, placing a kiss on your cheek. “I just don’t think I can go another day seeing mine unfinished.”

“I dunno...” you trail off, tickled by the warmth of his breath.

His lips brush against your skin with every word. “I’ll take care of you, okay? I’ll pick you up a nice meal — your choice. Get you nice and hydrated. I think I have some numbing cream from my last convention you can use.”

You giggle at the thought, fitting right into the perfect space between his neck and shoulder, breathing him in like he’s fresh laundry right out of the dryer. “Numbing cream? Isn’t that cheating?”

He hums to the feeling of you kissing his throat. “If it meant that you would proudly wear my work, then I’ll buy you all the numbing cream you want, my dove.”

Your heart flutters from his words — the generosity. “You really want to spend the day with me? Aren’t you tired of me yet?”

“I think that’s the silliest thing you’ve asked me yet. Of course, I want to spend the day with you.”

As you start to break away, he hooks your arm to pull you back. “Hey.” He hesitates for a second like the thought has been weighing on him for a while. “Why did you leave your dress here the other day?”

“Oh… I guess I didn’t want to shove it in the backseat of Josh’s car.” You make a face that is akin to a grimace, one that he catches onto instantly, causing him to laugh and shake his head.

“Okay, that’s fair,” he admits with a throaty laugh, following you as you walk into the hall and back to the bedrooms. You stop in front of his room, letting him enter first. He calls over his shoulder and points to his closet, “Did you want to wear it today?”

“I think comfier clothes might be my first choice.”

He nods, redirecting to his dresser to pull out a pair of black sweatpants and a new t-shirt for you. “Here.”

“I’m gonna have to bring back a basket of laundry from all the clothes you guys give me,” you joke, taking the clothing from his outstretched hand. If it was anyone else but him, you would be determined to think that these were the actions of a loving boyfriend.

“That’s because they look better on you than they do on us.”

You change easily, slipping on the stretchy, loose-fitting outfit in preparation for what’s waiting for you. It gives you the chance to watch him get dressed while perched comfortably on his bed. His choice is a white tee that has a distressed collar that shows his tattooed arms and a pair of blue jeans that have been mended by several hand-sewn patches.

He takes a hairbrush through his tangles and gives himself a few sprays of cologne from one of the fancy bottles sitting on his dresser. When he leaves the room to brush his teeth and use the bathroom, you hop off his bed to find your phone in Josh’s room to send him a quick message that you’ll be spending the day with Jake.

You hear the bathroom door open, alerting you that it’s open for you to quickly refresh. After ditching your underwear and cleaning yourself up, doing the usual morning routine of brushing your teeth and fixing your hair, you’re met with Jake waiting for you in the living room.

“Ready?” He asks, gesturing to the side door of the house. You nod, following him through the kitchen.

Sitting in the garage is Jake’s car — a vintage one. A prized possession protected from the outside elements: It’s a make and model you don’t recognize, but you can appreciate its value nonetheless.

Its sleek black paint is obviously treasured, polished, and waxed to perfection. Sitting next to it is his motorcycle, hidden beneath its black cover.

“Wow,” you breathe in awe as if you’re scared to approach the thing.

“She’s pretty, right?” He coos with pride as he steps toward the driver’s side door.

Dumbfounded, you ask a question that might embarrass yourself. “What is it?”

He chuckles, popping open the metal door handle. “‘67 Camaro.”

He tosses his stuff into the backseat as he slides into his own behind the large steering wheel. You open your door and pause once you see what the interior looks like. It’s pristine, restored to its former glory days from decades ago. “I’m afraid to get in this thing, Jake. What if I ruin something?”

He tips his head, lifts a brow at you, and asks in a low pointed voice, “Do I need to make you?” The dominance in the question makes you clench your thighs together. He then pats the seat, ushering you to get in.

You carefully lower yourself, mindful not to scratch or ding anything in the process. Your nose is hit with the scent of aged leather of the black upholstery, the product he used to condition it, and the faint line of the air freshener.

It’s so unequivocally him.

“Is anything about you practical?” You scoff, settling into the seat as you buckle yourself in.

He reaches up and clicks a button on a plastic device clipped to his visor, making the garage door open. Looking at you with his most charming smile, he grips the ball of the shifter and gives it a little wiggle, “Would you expect anything to be?”

“No. No, I guess not.”

Thankful that the rain has finally subsided to a misty drizzle, you scurry behind Jake as he unlocks the shop’s back door. After you both shrug off damp jackets and hang them in the lockers, he makes his way into the hallway.

The old building is dark and eerily quiet until he starts flipping on lights leading up the stairwell. You feel comfortable letting him lead the way despite the fact you’re becoming well acquainted with the place.

You set your bag of food and stuff on the coffee table and make yourself comfortable on the studded leather couch that already holds many memories for you. Instead of going directly to his station, he walks over to the turntable and record collection that you assumed was more for decoration than anything. He flips through the plastic milk crate for a minute until he pulls out a black sleeve you recognize as The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd.

You sit quietly, watching how he carefully slides the old vinyl out and places it down. The hushed scratch of the needle fills the room before the song “Breathe” begins to play. He turns to face you and extends an open hand, telling you, “C’mere.”

Your feet carry you over to him before your brain catches up to what’s happening. He takes your hand in his and wraps his other around the small of your back, bringing you in close against his body. Waiting seconds, the slow, sleepy tempo of the drums, and the sultry whine of the guitar echo throughout the studio. You rest your cheek on his shoulder and start to sway with him in the middle of the floor.

Breathe, breathe in the air.

Don’t be afraid to care

Leave, but don’t leave me

Look around and choose your own ground

You listen to the dystopian vocals with him, appreciating the raw, unfiltered beauty of this moment. It’s clear that the dance isn’t about the coordination of your steps, it’s to hold you close to him. It makes you wish things weren’t as complicated as they are. He’s finally opening that book, giving you a glimpse of a page and all you can do is bury your face into him.

The first time you came here, bright-eyed and anxious as hell, you would’ve never believed that you would be standing on the second floor of this tattoo shop with him. You don’t want to forget this. The soothing heat of his body, the woodsy scent of his cologne on his clothing, the strength of his grasp as he holds your hand. His thumb absentmindedly brushes over your knuckles and his hand holding your waist tightens.

The song ends and starts playing into the next, making him stop. “Ready to finish your tattoo?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Remember I am posted the second half of this later this week!

TAGLIST:

@gretavanbitches @dannyandthekiszkas @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @asparrowofthedawn @ageofnations @welightthefire @garbagevanfleet @lvnterninthenight @pennylanefics @writingcold @alexxavicry @gvfficrecs @jakeyboiiiiiii @doodle417 @richjaaasss @pr41sethemoon @gretavanflowerpowerrr @joshskittytickler @jakekiszkasbabymama @tripthelightfatality @maddie-van-fleet @sarakay-gvf @josiee-gvf @milkgemini @sammiejane22 @gretavanbear @capturethechaos @welllauragvf @averagemisfit03 @myownparadise96 @givemeyourtots2 @gretavangroove @autopsy-im-ill l @objectsinspvce @myownparadise96 @feilores @josh-iamyour-mama a @givemeyourtots2 @joshkiszkasbigtoe @lightmylove-gvf @mydarlingdanny @shutupdevvie @twinszka @busybeingtrash @carlybubs @demonrat444 @high-fidelity1

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ieatangstforbreakfast · 7 months

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Pairing ೃ⁀➷ Earth 42! Miles Morales x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, comedy, angst, mutual pining

Schedule ೃ⁀➷ Take a shot baby because i am mentally unstable

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ this the first fic I published in like four years so enjoy

If y’all wanna be part of the tag-list, answer this

⚠️ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⚠️: This work of fiction contains heavy themes. Reader discretion is advised.

This work is set in a dystopian setting, in fictional politics along with a fictional government, please part fiction from reality. Thank you.

Consists of dabbles in politics and social studies.

Do not repost my work in any other platform.

This is an original work with original characters.

ೃ⁀➷ Closet aesthetic for reader!

Chapter 1– Behind The Chain

Chapter 2– The Secrets You Keep

Chapter 3– To Dance For You, To Die For You

Chapter 4– Can’t Pretend

Chapter 5– Just A Girl, Just A Boy

Chapter 6– At Home

Chapter 7– Who We Are

Chapter 8– Unfolding

Chapter 9– A Couple Of Firsts

Chapter 10– Halloween Spirit

Chapter 11– Pointing fingers

Chapter 12– Blood on our hands

Chapter 13– TBD

Chapter 14– TBD

Chapter 15– TBD

Chapter 16– TBD

Chapter 17– TBD

Chapter 18– TBD

Chapter 19– TBD

Chapter 20– TBD

Chapter 21– TBD

Chapter 22– TBD

Chapter 23– TBD

Chapter 24– TBD

Chapter 25– TBD

Chapter 26– TBD

Chapter 27– TBD

Chapter 28– TBD

Chapter 29– TBD

Chapter 30– TBD

Chapter 31– TBD

Chapter 32– TBD

Chapter 33– TBD

Chapter 34– TBD

Chapter 35– TBD

Bonus Chapters ೃ⁀➷

Will be added after the end of the series!

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misslazarus · 5 months

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TANGLED BLESSINGS GAME JAM

Solo TTRPG posting again for my fellow solo game enjoyers/the solo game curious!

I’ve posted before about Tangled Blessings by @cassimothwin , a project I was so thrilled to back and play (and find in the wild a couple of times 👀). It’s a really engaging solo/duet rpg about being a student at a spooky magical school, and facing off against your rival. Also very cool to know, Tangled Blessings is a hack of the iconic game Anamnesis by @goblinmixtape (a game I mean to post about here one day if I feel I actually have anything interesting to add other than “I love it” lol).

In extremely cool news for amateur/fledgling game writers and those who never find time to participate in NaNoWriMo [meeee], Cassi Mothwin opened up a Tangled Blessings game jam on itch.io !! The game jam is for expansions to /projects inspired by Tangled Blessings. The jam is running until February 29th (leap day swag btw). I think this is such a cool idea to explore a really fun game, and I’m planning on submitting something! If you want to participate and don’t already own it, Cassi has a free preview to get you started!

DISCLAIMER: I am not posting this in any capacity other than as a big fan of Cassi’s work— and to alert my buddies on here who are into this kind of thing and to whom I’ve spoken about Tangled Blessings and solo rpgs in general.

I’ve linked the jam below for the rules and info. I also linked Tangled Blessings and Anamnesis itch.io pages so I hope all the links don’t nerf this post in the tags.

Happy writing y’all!

#k’s solo rpg adventures #solo ttrpgs #indie solo ttrpgs #solo RPGs #indie RPGs #indie ttrpgs #hmm starting to think I should make a general blog for rpg posting #this is my main/general blog and I don’t wanna bug creators!! or my friends for whom this is Not Their Scene lol

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cupidssorbett · 7 months

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Cupid’s 2023 kinktober list! ON HOLD UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

As it suggests I am trying my hand at doing kinktober this year! A different kink for everyday of October.

I won’t list the chatacter and say until I’ve written it and linked it. Also my weeks are themed by certain character/characters! I will sometimes do one big prompt or several small prompts of several characters! Some will be prompts, some will be like casual HC + little prompt, I’ll label them so y’all know!

Without further ado, please enjoy my darlings!

WEEK 1: Miguel O'hara!

Day 1: Tit-Fucking.(Prompt)

Day 2: Edging.(Prompt)

Day 3: Car sex.(Prompt)

Day 4: Dry-humping + Sleepy sex.(Prompt)

Day 5: Blow-job + Exhibitionism.(Prompt)

Day 6: Tit/ Tongue piercings.(HC)

Day 7: Mirror sex + Overstim.(Prompt)

Week 2: COD.

Day 8: Phone sex + Voice kink. (Prompt)

Day 9: Thigh riding.(Prompt)

Day 10: Face sitting. (Prompt)

Day 11: Face fucking. (Prompt)

Day 12: Cock warming. (Prompt)

Day 13: Size kink + Praise.

Day 14: Morning sex.(Ghost)

WEEK 3: Mix!(will be labeled!)

Day 15: Orgasm Denial.(Miguel)

Day 16: 69.(Ghost)

Day 17: Finger-fucking/Hand-Job.(Multiple)

Day 18: Eye contact.(Price)

Day 19: Mutual masturbation.(Multiple)

Day 20: Degrading + Marking.(Konig)

Day 21: Bulge humping.(Konig)

WEEK 4: JJK.(Labeled,)

(Most ones suggested by others and by friends of mine since I’m new to JJK! Many some suggested were geto, gojo, and nanami!)

Day 22: Corruption kink.(Multiple)

Day 23: Shower sex.(Choso)

Day 24: Dirty talk/talking through it.(Geto)

Day 25: Frustration/Angry sex.(Nanami)

Day 26: Bondage.(Choso)

Day 27: Vanilla.(???)

Day 28: Pictures.(Gojo)

WEEK 5: MYSTERY!(Badjhur inspired!)

Day 29: ???

Day 30: ???

Day 31: ???

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #cupidssorbettlibrary #atsv miguel #miguel ohara #cod x reader #cod smut #kinktober 2023 #kinktober

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starshapedjello · 3 months

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Anyone else worried about Bianca Censori?

She’s probably fine, right? I mean, I’m pretty sure Ye isn’t holding her hostage, right? 🤔🤔🤔

Then I saw her age.

SHE’S 29 🪐

Her Saturn Return is happening to her. That makes sense. Her north node is in Scorpio, which sounds scary, but the photos look on point for this vibe lol. Pluto (Scorpio’s ruler) has always been a formidable plant. It’s also the death card in the Tarot. It represents transformation. It has never been easy to completely transform and it never will be. It takes work and a lot of it is subconscious. The subconscious is where our mind hides all the skeletons in our closet.

Scorpio is also about power struggles. In Greek mythology Pluto is the ruler of the underworld.

I am very intrigued by people with a north node in Scorpio. I want to know what y’all are learning right now. Whats happening in your lives? Please illuminate me.🥀✨

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

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Unexpected 29

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, car sex, Lloyd being the worst, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“Marion Lloyd Hansen,” Dottie stops before her son, “I can’t believe you. You leave for darn near a month and you come back looking like a hog’s ass.”

“Ma, I’m sorry, I had to work–”

“Had to work, you got a wife and a baby on the way. You got her all alone here, doing all the work by herself,” she wags her finger at him, nearly scratching his nose with her acrylic, “You ain’t leavin’ again, me and your father got a life to go back to. Marcia said she’s done chasin’ around chickens.”

“Ma, I know and I really am sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me, you keep apologisin’ to that lady,” she flicks her finger in your direction, “she matters the most right now. And the little one.”

“Ma,” Lloyd slides forward, hugging his ribs as he grunts and stands, leaning to his left, “I’m gonna do everything I can to take care of my daughter, alright?”

“You bet– daughter?” She chokes on her anger, “daughter? Since when did we know this? A girl?”

“Yeah, ma, a girl,” Lloyd grins, “I thought she would’ve broke the news to you.”

“I…I’m sorry,” you add guiltily, balance a bowl of ice cream on your belly as you eat lazily, “I guess I didn’t know how.”

“I’m having a granddaughter!” Dotty grabs Lloyd’s face between her hands and forces him to bend, “by golly!” She kisses him on the mouth with a loud pop, “oh, I better get to knitting then– oh and your daddy and I are already packed. Have been for days, you silly boy.”

She taps his cheek and turns to you, “congratulations, puddin’, I just–” she claps her hands together, “I’m so happy for y’all. Oh, Harlan is gonna lose his mind.”

She titters out as you carve out a bite of mint chip and Lloyd falls back beside you, a loud groan as he holds his shoulder. He whimpers and leans on you, “what flavour?”

“None of your concern, you can’t have none.”

“Is that… pistachio?” He curls his lip.

“Uh, no, gross.”

“Mint chip?” He guesses.

“My fave.”

“That can’t be your favourite.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s… boring.”

“Well, Marion, you knew I was boring from the start.”

“No, your life was boring,” he winks, “I saved you from that.”

“Pfft, saved,” you shove the spoon in your mouth and roll your eyes. Is that really what he believes?

💎

The house is quiet. It has been of late, even when Dottie and Harlan were still around. You suppose you notice because of him. Because usually when Lloyd is there, it’s anything but.

After a struggle, you’ve migrated to the bed. You hadn’t intended on sticking with him but you’re too tired to go back downstairs and do your usual hour on the treadmill. Even on the lowest setting.

You unstrap the belt and get in next to him as he lays on his back. He grazes his fingers along his stubble and growls. You sit and grab your tablet, thinking of beating your high score. You lean against the headboard as he keeps his eyes shut, slow breaths in and out.

When was it ever this peaceful with the jackass in the house? You don’t trust it. You don’t like the calm because you know it will eventually break.

There’s a tickle on your thigh. His knuckles brush along your skin and his fingertips catch on the loose fabric of your shorts. You click your tongue and focus on the tablet. You’re almost at number one in the tournament.

He pinches the cotton and tugs. You peer over as the victory window pops up with confetti. He watches you with a dimple in his cheek. You squint at him as you feel the heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“Peaches, do you realise, if I wasn’t beat to hell, I’d fuck the life out of you?”

You can’t help but snort. He is the least romantic idiot you know, but still the biggest idiot. You sigh and put the tablet on the night table. You catch his hand and pull it away from your shorts.

“Really?” He gripes.

“Lloyd, we’re both not in the shape for this–”

“You are exactly the shape I want,” he wrestles his hand away from you and puts it on your belly, “I know you like having control, baby, and it’s your perfect opportunity to inflict a bit of pain on daddy. Just like you always wanted.”

You consider him, the tickle that lingers in your leg, the warmth of his palm against your stomach, how he rubs you through your shirt, fingers circling along the fabric. You can never tell if he’s lying but you hardly care now. Don’t think.

You move his hand off your stomach. He watches, an air of disappointment as you rest his hand beside him. You sit forward and tug the back of your shirt up over your head. You swipe it away and turn your legs over the edge. You bounce yourself up to your feet and turn to face the bed.

As you slide your thumbs beneath the elastic, you look at him. He has that dumb, smug expression. You pause.

“Don’t smirk at me like that.”

“I can’t help it,” he tries to straighten his lips, “I… want you so bad.”

You take a breath and push your shorts down. You tear your eyes away. Exposed, naked, swollen. You don’t know how to feel. He says he wants you and there you are, breasts heavy and low, stomach round and rippled with stretch marks.

“Come here, peaches,” he lifts his hand over his crotch, “I’m fucking hurting more than ever.”

You push your knee onto the bed, then the other. You crawl over to him as he struggles to push down his loose pajamas. You help guide them down far enough to free him. He dick bobs up in anticipation. He might not be lying, it sure looks like he wants you.

“Sweet peach, let me warm you up first,” he purrs as he caresses your arm and you look up as he wets his lips, “have a seat.”

“No, I don’t need it,” you wrap your fingers around him, stroking his length as you bring yourself over him.

You straddle him, rubbing his tip along your folds, your arousal spreading with the friction. You drag him back to your entrance and ease down onto him, inch by inch. You hang your head back and let your voice drone out of your lungs.

You bottom out and drop your head forward, planting your hands on his chest. He grunt and lets out a measly whimper. You tilt your hips and let a moan roll up your throat. Fuck. You missed this. Missed the chance to not think. To not feel more than your body.

He whines, a mixture of pain and pleasure, his hand shaking against your thigh. His other feels along your cunt and he finds your clit, swirling over it as you rock against him. You heave as your thighs burn, muscles aching, arm trembling as you build your motion.

“Ah, peaches,” he hisses and clenches his jaw, “fuck that hurts so good.”

You slam your ass down as your legs give out. You move your hips as you drag your nails down his stomach and lean back. You grab onto your calves, supporting yourself as you move your pelvis steadily. He runs his hand over your belly and stretches it along your side, flicking your bud with each thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you puff as you chase the peak, “fuck.

“Yeah, that good baby, that good? You been waiting for this? I know the fuck I have,” he groans, “go on and give daddy a choke, baby.”

You huff and shake your head. He purrs and grabs your hand, leading it up to his neck, urging you on as he keeps his fingers working on your clit. You cry out as the pressure blooms, pulsing deeper and deeper, as you squeeze his throat.

“Just like that,” Lloyd gurgles, “fuck, peaches, you still got it.”

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabbles #series #unexpected #the gray man

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thatfeelinwhenyou · 11 months

Text

HANDS ON YOU — lee heeseung

IN WHICH; I-LAND 2 happened and you debuted first place as the leader of LUMIÈRE. Having been told that your group is involved in a lore crossover with ENHYPEN, you navigate work, friendship, and love while trying to make it in an industry filled with animosity and condemnation. When life throws you lemons, you gotta make lemonades chuck it right back!

PAIRING: idol!heeseung x idol!fem!reader

GENRE: smau, strangers to lovers, celebrity x celebrity, forbidden love, fluff, don’t let the first part of the smau fool you i swear it’s full on angst towards the end, slowest of the slow burns…

WARNINGS: contains profanities, horrible humour, kys/kms jokes, sexual innuendos, spelling errors, incorrect timestamps, probably some cringe-worthy moments, cyberbullying, racist and misogynistic comments made about reader, death threats, mentions/depictions of overworking, insomnia, eating disorders, not proofread etc. (I am not in anyway romanticising, encouraging or condoning the usage of these topics. They are purely for the plot and development of the story.)

STATUS: completed! (04/06/2023 – 08/08/2023)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: please read! literally my first attempt at a smau so please don't flame me 💀 i must warn y’all that the timestamps are really all over the place, so DO NOT pay attention to them until stated. the content and depiction of the characters in this smau do not in anyway represent them in real life. chapters with ‘(hw)’ next to them indicates that they are half-written, in case y’all accidentally skip over it! last but not least, if you do end up enjoying it please like, comment (absolutely love reading comments!), and reblog! without further ado, enjoy!!

TAGS: #tfwy handsonyou

prologue - introducing LUMIÈRE part 1 | part 2

profile. one | two

chapter 1 - number 1 hater

chapter 2 - infant

chapter 3 - #prayersformarklee ✊🤞

chapter 4 - dog-eater…? (hw)

chapter 5 - breaking records(?)

chapter 6 - still employed!

chapter 7 - bad publicity is still publicity

chapter 8 - to hee or not to hee

chapter 9 - the heist

chapter 10 - trigger warning

chapter 11 - soompitydimpity

chapter 12 - chronic insomnia

chapter 13 - to hee after all

chapter 14 - wild pokémon heeseungie

chapter 15 - artists

chapter 16 - that should be me

chapter 17 - bills

chapter 18 - the elephant in the room (hw)

chapter 19 - if you let me

chapter 20 - trouble? travel! (hw)

chapter 21 - caught in a lie

chapter 22 - always on your side

chapter 23 - princess syndrome

chapter 24 - you (hw)

chapter 25 - golden thread

chapter 26 - way back home (hw)

chapter 27 - uh oh…

chapter 28 - fight or flight

chapter 29 - close friends

chapter 30 - paradoxx invasion

chapter 31 - ramen

chapter 32 - 080923 (hw)

chapter 33 - driver

chapter 34 - demure and honest

chapter 35 - p-platonic?!?

chapter 36 - friends don’t look at friends that way

chapter 37 - bungeoppang

chapter 38 - back to the way things were..?

chapter 39 - wheel of fortune

chapter 40 - i miss holding your hand (hw)

chapter 41 - sooha (real)

chapter 42 - rizzseung

chapter 43 - project luminescence

chapter 44 - i will go to you like the first snow (hw)

chapter 45 - it’s awfully quiet…

chapter 46 - jake pick me era?

chapter 47 - my life without you is a misery

chapter 48 - your honour, i’m innocent

chapter 49 - breaking my silence

chapter 50 - he’s being exploited!

chapter 51 (finale) - number 1 fan (hw)

epilogue - forever ruined by you

bonus chapter!

the exes talk

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pedrito-friskito · 9 months

Text

strawberry wine - joel miller x ofc!liv stone/fem!reader

after - part twenty-eight

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | READ ON AO3

you forge an unlikely alliance.

a/n: suuuuuurpppprriiiiiissseeeee shortiessssss!! wowowowow it has been a hot second and I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been sitting on this part (and part 29 👀) for a HOT SECOND but here she is. we are approaching more heavy stuff but I’m am excited and I hope y’all are too!

word count: 6k

warnings: nothing new, if you’ve been reading so far, you know the drill.

✨@friskito-library for updates on new parts/works✨

It’s a lot of hiding. It’s a lot of stopping and starting and ducking behind cars and darting down alleyways. Every whisper of a truck engine makes Joel’s blood run cold, and he has to stop himself from glancing back at you every few minutes. You haven’t let go of the kid’s hand, and he’s taken it upon himself to lead you through, putting himself in front, in the line of fire.

His self-restraint doesn’t last long; he counts ten steps in his mind, glances back at you, repeat. Your face is a mess, blood still smeared across your cheek, and he already knows you’re gonna have one hell of a bruise. All the first aid shit you’d taken from Lincoln was in the bed of the truck, and he’s not sure what Ellie has in her bag. Once you’re able to actually stop, to rest for the night, he’ll figure it out.

He’s trying to scrub the scene from his mind. That kid — Bryan, his memory cruelly reminds him — came out of fucking nowhere, the shotgun went off, and then you were on the floor. His heart had nearly stopped in his chest, all the breath shoved from his lungs, and before he could actually figure out if you’d been shot or not, that same shotgun was pressed against his throat.

But then…Ellie.

If she hadn’t done what she did, guaranteed you’d all be laying dead in that laundromat. Or something worse. It’s not FEDRA here, it’s not Fireflies. He doesn’t know what the fuck it is, but he has to get you out of Kansas City.

Both of you.

The promise he made you back in the forest sits in the back of his throat, a reminder that thumps with every step he takes. His head is a mess. You sprawled on the floor, Ellie with the gun in her hand, the way that kid had screamed.

You don’t have to!

Yes, he did. He did exactly what he had to.

It’s dark, by the time he’s leading you down the alleyway beside the large building he’d scoped out earlier in the day. It’s been a while since he heard the rumble of a truck, but he knows it’s just as dangerous in the dark, if not more. He’s just grateful you haven’t crossed paths with any Infected.

There’s a service entrance, in the alley. The door’s locked, but there’s a vent maybe eight feet up the wall. Of course, you offer yourself up first, but he shakes his head. You’d probably fit through, but he can’t risk you falling through and hitting your head again.

“Ellie,” he calls, and the kid perks up, releasing your hand for the first time as she steps toward him. “I’m gonna lift you up,” he tells her, and even in the dark, he can see her face go pale. He drops down, locks his fingers together. “You’re just gonna put your foot here.”

She gulps, but nods.

“Ready? One, two—” He lifts her on the third count and she swears, grabbing his shoulder tightly. “Straighten up, I got you.” She uses the butt of his flashlight to push the vent inward, and it clatters on the other side of the wall. Joel holds her up as she wriggles through, feet kicking as she disappears through the hole.

“Okay, I’m in!” she calls, and Joel glances at you, seeing you deflate slightly with relief.

“Take a look around first,” he calls back, and steps to your side, reaching for your hand. “Okay?”

You nod, but don’t say anything.

There are more clattering noises, but the kid doesn’t say anything. Your hand turns to a vice around Joel’s. “Ellie!” he calls in a loud whisper. “Goddamnit.”

Another beat, and the door swings open, revealing Ellie, completely intact, that shit-eating grin back on her face. “Where would you be without me, huh?”

“By now, Wyoming,” Joel replies, unable to help the quip. He pulls his gun from his pocket, ignoring the way you roll your eyes at him and smack his shoulder as you follow him through. Ellie steps to your side again.

“Oh yeah,” she mutters. “Walked into that one.”

Ellie hands Joel his flashlight, digs in her pocket for her own. It’s almost pitch-black, and the flashlight beams land on old trucks, delivery vans, tipped shelving. “All right, we’ll make our way up,” Joel says as his flashlight lands on a set of stairs. “In the morning, we take a look at the city, and find our way out.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, and you nod.

At the top of the stairs is a door, and Joel pushes it inward, his gun raised. “We’re going up forty-two flights?” Ellie asks, and Joel hears you sigh.

“Forty-five,” Joel corrects, trying to ignore the way his knees are already aching. “But no, not all the way.”

“How far?” you ask, and he looks at you again.

“As far as we can make it,” he tells you, and you scoff a laugh, pushing past both of them and starting up the steps. Joel doesn’t protest, letting you go first. It’s better, if anything; if you stumble, it’ll be easier for him to get to you. Ellie trails up behind you both, and Joel shines his flashlight past you, illuminating the stairs ahead.

Ten flights, and you’re all breathing heavily. You have a tight grip on the railing, using it as leverage to pull you up each step, and Joel’s matched your pace, his free hand pushing at the small of your back. Fifteen flights, and you have to stop a moment, pausing on one of the landings to catch your breath, hand pressed to your chest. “Okay?” Joel asks after a few minutes. You just nod.

Twenty-five flights, and Ellie has something to say. “Hey, you know that guy that said he was hurt? Out in the road?” she asks, and you both pause. “How did you know it was an ambush?”

You both look back at her before looking at each other. Memories swim through Joel’s mind, things he’s buried, things he hasn’t thought about in a long time.

Things he did to protect you.

“We’ve been on both sides,” you answer finally, still breathing heavily. “It was a long time ago, kid. We did what we needed to survive. We did what we had to.”

“Tess, too?”

Your jaw goes tight, but you nod. “Tess, too.”

“And Tommy,” Joel offers, pressing his hand flat to your back, rubbing a small circle.

He goes to take another step, to bring you up with him, but the kid’s next question makes him freeze again. “Did you kill innocent people?”

You train your eyes up, then let them slip closed, breathing deeply. Joel looks over his shoulder at Ellie. The words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t say them. He can’t admit to this kid the terrible things he’s done, the terrible things he knows he’d do again if it meant keeping you safe.

Keeping her safe.

He shoves the thought away, and turns back to you. “C’mon.”

It’s a moment before he hears her steps continue.

Thirty-three floors, and you’re done. “Joel, I can’t,” you mutter, and he can hear the pain that’s laced in your voice. He angles the flashlight away from you, but brings it close enough that he can see your face. The mark on your cheek is bleeding again, twin drips of red slipping down your cheeks.

“Okay, baby,” he nods, rubbing his hand right up your back, squeezing the back of your neck. “We’re done. It’s okay.”

“Holy shit,” Ellie sighs as he pushes the door open from the staircase and onto the floor. “Thirty-three floors, we did good.”

“It’s gonna have to be,” Joel answers, grunting as your knees give out beneath you. You slide against the wall, sinking to the floor, and Joel goes with you, trying and failing to support your weight. “Where’s that rag?”

“Pocket,” you breathe out, your voice wheezy. Joel reaches for it, tilting your chin to the side so he can wipe the blood. “Fuck.” You take it from him after a moment, keeping it pressed against your cheek. Your eyes shut for a moment, but then your force them open, brows lifting slightly and your gaze slides to Ellie.

Joel leans against the wall, tipping his head back. His own heart is racing, his lungs tight with exertion. “C’mon,” Ellie says, offering her hand.

“Give me a minute,” he barks, but from the corner of your eye, he sees you getting back to your feet.

Ellie shakes her hand. “Get up, you lazy ass.”

You wobble slightly as you stand beside the kid, but you’re smiling, chest still heaving with breaths. You keep the rag pressed to your face with one hand, and offer the other to Joel as well. “Let’s go, baby.”

He grabs both of your hands, relying more on Ellie’s than yours as you haul him to his feet. Your boots slide back on the floor, and he puts his arm around your waist again, supporting your weight as he shoots Ellie a glare. “Lazy ass,” he repeats, shaking his head. “Fifty-six years old, you little shit.”

“And still just as pretty,” you mumble, and Ellie giggles.

It’s too dark to tell what sort of office you break into, but the glass shatters easily when he smacks it with a long-expired fire extinguisher. There are couches inside, pull-apart leather things with enough pillows to make beds for all three of you.

Ellie arranges the pillows as Joel collects the broken glass in a trash bin. You’re perched on the now-sunken couch, and after Ellie’s done setting up your makeshift beds, she pulls out a little red pouch, producing a bandaid and an alcohol wipe.

You wince loudly as she wipes your cheek, and Ellie mutters her sorries, but you tell her it’s okay, to continue. Joel turns to see you gripping the edge of the couch as tightly as you’d been holding his hand earlier, your face screwed up in pain as the kid wipes the cut on your cheek.

He pauses, watching from the other side of the room, holding the bin full of glass. Ellie’s face is pure concentration, and after she’s done cleaning the blood from your face, you look better, though the edges of the cut are already starting to bruise. Joel watches as you take the bandaids from her, peeling them open and instructing her how to put them on, to do it so it acts more like medical tape and will hold the edges of your cut together.

“There was a stitch kit,” you tell her, tilting your face up slightly as she applies the bandaids, “in the truck, but this’ll have to do. Besides, I don’t trust either of you to be stitching up my face in the dark.”

Ellie smiles, and you smile back. She leans back when she’s done, inspecting her handiwork as you brush your fingers over the bandaids. “Good?”

“Better,” you reply, and reach out, pinching her chin. “Thanks, kid.”

The whole scene makes his chest ache, and Joel rips his eyes from it, the two of you scoping the rest of the room while he starts laying the pieces of glass out on the floor between your beds and the door. “Joel!” Ellie shouts after a few minutes, and he turns to look at her, pausing as more glass hits the floor.

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t want someone sneakin’ up on us while we’re sleeping,” he says. You open your mouth, and he knows what you’re gonna say. He lifts his hand before you have the chance. “You’re not keepin’ watch, Liv. You need to sleep. We all do.”

“Oh, I get it,” Ellie says, looking at the scattered glass. “Crunch, crunch, crunch. Are you sure you’re gonna hear it?”

The bin emptied, Joel sets it down, and steps toward the bed meant for you and him. You’re perched on the edge, your eyes following him. “Of course, I’ll hear it,” he shoots back, his tone agitated. “That’s the damn point.”

“If he doesn’t, I will,” you tell her, leaning back slowly until you’re laid out on the pillows. Joel sheds his jacket, shoots you a look he hopes looks appreciative.

“Okay,” Ellie says, satisfied with your combined answers and dropping to her own pillows. “Good night, then.”

“Night, kid,” you tell her, and pat the space beside you, gesturing to Joel.

“Good night.”

He hands you his jacket, and you bunch it up, setting it at the spot for your heads like a makeshift pillow. Your own jacket gets draped over you both when he lays down beside you, good ear up, turned towards the door. You press yourself against his back the same way you had in the forest, the cold tip of your nose fitting in the dip of his spine.

His mind is still going.

“Hey, kid,” he calls out after a moment.

He feels you perk up slightly, but then Ellie calls back. “Yeah?”

“When we were talkin’ about hurtin’ people,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “what did you mean, it wasn’t your first time?”

“Joel,” you murmur, shaking your head against his back. It sounds almost like a warning.

It’s dead silent for a moment, all of you collectively holding your breath before the kid answers. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“All right,” Joel replies, and rolls over. You stay in place, and he puts his arm around your waist, letting you bury your face in his chest. “You don’t have to. I’m just sayin’, it isn’t fair, your age, havin’ to deal with all of this…”

He can just make out her outline, in the dark, can tell that she’s staring up at the ceiling. But then slowly, her head tips to the side, and her eyes meet his. “So it gets easier when you get older?”

Joel feels your sharp inhale, and rubs his hand up your back as he shakes his head slightly. “No, not really. But still.”

“The reason I asked whether you’d hear the glass or not is cuz I’ve noticed you don’t hear too well from your right side, and Liv is always on that side of you, like she’s protecting you. Is it cuz you were shot there?”

Your entire body goes tight against him, your hands fisting in the front of his flannel.

“Probably,” Joel answers, rubbing a circle between your shoulder, “but probably from shootin’ too. So if you wanna keep your hearing, you stick to that knife.”

Silently, you get up, rising to your feet slowly and stepping over Joel. He watches for a moment as you clear a space in the field of glass he’s created big enough for you to sit in. You have your gun in one hand, your knife in the other, and Joel only manages to find his voice when you sink down to sit between him and the door, your back to him.

“Liv, come back here.”

“Go to sleep, Joel,” you say, over your shoulder, barely looking at him. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

You were fine, when you first got up from the pillows, made space for yourself in Joel’s glass trap. Your eyes only got heavy after the first hour, and the quiet sound of Joel sleeping, his quiet breathing only a few feet from you, became the perfect lullaby for your aching head.

You should have woken him, but you didn’t have the heart to.

After you’d stepped over him, after you’d settled, you’d heard his deep sigh, but no protest followed. But after a few minutes, the kid called your name. “Liv?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know diarrhea is hereditary?”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice almost sad. “It runs in your jeans.”

You’d clapped your hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter, and heard Joel’s mumbled Jesus Christ behind you, but then Ellie started giggling and you joined in.

“That is so goddamn stupid,” Joel grumbled, but you could hear the laughter in his voice.

“I can hear you laughing, motherfucker,” Ellie called back, and you shook your head at the both of them.

“I didn’t laugh!”

“Yes, you did!”

“Jesus, I’m losin’ it.”

“You’re losin’ it big time.”

There was a pause, and then you all started laughing again. You ignored the twinge in your cheek as you giggled, and when you looked over your shoulder, seeing the actual grin on Joel’s face, his eyes pinched with laughter, your heart felt like it might implode.

Ellie’s giggles carried on, and after a few minutes, Joel’s grumbles returned. “Go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep!”

“Both of you go to sleep,” you called, louder than both of them.

Eventually, the giggling stopped, and the room settled into silence. Inviting silence. You crossed your legs, propped your knees up and wrapped your arms around them, gun gripped in one hand, knife in the other. You kept your eyes trained on the door, silently humming Hank Williams songs in your head, letting your mind wander just so it would keep you awake. But a few hours, and your head dipped down, chin tucked to your chest.

And then you wake up with your knife pressed to your throat. Whoever they are, they dragged you over to Ellie, and the same person that has the blade of your knife hooked under your jaw has a gun pointed at Ellie. She’s wide awake as you come to, realizing what position you’re in, and her hands are in the air.

“What—”

“Don’t move,” the one holding you orders, and you freeze, feeling the metal dig in just that much more, lifting your hands as best you can. “And be quiet.”

Your eyes flick to where Joel is laying, turned on his other side — his bad side — and there’s…

There’s a kid standing at the foot of your makeshift bed, a gun trained on your husband’s sleeping form.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper, keeping your hands visible. “It doesn’t have to go this way.”

“Joel,” Ellie calls, and he just grunts in his sleep, burrowing deeper into the pillows. “Joel!”

His eyes open first, taking in both of you, the gun and the knife. He flinches, turning onto his back, staring at the kid with the gun trained on him. You can feel your throat bob against the blade.

“Eyes on me,” the older one calls to Joel. He’s young — too young — and you can feel his fingers shaking around your knife. It would probably be easy to disarm him, but they have guns pointed at both Ellie and Joel, and that’s not a chance you’re willing to take. “Eyes on me.”

“Joel,” you call, your voice soft. The blade is cold against your throat, and Ellie makes a little noise beside you. Slowly, Joel’s eyes shift to the older one.

“You don’t have to worry about what to say,” he says. “We don’t wanna hurt you. We wanna help you.”

Joel stares him down. You can see that hard mask fall into place, his eyes turning to black pits as they flick between you and Ellie. “Okay.”

“Okay, um,” the older one stutters, his hand shaking more. He’s too young for this. “I don’t know what the next step is with something like this, but if I lower my gun and drop the knife, we didn’t hurt you, so you don’t hurt us…Right?”

“That’s right,” Joel replies, his voice crystal clear, but laced with rage. You’ve heard that tone before.

“That’s a weird fuckin’ tone, man,” the kid says, and in any other circumstance, you’d laugh.

“That’s just the way he sounds,” Ellie interjects. “He has an asshole voice. Joel, tell him he’s okay.”

Joel’s eyes slide between the two of you again. “Everything is great,” he deadpans.

“Joel,” you sigh, and try to angle your head back away from the knife as Ellie lifts her hands higher, exasperated.

“Dude!”

“Fuck, okay, listen,” the kid continues, “I’m gonna trust you. All of you. But if any of you guys try anything,” he looks pointedly at each of you, but the gun rattles slightly in his other hand, “yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ellie replies quickly.

“Yes,” you breathe, staring back at Joel. The older one nods to the younger, and he steps back, giving Joel more space.

“Can I sit up?” Joel asks, and you can still hear that thread of rage in his voice.

“Yeah,” the older one tells him, “slow. Get up slow.”

Lifting his own hands, Joel rises, staying seated on your makeshift bed. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Henry,” the older one says, and then gestures to the younger one. “That’s my brother, Sam. We’re the most wanted men in Kansas City. Although, right now, my guess is you’re all running a close second.”

Henry lowers his gun, and then loosens his grip on your knife. Your jaw lowers as the blade falls away, and it lands in your lap. You snatch it up quickly, sliding it back into the sheath at your hip. Head throbbing, you scramble away from him, grabbing Ellie by the back of her shirt and hauling her with you toward where Joel is. He puts himself in front of you both, putting an arm out in front of you. You see his hand twitch toward his gun, and Henry catches it.

“We didn’t hurt you,” he repeats, and lifts his free hand, lowering his gun slowly, tucking it into his jeans, “so you don’t hurt us.”

Part of you knows you should be raging. That you should have just let your instincts take over, but…

They’re just kids. Ellie grabs your hand and squeezes, and there’s a strange kind of light in her eyes when you glance at her over your shoulder.

“Why don’t you two sit,” you tell the pair, jutting your chin towards the pillows that are now sort of spread around the floor. “You have food?”

Henry meets your eyes. You can see how headstrong he is just looking at him, the way he glances at his little brother before lifting his chin slightly. “No.”

“Sit,” you say again, “and we’ll share some of ours.”

A few minutes later, and you’ve arranged yourselves around a lantern Henry and Sam had in their packs. Your head still throbs, but the food helps. Ellie had stashed some rations from Bill and Frank’s in her bag — some kind of protein bar concoction you remember Frank all but forcing down your throat more than once.

“Where’d you get these?” Henry asks, glancing between you and Ellie. He hasn’t chanced a look at Joel since you all sat down. Smart kid.

“Friends,” you answer, snapping off another small bite. “They’re dead.”

Joel’s hand slides over your knee, squeezes lightly, and then you watch as he picks up one of the larger bars, wraps it in the parchment paper it was covered in, and leans across, handing the bundle to Sam. The young kid takes it, then taps his brother on the shoulder, makes a gesture from his chin, points at Joel.

“He says thank you,” Henry relays, and the realization settles over you. Sam is deaf. “I’m guessing you don’t have much so…this means a lot.”

“How old is he?” you ask, gesturing to Sam. He looks at his brother, signs the question, and you watch as Sam replies.

“He’s eight.”

“And you?”

“Twenty-two,” Henry answers, nodding slightly. His eyes shift to Ellie. “What about you?”

“Fourteen,” Ellie answers. “I’m Ellie, by the way.” She points to you. “And this is Liv, her husband Joel.”

Henry taps Sam, and then points to each of you in turn, signing your names to the younger boy. He acknowledges each name, and gives you a soft smile that makes your heart hurt. Cute kid.

“Look,” Joel says abruptly, and you can feel him bristling beside you. “You ate, we didn’t kill each other, let’s call this a win-win and move on?”

Henry brushes his hands clean, folds them together in front of himself. “Well, I’m betting that y’all came up here to get a better view of the city and plan a way out. And when the sun’s up, I’ll show you one.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” you ask. It’s a bit for show, but you’re curious to know this kid’s answer.

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Like you said, we didn’t kill each other. And we want out of this city, same as you.”

“You point another gun at me or my girls and I make no promises that I won’t start swingin’,” Joel barks. You put a hand on his arm, warning, but your mind snags on another part.

My girls.

Ellie’s glance at her lap feels pointed, and you give Joel a stern look. “There’s still a few hours till sun-up, and I think we could all use some more sleep. You boys take one corner, we’ll take the other, and we’ll collectively agree not to pull any weapons on each other, at least until the sun is up. Deal?”

Henry nods, but his eyes dart to Joel and his throat bobs. “Deal.”

He knows you made the right call. He’s letting you take the lead here.

The moment his eyes opened and he was staring down the barrel of the gun, held by a kid much too young to be wielding it, he was seeing red. When he saw you with your own knife at your throat, another gun pointed at Ellie, it took everything in him not to launch himself at Henry, and when he looked at you, he could see you weighing the options in your head, just the same.

And his own words, what he’d said to Ellie the night before, ring loud in his head.

It isn’t fair, your age, havin’ to deal with all of this…

Henry’s young. Not so young to have that shield of childhood innocence, but young enough. Capable. Headstrong. In a way, he almost reminds Joel of Tommy.

The sun comes up, and no one’s pulled a knife on anyone, your deal is still intact. You head up another few flights, Joel with his eyes on your back as you take the stairs. Your steps are surer today, and he worries less about you toppling backward. Your face, however, is another story. The bruise is fierce, creeping under your eye, but Ellie’s bandage job is holding things together. You catch him staring as you head to the stairs, and catch his wrist, squeezing light.

“I’ve had worse.”

There are more offices, the higher you go. The one you stop in is high enough that Joel feels safe, that you won’t be spotted through the glass. You drop your stuff on the large wooden conference table, Ellie and Sam darting towards the opposite end of it, already roped into that easy friendship that kids have habits of forming, even after the world ended.

You step towards the glass, inspecting the city below. It feels different from Boston, from this high up. The QZ gate was wide open when you drove past it, and there’s no true wall wrapped around the city. Not like Boston, where everything, everyone is caged inside. But, as you’ve come to learn, it just means more chaos.

“Welcome to Killa City,” Henry says to you both, and you scoff at the moniker.

“No FEDRA?” Joel asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Not as of ten days ago, no,” he answers.

“I always heard KC FEDRA were—” you start.

Henry cuts you off. “Monsters, savages? Yeah, you heard right. Raped and tortured and murdered people for twenty years. And you know what happens when you do that to people? The moment they get a chance, they do it right back to you.”

You look at the kids over your shoulder before your eyes slide back to Henry. “But you’re not FEDRA?”

“No,” he replies, but the look on his face isn’t convincing to Joel. “Worse. I’m a collaborator.”

Joel grabs the back of your shirt and hauls you back, putting himself between you and Henry. You sputter his name, surprised at his movement, but he shakes his head, ignoring the way your nails dig into his forearm. “We don’t work with rats.”

Henry’s stance mirrors his, and the kid almost laughs. “Yeah, you fucking do. Today you do, because I live here, and you don’t. That’s how I followed you here. I know this city, and that’s how I’m gonna help you get out.”

“Why help us?” Joel asks.

“I saw what you did,” Henry answers, and his eyes dart over Joel’s shoulder, to you. “The way you killed those men. Now, I know where to go, but I don’t know how to make it through alive, not if it’s just me and Sam.”

“You seem capable enough,” you say, moving around Joel slightly. “You’re armed.”

“Wrong and wrong,” Henry quips, shaking his head slightly. “I never killed anyone, and pointing an unloaded gun at you was the closest I’ve ever come to being violent.”

You scoff. “Tell that to the knife at my throat.”

There’s an apology in his eyes when he looks at you. “Improvising. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

You nod. “I know you are.”

Henry sighs. “So that’s the deal. I show the way, you two clear it.”

Laughter makes all three of you perk up, all heads turning in the direction of the pair sat at the table. Your grip on Joel’s arm goes tight again for a moment before loosening. Henry chuckles as the kids look up at you all, the laughter continuing even after they’ve been caught. “Haven’t heard that in a long time.”

Joel turns back toward the window and you move up beside him, your hand now resting between his shoulder blades. “Give us a second,” he says to Henry, and steps around a large concrete pillar, obscuring the both of you.

Your eyes dart to the window, and Joel props his arm up on the wall beside your head, trying to give some veil of privacy. “What are you thinking?” you ask him, leaning back slightly, your arms crossed.

“I don’t like it,” Joel murmurs, shaking his head. “He told us what he is. What’s stoppin’ him from handin’ us over the second it suits him?”

You sigh. “He’s just a kid, Joel. And if there’s no more FEDRA in KC, then that means there’s only one group of people gunning for him now, right? Same ones that are after us.”

“I don’t—” he starts again, but you move forward, hooking your fingers in his belt.

“What other choice do we have? He’s right; we don’t know this city, we have no idea where we’re going. That’s how we got stuck in the first place.”

Joel shakes his head, though he knows you’re right. “That, and the fuckin’ cinderblock to the windshield.”

You get closer, your words more hushed. “We do what we have to.”

The hand not propped on the wall moves to the back of your head, strands of hair sliding between his fingers. You look up at him, determination in your gaze, and he leans in, kissing your uninjured cheek. The weight on his chest doesn’t disappear, but it lessens some.

You step out from around the pillar, and Henry’s eyes snap back to you both. “So, how are we gettin’ out?” Joel asks.

Ellie wanders over as Henry finds a piece of paper, fishes a pencil out of his bag. You all watch as he draws out a rudimentary map, marks the highways, points out the downtown core. And just beside the middle of it all, “Us.” He points to the rest of the downtown. “This whole area belongs to Kathleen.”

“And she’s the one in charge?” you ask.

Henry nods. “Leader of the resistance.” He points at the map again. “You can see the way we’re bounded by highways. They got people posted all around the inside perimeter. If we get close, we get caught, no question. So how do we get across?”

Henry bangs on the table, getting the attention of Sam, who’s still sat at the end of the table. He signs something to his younger brother, and Sam nods, reaching for the erasable notepad in front of him. Joel watches as the kid scribbles out a word, and his throat goes dry when he lifts it up.

Tunnels.

Henry snaps his fingers, an almost grin on his face. “Boom.”

“Kansas City has a subway?” Joel asks, his brow pinching.

“No, but they do have maintenance tunnels. There’s a bunch of buildings all put up by the same developers, and they share these tunnels, including…” He picks up the pencil again, draws more onto the map. “The bank building here. So we enter the tunnels here, travel underground, and pop up here. Westside North. Residential. There’s an embankment on the other side of the houses. We head down, pedestrian bridge over the river, free as a bird.” Another grin, and he drops the pencil.

“You’re right,” Joel says, trying not to let the condescension bleed too deep into his voice. “It’s a great plan. So what do you need us for?”

Henry’s face changes, and Joel doesn’t like it. “You noticed anything strange about this city? I mean, other than the strange shit you’ve already seen?”

“No Infected?” Ellie offers.

“Oh, there’s Infected,” Henry says, “just not on the surface.” Beside him, Joel hears your sharp inhale. “FEDRA drove them underground fifteen years ago and never let them come back up. Only good thing those fascist motherfuckers ever did.”

“So you want us going into a tunnel?” Joel asks, his voice getting tight. Your hand curls around his forearm again.

“Everyone thinks it’s full of Infected, including Kathleen, which means that we’re not gonna be running into any of her people. But you see, what I know is…it’s empty.”

“You’ve been down there?” you ask, and Joel can feel you bristling as much as he is.

“No,” Henry answers, and Joel sighs heavily. “But the FEDRA guy that I worked with told me that it’s clean, completely clean. They cleared it out, all of it.”

“When?” Ellie asks.

“Like…three years ago.”

Joel scoffs, and your forehead touches his shoulder softly before you lift your head. “We don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to FEDRA,” you say, and both Joel and Ellie look at you. “And three years is a long fucking time.”

Joel shakes his head, turning away from the table completely, planting his hands on his hips. “I don’t like this.”

“Okay, so maybe there’s one or two,” Henry continues, his tone shifting to placating, reasoning, “but you handle it.”

“And what if there’s more?” you counter, and Joel turns back toward you.

“Or one of those blind ones that sees like a bat?” Ellie says, giving Henry a pointed look.

He looks incredulous. “Wait, you…you ran into a Clicker?”

“Two of ‘em,” you answer. “Not our first rodeo.”

“And you’re still alive,” Henry says, like it’s proof enough. “You see? You’re the right people. If it gets bad down there, we turn around, and run right back out the same way we can.”

“Y’know, I take it back,” Joel says, propping his fist on the table again. “Not such a great plan.”

“No, it’s a dicey-as-fuck plan,” Henry admits, staring Joel down. “But as far as I can tell, it’s our only shot.”

Sam bangs on the table, grabbing Henry’s attention, and signs something, his little brow pinched.

“They’re saying,�� Henry answers, signing as he speaks, “they’re going to help us escape.” He looks back to Joel. “Right?”

You sigh and when Joel looks back at you, you give a little shrug. “Guess we’re doing this.”

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malicious-compliance-esq · 4 days

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Why the World Needs Black Jack Randall: Queer Representation at Its Worst and Best

On March 29 my amazing mutual and fellow Evil Redcoat Pipeline traveler @meerawrites tagged me in a reblog of this video essay from @rowanellis about media literacy and queer villains that mentions both Lestat de Lioncourt from Interview with the Vampire and Black Jack Randall from Outlander. Double bisexual representation from an openly ace creator? Be still my heart!

I’d seen a few of Rowan’s other videos on YouTube—not ever having looked for her on Tumblr before Meera sent me that video—and often enjoyed both the content and the nuance. Certainly true for many aspects of this one as well. I want to make it very clear before going into detail here that I ardently support Rowan as a creator and appreciate that advocacy for diverse queer representation tremendously. I’m tagging her blog here primarily to promote her work and to encourage folks to explore for themselves. Her video essays are excellent in general and this one certainly has its fair share of wonderful content just the same.

I love the analysis here of why queer villains often get embraced as folk heroes by the LGBTQIA+ community, and many of the specific commentaries on beloved characters from iconic films and shows I grew up on like The Rocky Horror Picture Show and The Lion King. Of course, I’m no expert on any of those canons despite many viewings. I don’t consider myself an expert on Interview with the Vampire by any means either, but I’ve read all the books and seen the film and the available season of the new television adaptation. I found a lot of the commentary here insightful and resonant as a more casual consumer of media in that universe. I fully expect that folks who truly do have that depth of expertise would have much to say about the specifics of Rowan’s analysis of Lestat.

If y’all are on my blog, you know why I’m here and you know where my expertise lies. I am here to sustain the collective derangement of the few and the proud who take a deeper interest in Black Jack. Who see him for the complex and complicated person he is rather than writing him off as a Complete Monster or hand waving the things he does that truly are monstrous. And oftentimes who take that deeper look at him from the informed perspective of lived experience with sexual abuse. Many of the folks I’ve met who find Black Jack uniquely resonant and compelling do so from the firsthand perspective of submissiveness and masochism—of finding him alluring because of what he could do for them.

Well then. You could fix him. You could make him worse. I could rail him.

I’m going to out myself in no uncertain terms here because I need to make my authorial standpoint painstakingly clear. Hi, my name is Malicious Compliance. In addition to being quite openly bisexual in every possible area of my life, I am Dominant and sadistic. Are those the only things I enjoy sexually? Not at all. Although I’m not switchy in the slightest when it comes to D/s and S&M activities, I absolutely enjoy sex that does not involve BDSM elements as well. I’ve also had intensely kinky sexual relationships that involved no physical practice of sadism whatsoever. This will come back later—just like Black Jack does at Versailles in S2E05 “Untimely Resurrection” after supposedly being dead from a cattle stampede at Wentworth Prison. Awesome, right? Like me, our favorite randy Redcoat is tough to kill.

Given all this and my general level of immersion in all forms of Outlander canon, once I finally could make the time to give Rowan’s video essay my full attention (more on that below) I found myself going from pumping my fist to shaking my head. I knew I’d have to say something in response. That I would need to address the Republic and set the record accurate if certainly not straight.

Initially I thought about doing a brief reblog commentary noting that although the analysis in the video gets several things quite twisted about Randall, these are understandable omissions considering Rowan does not position herself as having intensive expertise on Outlander canon. But then I started thinking about Rowan’s stated purpose in making the video. The sorts of deeper analysis and nuances that, as Rowan herself points out in her own ways, often get missed with intent in considering the actions of queer villains who are specifically bisexual and sadistic.

And as a bisexual sadist who has frequently encountered the framing of my own sexuality as an automatic threat even by other queer people who otherwise support kink practice I knew it could enhance the positive impact of the original video essay to provide some detailed commentary. Broader systemic issues that Rowan references herself can make it altogether too easy to reproduce the same harms one looks to dismantle. Black Jack Randall is a fictional guy in a fictional world. Yet how the non-fictional world views people like Black Jack—and especially people brought to those dark places in their own minds and actions by their familiar cycles of abuse—matters tremendously to me. Not because I’ve gone down his path myself, but because I understand the stakes of not going down his path.

One thing about me is I would rather pull out what remains of my natural dentition with pliers than take no action when I know I can do something uniquely impactful in addressing that passive reproduction of harm to our community, which very much is our community as both bisexual and asexual creators. In the interest of directly unpacking harmful stereotypes about bisexual sadists, building on the video essay’s overall spotlighting of queer villains and some of the specific ways biphobia factors into those characterizations and storylines, I’m taking this deepest of dives. Doing more. Because it’s my brand, certainly. But moreover because it’s my duty.

As blazingly gay Will Tavington so eloquently stated in The Patriot amid some premium sinister flirting with his enemy Ben Martin: It’s an ugly business doing one’s duty. But sometimes, it’s a real pleasure.

So here, point by point from my own manual transcription of Rowan’s comments—using both the audio and captions for the video to ensure full accuracy, y’all know both my style and my propensity for em dashes—I give you a detailed analysis of the analysis. If you’re envisioning me gesturing wildly at a tangled yarn map like the Pepe Silvia conspiracy theory one from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia then you’ve got the measure of things entirely. Much more this energy here than the XKCD angle of Someone is wrong on the Internet. Indeed, I’d say Rowan is very right on the Internet to open this dialogue and provide folks who’ve made this depth of engagement with various characters referenced in this video the opportunity to build on her own insights.

But “duty calls” nonetheless! Happy Culloden Day to all ye Randallites near and far. Have fun and try not to get disemboweled too much.

Across the seven seasons of Outlander, a drama about a World War II nurse who travels back to 1740s Scotland—I know, don’t question it—perhaps the most loathed character amongst the show’s many villains is Captain Jonathan Randall.

The phrasing here made me reflect with sorrow on how that same premise of time travel elements automatically making something not worthwhile for reasons of implausibility—and thus perceived frivolity—has often made others pass on exploring Outlander at all. It also made me wonder, as many other things in the video essay continue to do, if perhaps the commentary draws on familiarity with only the first season of the show despite Black Jack’s storyline extending into the third season in live action and beyond that in impact. That would seem a lost opportunity considering the depth of analysis of other canons like Interview with the Vampire and Hazbin Hotel here. Both of which I highly recommend for folks who’ve not yet had the pleasure!

I also noted how the video essay makes no mention whatsoever of Randall’s canonical nickname of “Black Jack” anywhere, which seems strange given what a major plot point this becomes right from the start in S1E01 “Sassenach”. I see this as a missed opportunity to get into some of the basic nuances here about his sadism, which itself only gets mentioned minimally despite the surrounding context. The video essay sets Randall up as a sadist with the framing of this segment but then doesn’t really connect those dots. I’ve done that for y’all before with my “Red Black and Shades of Gray” meta comparing sadism themes in Outlander and The Patriot canons, which contrasts the former’s frequent depiction of sexual interest in actions causing intentional pain in Black Jack Randall’s actions with the latter’s depiction of strategic interest in actions producing incidental pain in Will Tavington’s.

Speaking of the Outlander and The Patriot contrast between the canons’ respective evil Redcoat characters, I had some notes jotted down in the background of my various in-progress BJR fics that explores canonical nicknames for Randall and Tavington and what these monikers lampshade about their respective characterizations. I also had another meta in much more primal stages of development exploring rape themes in both canons and the nuances of how sexual violence gets invoked in storylines featuring Randall and Tavington. That phrasing is very deliberate for good reason; Will Tavington doesn’t rape anyone. And Randall’s own sexual violence doesn’t play out remotely the way one might think from watching this video. Apropos of this, I had another meta envisioned about homosociality in Outlander and how Randall’s bisexuality makes him an outcast among straight and queer characters alike—inspired of course by a dear mutual exploring similar themes with Tavington in The Patriot canon.

In the first of what became many drafts of this Very Long Essay, I said “it will probably be quite some time until I get any of these finished” and then spent a few days turning that over in my head. Indeed, the process of drafting this piece to encourage readers to peek behind the curtain of Black Jack Randall’s life has necessarily involved some deeper reflection on things behind the curtain of my own life. Including how I still—at 40 unlikely years old and counting—often do things out of feelings of obligation rather than genuine desire.

Did I mention I’m a rape survivor? And that I couldn’t possibly count how many times I’ve let someone take dozens of “no” signals as a “yes” because of what it would cost me to refuse? It’s okay to enjoy certain aspects of fandom casually. Even if one isn’t already doing tons of other activity that’s anything but casual. Let yourself enjoy things. This world robs us of so much joy even when we try with all our might to protect it, to hold onto it. I am begging all of you to let yourself enjoy things before it’s too late. To do what Randall didn’t in canon—to live, and to stop willfully breaking his own heart.

If you read my blog, you know that this year has been an absolute hellscape on many fronts and that I am constantly slammed with even more of a professional overload than usual while dealing with A Lot in both the mental and physical health domains. And I generally publish at least one novella-length transformative work for Outlander each month on top of that. As a good friend put it: If I had a full-time job and had the energy to volunteer on top of that, I don’t think I’d ever write. I do what I do not because it is good for me, but because I am certifiably insane. This is not hyperbole or satire. I easily qualify for the designation per the DSM. Which has faults in spades and I’m not endorsing in the slightest, mind. My point is that I write not because I have the time or the energy to spare, but rather because if I do not write I will feel as if I cannot breathe. Why? Asked and answered.

So, a note for the good of the order: I can wait a long, long time before I write another fandom essay. This is a Sisters of Mercy reference, because of course it is. I’m writing this response to the video essay instead of finishing development on the fic I otherwise could probably have released for the Battle of Culloden anniversary on April 16. Ideally I would have done both, wouldn’t I? In addition to already releasing the prior installment of that continuity on April 13 no less! Perhaps if I’d just tried harder I could’ve given you two different lengthy writings in honor of the specific day. Or at least released something else on AO3 for April without waiting until the last minute like a slacker.

That’s the kind of thinking that made me stop sleeping entirely and wind up having a complete breakdown both mentally and physically. For those who are new around here, this is an even worse idea for me than it is for most humans because of a progressive genetic disease that kills people on the regular even when they do sleep and eat adequately and generally show compassion for themselves.

Accordingly, that sort of thinking about my own self-worth as anything other than an ATM for other people’s consumption of output is also what made me complete a PhD in literally two years while working full-time and being actively in the process of dying from my disease. I got on a medication that saved my lungs and my life just over a year after defending my dissertation. It’s taken another decade to learn the lesson I should have learned back then. How did Annie Lennox put it? Dying is easy; it's living that scares me. Paging Black Jack Randall—because if that isn’t the absolute biggest Culloden energy I don’t know what is.

It is amazing and terrible what sadism can do when turned inward on a person. The original video essay I’m responding to here never quite got around to how masterfully Randall’s character spotlights this pattern in several ways. Because the video is much broader by design than it is deep, and thus does not allow for more thorough engagement of the source material in commenting on Black Jack’s character, a lot of the same tropes the video essay aims to unpack could get repackaged with new hats instead without these additional details. So in the interest of not sending people who aren’t bisexual sadists to do bisexual sadists’ jobs, I’m giving y’all the goods.

As a British captain in an occupied Scotland, Randall radiates pure villainy.

Does he? I’m not so sure at all. First, see here for details focused closely on Outlander itself. Second, see here for use of Black Jack’s storylines in Outlander as examples of a larger trope. Search both of those pages for “Even Evil Has Loved Ones” using your browser’s Find function and you’ll get some telling material. Catch that reference to the Duke of Sandringham and Mary Hawkins in the second link, did you? We’ll get to those in time. Oh, how we will get to those.

The complete lack of mention of Season 2 and especially the iconic BJR episode near the end makes this oversight unsurprising. I think touching on that content just briefly would have supported Rowan’s overall purpose in making the initial video. At the same time, I’m guessing that stimulating nuanced and enduring dialogue about queer villains is the most important aim of the original essay! Indeed, S2E12 “The Hail Mary” represents the absolute pinnacle of my plunge into permanent derangement about Randall for reasons likely obvious considering everything I’ve already shared about my own backstory in the process of waxing loquacious to fill in additional canonical details that didn’t feature in the referenced video essay here.

I promised that the notes about my own sexual proclivities would come back, did I not? As BJR is canonically known for doing, I always keep my word. Not hyperbole in the slightest for either of us. On Black Jack’s end this gets referenced explicitly by Claire in Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber when she is helping Randall care for his dying brother Alex. It also gets demonstrated consistently by other characters and Randall himself throughout his storylines in both Season 1 and Season 2 of the show.

So indeed, oneof the things I find most resonant about Black Jack is that he leans into whatever the other person in an encounter is giving him and bases his own behavior on that. This is made quite clear on the show in numerous ways—and arguably even clearer in the source novels by Diana Gabaldon, wherein we learn from Book 1 / Outlander that Black Jack frequently has trysts with domestic employees in the Scottish countryside.

Many people find Black Jack charming and handsome, to the point that he has a drawer full of perfume-scented love letters in his office at Fort William. Hilarious comic relief because he’d clearly have no reason for keeping those around other than masturbation fodder. Those of you who’ve circulated that meme about jerking off face down on the bed with the #black jack randall tag applied are entirely understanding the assignment.

For all the times he’s sexually assaulted someone—which seems to be countable on one hand for any person who isn’t Jamie himself, and near zero for anyone who isn’t associated with Jamie Fraser in some way—Randall has clearly had plenty of consensual sex with people who are not only willing but also entirely enthusiastic to get in his breeches. In the books we also learn about some rumors surrounding another prisoner named Alex MacGregor. These are never confirmed and it’s unclear even from the rumors themselves what the exact nature of Black Jack’s relationship with MacGregor was.

Why is this so important to highlight in analysis of queer villains? Here I go again quoting Carmen Maria Machado as I have before in both fic and commentary and surely will again: The world is full of hurt people who hurt people. Even if the dominant culture considers you an anomaly, that doesn’t mean you can’t be common, common as fucking dirt. This, friends, is the thesis of Black Jack Randall.

He shows little to no redeeming qualities, offers no sympathetic backstory to why he acts the way he does, and appears purely to have been driven by rage and violent pleasure.

Oh my. I’m going to leave S2E05 “Untimely Resurrection” and S2E12 “The Hail Mary” alone for the moment. But even in S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” and S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” we start to get some light shed on what Randall is really doing in Scotland. We learn by degrees later just how much his reasons for being there belie what we see on the surface. This gets expanded on in the books where the reveal on Randall’s benefactor the Duke of Sandringham being a secret Jacobite is much more detailed. But even on the show, we learn by S2E11 “Vengeance Is Mine” that Sandringham got outed as a suspected traitor to the Crown.

Goodness knows he's been outed as gay from the start to everyone but Claire, who didn’t learn this until much later after making the initial blunder of falling for Black Jack’s gambit about Sandringham having a wife. Not that this would have stopped him from being gay, of course. So-called “lavender marriage” was indeed relatively commonplace—and remains so now in some communities—both generally and in Outlander specifically. I’ll cover that in detail when we get to the points about Lord John Grey below. Notably for now, Sandringham rather than Randall himself is much more centered in a villain role in Season 2. And apropos of other content here, he absolutely doesn’t qualify for tropes about redeeming qualities. The extent of his monstrosity gets revealed in that same episode near the end of Season 2 when it comes to light that he ordered his valet Albert Danton to attack and rape his own goddaughter Mary Hawkins in an alleyway in Paris.

Even early in the series it thus seems difficult to consider Black Jack the most loathsome villain in Outlander. We’ll get to Mary in earnest—and the extreme tenderness with which Black Jack always treats her from their first meeting until his death at Culloden Moore—as we go along. For now, remember what Claire learned about Black Jack’s fate all the way back in S1E01 “Sassenach” where she and her husband Frank Randall were looking into his family genealogy in the Reverend Reginald Wakefield’s office at Inverness during their long-belated honeymoon. Some details missing there certainly, which only get revealed by degrees in Season 2. Black Jack really is Frank’s 5x great-grandfather though; he’s just not his only 5x great-grandfather.

I should probably mention here that I’m donor conceived and that I wasn’t told the truth… No, that’s putting it too kindly. I did note that I’ve always been quite dedicated to seeing the good in people who do bad deeds, and to working tirelessly to bring it out. But enough is enough. My parents lied to my face for 18 years about my ancestry. I asked them point-blank about it several times and they still told me lies. I finally got the truth out of my mother on a balcony overlooking an olive grove halfway around the world. The bus ride to get back to the nearest city and the airport were the longest four hours of my life. I never traveled with them again. And the hole inside of me never fully closed, and never will.

This too will resurface when I get to the content about Mary Hawkins and her marriage to Black Jack. I’m getting there, I promise. As my spouse once put it: I knew you were going to land the plane.

Getting back to early portions of Outlander canon and what we learn about Black Jack in Season 1 though, there’s also the iconic S1E08 “Both Sides Now” extended scene in which Black Jack gives Claire his own perspective on what he’s doing in Scotland in the first place and how distasteful he finds his work. How badly he wishes he could just go home and be warm and take a bath. How little he cares about the outcome of the conflict and how futile he feels it all is. We already know from a couple episodes prior that he loathes both the British aristocracy and his own superiors in the Army, who treat him like he’s lower than the dirt he then passive-aggressively shakes out all over their wardroom at Brockton. Including and especially his commanding officer Lord Thomas, a general who’s about as flamingly gay-coded as Will Tavington in The Patriot.

Oh, and speaking of being driven only by violent pleasure that is entirely incorrect—S2E02 “Not in Scotland Anymore” alone makes this perfectly clear. I’ve previously covered the finer details about Black Jack bottoming enthusiastically, and also enjoying gentler sexual experiences as well as rougher ones.

Black Jack’s interactions with Jenny in her flashbacks from S1E12 “Lallybroch” also shed light on this; once she goes inside the house with him, he only touches her with gentle curiosity until she bashes him over the head with a heavy object. Even then, he responds by…tossing her onto to the bed and getting partially undressed. When she starts laughing at him because he can’t get an erection (a telling piece of evidence of how Black Jack ultimately loses interest in sex if the other person doesn’t want it to at least some degree, or feel strong emotions about it that they’re willing to show) he panics and conks her head against the bedpost so he can flee without it being obvious that she chased him off.

Then there’s also the prior content from Book 1 / Outlander about the scented letters and the maids, some of which also comes back in Book 8 / Written in My Own Heart’s Blood when Roger Wakefield goes looking for Black Jack at Fort William after time traveling to 1739 a couple of weeks after Randall’s installation as commander there. I’ll come back to that a bit later given how much that scene reveals about Randall’s character and his reasons for being in Scotland.

And most of all, his villainy is compounded by the fact that he will rape, torture, and murder men and women alike—an equal opportunity monster.

Correct in essentials on the first two items as I cover elsewhere. Not so much on the third, though! In fact, the TV adaptation clarifies this beyond the information we get in the books. Whereas Book 1 / Outlander features murky rumors about Randall possibly killing one of his own soldiers at Fort William so he can pin the murder on Jamie, show canon makes little of this and indeed offers several opportunities to see Black Jack deliberately not killing people who attack him.

Nowhere is this clearer than in the final episode where he appears, S3E01 “The Battle Joined”. In that Culloden-centric episode, we watch Randall get fully pulled from his horse by a group of Scots warriors who then proceed to attack him. Up to that point Black Jack has just been shooing people away from his horse by swinging his cavalry saber in the air. Once on the ground, he basically just elbows his way out of the cluster of Jacobite soldiers and makes a beeline for Jamie instead.

Then of course there’s also Black Jack’s aggrieved, hesitant behavior at Wentworth Prison in S1E16 “To Ransom a Man’s Soul” right before the cows show up to give him the business. Although Randall is well known for keeping his word, even by people who despise him absolutely, he looks defeated and anxious when Jamie reminds him that he owes him the debt of taking his life ahead of the gallows in exchange for finally “[making] free of [his] body” (see S2E02 “Castle Leoch”) in the night. Jack takes out a dagger and sort of swings it around idly—with a look on his face that can only be described as “Really?” Any playfulness remaining there seems to come from Black Jack eyeing Jamie’s nude body and thinking about what else he might do with the blade besides killing him.

Randall has a zero kill count onscreen in the television show. I’d be remiss not to note here how this places him behind even his own eventual wife Mary Hawkins, often heralded quite accurately as one of the characters in Outlander who comes closest to embodying pure goodness. But of course, the trauma of sexual violence can twist a person’s mind horribly. I might know just a little about this myself. And it only takes one experience, more so given the horrifying context outlined in S2E11 “Vengeance Is Mine”. Like anyone else, Mary has the capacity for brutal violence herself if pushed sufficiently far. I consider it something of a miracle I never went that route myself considering my own experiences can scarcely even be counted in any meaningful way. I can only think in terms of years. Seven of them whose shadows will never fully retract. When I say Black Jack and Mary were a perfectly arranged marriage, it isn’t for nothing.

We’ll get to her in earnest, I promise! Of course, I’ve already covered that ground in fiction before.

Randall makes his monstrous mark on Season 1 by sexually assaulting both of the show’s protagonists, Claire and Jamie.

Correct in essentials, but potentially a false equivalence. I’m not sure how much the video essay was intended to set the assaults on Jamie and Claire up as direct mirrors of one another. There is however a common thread here worth pulling out: How in Season 1 Black Jack only goes through with assaulting people who show at least some sexual interest in him.

Randall assaults three people in Season 1 overall: Claire in S1E01 “Sassenach” and S1E08 “Both Sides Now”; Jenny in flashbacks from S1E02 “Castle Leoch” and S1E12 “Lallybroch”; and Jamie in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” and S1E16 “To Ransom a Man’s Soul”. He also propositions Claire and Jamie together in S1E09 “The Reckoning” in an echo of propositioning Jamie individually in the S1E02 “Castle Leoch” flashback. But of the three people he assaults, only two respond with any sustained evidence of interest amid their anger and indignation.

The hateful attraction Jamie feels for Black Jack has been flogged—to borrow Frank’s phrasing about press coverage of Claire’s mysterious disappearance and return from S2E01 “Through a Glass, Darkly”—almost as badly as the man’s own back by this point. So I won’t belabor that here except to say it’s entirely nonrandom that Jamie keeps enticing Black Jack into further conflict after recovering from the brutal assaults at Wentworth and discovering Randall alive in Paris. He’s still having horny nightmares over two decades later about everything from weird group therapy scenarios with shamans on misty mountains (not hyperbole, see Book 6 / A Breath of Snow and Ashes for the goods) to fighting a totally naked Black Jack at Culloden and winding up covered in his “hot, hot blood” while they lie on the ground in a clinch (see Book 9 / Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone for that especially choice sequence) and exhausting Claire’s patience so badly in rehashing these that he eventually resorts to rambling about the dreams to Jenny instead.

What doesn’t tend to come out as much in analysis of the TV series is the key plot point from Book 1 / Outlander that Claire feels attracted to Black Jack because of his resemblance to Frank. Not just in appearance, but also in certain mannerisms and pleasures—see the shaving scene from S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” and Claire’s flashbacks to shaving Frank thusly with the very same razor, for example. Little surprise then how in Book 1 / Outlander she specifically mentions feeling “compelled to open [her] legs for him” when he ties her hands behind her back at Fort William in the equivalent sequence to later portions of S1E08 “Both Sides Now”.

By her own admission this latent attraction-by-association does not wane entirely until after she and her friends rescue Jamie from Wentworth Prison at the end of Season 1. After that point, things go the other way. Although Claire spends Season 2 in an odd state of détente with Black Jack himself, even after the events of S2E07 “Faith” for which neither she nor Jamie explicitly blame Jack, she initially feels afraid of Frank when she reconnects with him back in the 20th Century as seen in S2E01 “Through a Glass, Darkly”. Why mention this here? That fear only subsides when Claire sees how much Frank treasures being a father to Brianna, the child she conceived with Jamie before going back through the stones to her own time. Indeed, later installments of the book series also show Claire deliberately striving for accuracy in her remembrances of both Frank and Black Jack as complicated men who were capable of deep love.

Scuffling is also arousing for Black Jack. Although the shaving scene demonstrates that this isn’t the only sort of physical pleasure he enjoys, he certainly gets a kick out of it regardless. So Claire’s willingness to scrap with him—including when she literally gives him a kick to the testicles with her knee in S1E01 “Sassenach” after he pins her to the ground in the forest—heightens the arousal and feels like play to him. Contrast this with Jenny’s incredulous laughter and complete unwillingness to take the fight further after hitting him over the head with a blunt object to get him to back off.

Does this take any of Randall’s actions out of the territory of assault? Nope. But it does provide a context to his motivations. Although his means of seeking affection are entirely warped, at the end of the day Black Jack really is after human connection. I’m entirely in agreement with other Outlander fans who’ve mentioned wanting a companion series about the Randall family. I have my own ideas about that history that I’ve referenced in transformative works. I would also love to see Gabaldon’s own perspective on what damaged Black Jack’s psyche so badly.

Finally, Randall’s treatment of women often differs from his treatment of men just in general. By his own admission in S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” he is “not a casual person with women” usually. He says this while expressing regret for how he treated Claire in the woods outside Craigh Na Dun. Which is very genuine per his actor’s own comments about playing the character; Tobias Menzies has mentioned in interviews that Black Jack always believes whatever he’s saying fully in the moment.

Something to note about Black Jack in general is that he will express regret and then claim he doesn’t feel it. This is probably quite accurate considering Jack shows a lot of signs of dissociation and may not feel much of anything most of the time. We see an example of this simultaneous expression and negation of regret in S2E12 “The Hail Mary” during the sequence at the tavern. And although the meaning of Randall’s comment about not being casual initially seems ambiguous, we get the reveal on it entirely in that same episode via the dynamic between Black Jack and Mary Hawkins. He takes her well-being and her safety so seriously that he’d rather die than risk any chance of hurting her.

Of course, his brandy-soaked mind isn’t realizing that she’ll get hurt far worse if he does die. We see enough in both book and show canon to understand how Black Jack treated Mary in life. Even that single moment where he enters the room at the boarding house says a lot; his entire face lights in a genuine smile that reaches his eyes as soon as she looks at him. The interactions between the two of them are some of the most delicate and tender moments of the entire season.

These sequences also provide some context for the different handling of the moments after Alex’s death. In the Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber version of this sequence Black Jack is crying and so drunk he can barely stand, whereas in episode S2E12 “The Hail Mary” he’s more lucid and vacillates between catatonic silence and a harrowing moment of punching his brother’s cadaver. Calls back to Claire’s comment in S1E02 “Castle Leoch” about how “there’s no joy in flogging a dead man” because of course this wasn’t about joy. Black Jack is entirely devastated, both for himself and for Mary. And although Mary herself looks pained at seeing this unfold, and clings to Claire in response, she looks more heartbroken than afraid. Her depth of emotion in that moment contrasts clearly with her apathy at gazing upon Danton’s dead body and Sandringham’s decapitated corpse back at his Bellhurst Manor estate (or Belmont House depending on which version of canon one consults) in the previous episode.

Finally and perhaps relatedly, I should spotlight Black Jack’s “I choose the whore” comment from S1E01 “Sassenach” about his own taste in women. Although part of an ironic commentary on the juxtaposition of Claire’s accent and vocabulary with her ample use of profanity, this also tells us a fair amount about Randall’s overall attitudes toward class. We learn in other portions of canon such as S2E06 “Best Laid Schemes” and various sequences in the first two books that Randall visits sex workers and that there aren’t lurid rumors swirling around about his treatment of feminine prostitutes. Black Jack’s sexual antagonism toward other men is more intense by design.

Randall’s queerness is a weapon that he wields indiscriminately.

Not really. That would be his dick. Randall generally doesn’t go through with assaulting people who don’t show any sexual interest during the initial scuffle. In fact, he can’t even get aroused physically when the other person isn’t fighting him in a horny way. Even when the person is somewhat horny it still doesn’t work for Randall unless their level of arousal is high. We see this with the assault on Claire during S1E08 “Both Sides Now” and especially in the equivalent scene from Book 1 / Outlander.

The only exception to this is an assault that happens during Season 2—which definitely seems like a missed opportunity to mention in direct parallel to the reference to preying on children in Rowan’s analysis of Lestat from Interview with the Vampire. During the S2E06 “Best Laid Schemes” chronology later revealed in full during S2E07 “Faith” Randall assaults Claudel, a boy who either pickpockets or works (depending on whether one goes with the show or book version of the canon backstory) at the Maison Élise brothel in Paris.

On the show it’s clear that he does this specifically to get Jamie to fight him; he knows Jamie is on the premises collecting debts and that Claudel has been walking around with him. Sure enough, upon hearing Claudel scream Jamie comes bursting into the room, hauls Black Jack into the hallway, and proceeds to beat the daylights out of him. The look of delight on Randall’s face at seeing him appear and subsequently getting pummeled by him leaves little doubt as to his objective in assaulting Claudel.

In Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber the timing and particulars of this storyline differ substantially. But as in the show, Randall is canonically an alcoholic and gets progressively deeper into his cups throughout the Paris storyline and his brother’s subsequent health decline. At the brothel he’s so drunk he doesn’t know where he is, what is going on around him, or even seem to remember who he is. Given the greater development of intrigue in the books surrounding whether Randall had a sexual relationship with his younger brother Alex, it seems likely that the angle here is Black Jack somehow seeking Alex in a person who reminds him of his brother during his early adolescent years.

No one is safe.

Aren’t they? Here we go, then. Time for some detailed Mary Hawkins content at long last.

The basics: We learn all the way back in S1E01 “Sassenach” and equivalent sequences from Book 1 / Outlander that before dying at the Battle of Culloden, Black Jack Randall married someone named Mary Hawkins and that she later gave birth to a son named Denys. Claire encounters Mary Hawkins for the first time in France in S2E02 “Not in Scotland Anymore” and grows closer to her while having the vague sense that she knows that name from somewhere. It isn’t until learning in S2E03 “Useful Occupations and Deceptions” that Black Jack himself is still alive that Claire realizes where she’s seen Mary’s name before: Frank’s family bible during a meeting with the Reverend Wakefield.

At first glance, Mary is everything one wouldn’t expect in someone who’d eventually marry Black Jack—or at least Claire thinks so. She feels completely befuddled by how someone who seems so meek and timid could possibly end up with someone like Black Jack. This becomes all the more confusing for Claire in S2E04 “La Dame Blanche” when Mary is getting involved with Jack’s younger brother Alex, a curate who has accompanied his employer the Duke of Sandringham to Paris. After Claire and Mary are attacked in an alleyway at Sandringham’s behest, resulting in Mary getting raped by a mysterious assailant later revealed to be the Duke’s own valet Albert Danton, Alex cares for her—and then gets locked in the Bastille for his trouble. Claire wrestles with her conscience about whether to get Alex freed given her own knowledge of how Black Jack and Mary are supposed to wind up together if Frank is ever to be born at all.

Leave it having half the information resulting in getting things half right, as often happens in Outlander and in life alike.

Mary has been leveling up her confidence throughout Season 2 and corresponding portions of Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber while growing closer to both Claire and Alex. We don’t see onscreen how her social relationship with Black Jack himself evolves once he arrives in Paris—but in the TV series the two clearly know one another well already when Jack shows up at the boarding house in S2E12 “The Hail Mary”. In book canon the different pacing of events puts Black Jack’s wedding to Mary and Alex’s death earlier in the year, leaving a couple months until the Battle of Culloden. On the show Black Jack and Mary are only married for three days but have substantially more history with one another prior to their wedding. Blending the canons offers a portrait of two people uniquely poised to understand each other, united through their shared love of Alex but also oddly well matched on several other fronts.

Have I freeze-framed those sequences of S2E12 “The Hail Mary” that feature Mary and Black Jack interacting? Yes. Several times. Highly recommended for anyone who wants to plummet into that sort of derangement.

For the rest of you fine folk, the cocktail napkin summary here is that Mary represents both the shining gentleness that Black Jack so prizes in his younger brother—and I’d encourage anyone who still thinks of him as a Complete Monster to consider how Alex turned out so well in the first place given Jack is documented as the only member of their family who’s taken responsibility for his well-being—and the capacity for ruthless violence that Black Jack repeatedly points out in himself.

Here I should mention though that Black Jack remains as dedicated to veracity in this as in anything else. When he says “I dwell in darkness, madam—and darkness is where I belong” to Claire at Brockton in S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” he’s saying this as much to convince himself as to convince her. Ditto his comments to her at the tavern, most of all the haunting question: “Do you really want Mary in my bed?” Where exactly would she be safer than with someone who has consistently treated her like gold, who looks at her as if the sun shines directly from her face, and who would move mountains to honor his beloved brother’s wishes? And wouldn’t Captain Zero Kill Count also understand well from Mary’s own history what would happen to him if he were to lay so much as an unwanted finger on her? She killed a practical stranger in all but cold blood with a triumphant hiss of satisfaction!

Badass, by the way. Judging by his responses to Claire throughout the series—see his comments in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” describing Claire as “no coward” and “a fit match for [her] husband” for example—I suspect Black Jack agreed. He even said explicitly in the same episode that he “cannot give [Claire] a better compliment than that” regarding her bravery and nerve mirroring Jamie’s own. I imagine quite a bit is happening behind those hazel eyes (described by Claire oftentimes as cold but noted distinctly by Roger in Book 8 / Written in My Own Heart’s Blood as being warm) whenever Black Jack looks at Mary.

Especially because Mary herself got Randall’s own abuser offed via Murtagh Fraser keeping a promise of his own in S2E11 “Vengeance Is Mine” by following up Mary’s own dagger-assisted disposal of Danton with an axe swing to Sandringham’s neck. Consider one of the only things Black Jack tells us verbatim about his life offscreen: In S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” a visibly shaken Randall tells Claire about finding Private McGreevey beheaded a couple weeks prior. By contrast, Mary regards her own godfather’s headless corpse with a shrug and says “I think we’d better go” in a matter-of-fact tone. Mary, all of 16 years old at the time, has no combat experience whatsoever and keeps her cool about this absolutely. Quite an evolution even from earlier in the same episode when she questions her ability to assist Claire in communicating with Hugh Munro just outside to help Murtagh and Jamie sneak into the Duke’s house.

Our girl comes through in the end—right before we watch the steel in her spine break through in earnest as she picks up a dagger from a table full of food and ends her rapist’s life after the reveal of this being the same man who attacked her in Paris. And she doesn’t lose her nerve after the immediate danger has passed, either. When we next encounter her at Inverness in S2E12 “The Hail Mary” she’s bullying a pharmacist into giving her more laudanum to ease Alex’s coughing and pain as his illness progresses. Then when Claire recognizes her and says hello, Mary immediately lights into her for conspiring to keep her and Alex apart.

I’ll note that as a person with progressive lung disease myself, I really appreciated Mary’s ire here. However strategic and born of understandable fears that Frank would never get to live, Claire’s invocation earlier in Season 2 of the tired old idea that chronically ill people make undesirable partners—that we can only take from the world and never give—rings both hollow and sour. After all, I’ve been there before. And in many ways I’m still scrambling frantically to escape the shadow of those ideas. To quote my spouse again: You never stop running until long after the demons finally stop chasing you.

I admire Mary Hawkins because she knew when to run—and moreover, because she knew when to stop running and bring the man who chased her in the first place down in sniveling puddle with a knife through his kidney. “It’s messy,” Black Jack said back in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” of killing people with daggers. But the visceral impact there—exact words and no mistake—never fails to feel any less relatable for me, considering my own experiences.

Here’s the other thing: People came to save Mary Hawkins. When she needed help, people showed up. She killed her own rapist but she had an audience and she had backup. Murtagh demonstrated how seriously he took the promise to avenge Mary if he ever found out who was responsible for the attacks on her and Claire. Black Jack took showing up in Paris to help Alex earlier in Season 2 with similar gravity. In Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber Claire specifically reflects on how “Jack Randall was a gentleman” with all his promises, and has never given anyone reason to doubt his word despite being awful in many other ways. The fact that Black Jack chose to keep his vows to Mary by caving to the self-loathing fear of being able to love her better by dying and leaving her and Denys his pension than by living and showing her the same fierce devotion he showed Alex doesn’t negate the seriousness of those promises in his mind.

Again exact words there regarding love as action. I’m certain from her own subsequent sharing about Black Jack to their son that Mary would have appreciated both the devotion and the ferocity. And likewise, that Jack himself already appreciated Mary’s own variety of darkness and the specifics of how it manifested after first taking root.

In that spirit I highly recommend visiting the Outlander Wiki page about Mary for additional specifics on her background and character arc. Don’t sleep on the pictures if you do venture over there, especially the ones featuring her looking deep in thought while wearing an elaborate silk gown. That’s not the face of an innocent little lamb with no capacity for brutality of her own. And even prior to her rape, Mary often manipulates people to get what she wants by pouting and playing coy. Which of course tracks—Siri, play “Rich Girl” by Hall and Oates! See also my reblog commentary on a dear mutual’s wonderful art envisioning Black Jack and Mary in a happier timeline.

TL;DR: Mary has a lot of steel in her spine. But it doesn’t save her from additional tribulations. Indeed, those further struggles wind up serving as evidence of Black Jack’s own character and how he treated her himself during their brief marriage prior to his death.

I don’t tend to cry over media. But I absolutely teared up reading Denys Randall’s words about Black Jack in Book 9 / Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone. Denys is Black Jack’s son who—true to the expanded version in Book 1 / Outlander of the prophecy Claire whispers into Randall’s ear in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison”—never got to meet him because he died in battle. I won’t go into this in detail just here, but that book resoundingly refutes the idea that Black Jack ever treated his family like anything other than gold.

Even in Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber he speaks with grace and understanding about his older brother Edward, the family heir who is stingy and neglectful and married to a person who clearly and openly hates Black Jack for being queer. In that later book though, we learn how Black Jack actually treated Mary and how carefully he made sure that Denys would always be taken care of financially even if something happened to Mary later on and the income from her widow’s pension was lost. He specifically set aside money for Denys to buy a commission in the Army—or to get an education if he had been considered female, so that he wouldn’t wind up trapped in a loveless marriage for the sake of survival.

The contrast Denys then draws with how Mary’s second husband Robert Isaacs—who was very materially wealthy and very kind to Denys but not a loving spouse—gave me chills. Yeah, Mary Hawkins did get abused by one of her husbands. Just not Black Jack Randall. The clarity with which Book 9 / Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone shows how much better off Mary would have been socially and emotionally if Black Jack had survived to raise Denys with her wrecked me and still does.

I was and am lucky to have an amazing dad. The lies he and my mother told are wholly understandable stains on the records of two people who have always done their best in an absolutely garbage world that thinks very little of fathers who do not sire their children. And I know some of the members of the sperm donor’s family as well, though not my biological father himself. They’re pretty cool people too. One of my great-cousins on that side said he’d be proud to have been my biological father if he too had chosen to donate to that research study. I did cry then. I’ll never forget opening that letter with my hands shaking while I sat on the stoop of my old house. I can’t impress enough on those of you who are direct genetic descendants of both your parents what that meant to me. I can’t tell you how it feels to look in the mirror and always see a huge question mark. To miss a person you’ve never met, to feel them there like the phantom sensation from an amputated body part.

Denys Randall understands that entirely. And as much as Alex clearly loved his son in life and death alike, we come away from that storyline knowing just how thoroughly Black Jack was a real father to Denys. We also learn how Mary keeps his memory alive and still carries a torch for him as she also continues to mourn Alex. Knowing how much she withdrew into herself haunts me. I keep fixing it in my fics. There will never be a story of mine where Mary isn’t loved and cherished—no matter how much trauma she goes through.

Which also seems to have been Black Jack’s philosophy about both her and Denys. Tragically if quite understandably, he deluded himself into thinking he could love them better in death than in life. The reveal in Book 9 / Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone on just how tragic a choice this wound up being still crushes me. Because it’s such a hopeless lesson, isn’t it? The idea that cycles of abuse and violence can only be broken by meeting a gruesome end oneself. That humanity has no hope for redemption. That rapists can only ever be rapists, nothing else. Even if they were clearly many other things all along.

This is, incidentally, why as much as I enjoy exploring continuities in which the specific canonical unfolding of events from Wentworth Prison gets averted to at least some degree, I have more active continuities in which this does not happen. I even retconned one of my older stories somewhat because I realized that for the rest of the continuity to play out as I envisioned it, and fully develop the ideas I wanted to develop, straying more than a hair from the exact canonical take in the initial arc didn’t make sense. The results from that deeper thinking are what I just dropped this past Saturday in observance of Alex Randall’s death anniversary. Among my published stories, I presently have three continuities that feature some aversion of the canonical Wentworth sexual assaults and three others that feature no aversion whatsoever.

Someone once asked me if I thought Black Jack and Jamie could ever have a healthy relationship after what happened at the prison in canon. It certainly seems unlikely. But fiction isn’t exclusively about showing healthy relationships. To me, it’s about showing relationships that make sense for the story being told. And in that regard, I do explore the strange intimacy that sometimes grows between trauma bonded people. After all, it’s a tale I’ve come to know well. One I’ve written in my own life. One I’m arguably still writing.

I cannot bring myself to swallow whatever poisonous purity philosophy would lead me to believe that people who have sexually assaulted others in the past cannot have consensual sexual relationships as well. I also can’t ignore the considerable data I’ve amassed on this from direct personal experience.

If people cannot change, what are any of us even doing here? Why not just give up the ghost of life on a burning planet—leave the indignities and hurts of corporeality behind forever? That sort of thinking seems more bleak than anything Black Jack Randall could possibly say or do. Indeed, him winding up looking at his own choices that way in the end broke two hearts irrevocably. And that’s a charitable estimate. Jamie’s own haunting memories, vivid dreams, and enduring obsessions about Black Jack throughout Book 4 / Drums of Autumn and beyond make clear that killing Randall didn’t solve anything, or diminish the formidable pull Jamie feels toward him. Even in show canon, when Claire reveals in S2E03 “Useful Occupations and Deceptions” that Jack is still alive Jamie breathes a sigh of relief and expresses joy at having his will to live restored.

Sure, he frames this around a specific interest in getting revenge against Randall. What’s that saying about digging two graves? There’s no exact source for this in any documented Confucius writings, but the idea certainly holds up. Jamie almost heads to his own grave for the sake of tangling with Randall one last time. For his trouble he winds up nearly dying on the battlefield, then doing the same from a severe infection secondary to his wounds, then goes on the lam for several years and lives in a cave, and then winds up incarcerated under especially deplorable conditions before getting paroled to indentured servitude and winding up coerced into sex again. All while still having relentless horny dreams about Black Jack—which only get hornier after Claire returns to him nearly two decades later. Amazing.

It perfectly correlates that he’s not just a sadistic person, but also holds a powerful position as a member of a colonizing military force.

This came so close to full accuracy. Like frostbitten Edward Little gasping his last with chains in his face levels of close.

Sadistic person? Yes. Powerful position? Kind of. We’ll get to that in a minute. Colonizing military force? Yes. However, is Black Jack himself a colonizer? Only if one discounts what gets revealed in Season 2 and the equivalent portions of Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber about the Duke of Sandringham having Jacobite sympathies and pulling the strings of Randall’s posting to Fort William.

The Reverend Wakefield and Black Jack’s fifth great-grandson Frank Randall unpack this to some extent in S1E01 “Sassenach” when discussing what Jack was doing in Scotland in the first place and the kind of reputation he built. We don’t get the full goods until close to the end of Season 2 with those scenes in S2E11 “Vengeance Is Mine” where the British Army has Sandringham’s estate surrounded with a massive encampment.

To lay things out quite clearly for those less familiar with Outlander canon: Sandringham was deliberately and strategically trying to incite the Jacobite rebellion. He got Black Jack posted to Fort William specifically because he knew Randall could stir up sentiment against the Crown if given the proper conditions. What’s a better weapon of mass agitation than a terrible guy already maligned by his superiors for being bisexual and kinky and having “unnatural tastes” as Randall himself puts it in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” while rambling to Claire? If he didn’t give direct orders for Black Jack to lean into his worst impulses when presented with worthy adversaries, the Duke certainly gamed the system as much as possible by marooning Randall in a cold and isolated place where most of the civilians thought he was weird and most of the soldiers thought he was creepy.

Jack doesn’t connect all these dots directly during the scenes at the prison. But in S1E08 “Both Sides Now” during the Fort William sequences—in the broadcast version but even more so in this extended cut—we get Black Jack’s own perspectives on his posting in Scotland and how thoroughly he isn’t invested in the conflict there. All he wants is to go back home and be warm again. Which of course he can’t do, because it would spell serious harm for his younger brother per everything we learn throughout Season 2 and Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber.

Is Randall powerful in the Army? More so than the soldiers under his command, certainly. But as a Captain—per both what we see in the Brockton sequences of S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” and historical information on British Army ranks—he’s subordinate to many others. Who very much enjoy putting him in his place, at that. So in terms of power relative to other English soldiers, he’s somewhere in the middle of the structure. To those now busily envisioning Office Space type corporate middle management AUs: I salute you! And I’m gonna need you to come in on Saturday.

So what about with respect to other people and contexts? Black Jack definitely isn’t powerful relative to the Duke of Sandringham, per other content here. Indeed, he spends at least the last decade or so of his adult life quite firmly under Sandringham’s thumb. Probably other body parts too—see Randall’s hedging comments in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” about the Duke liking to talk “especially when he drinks” for example. Book 1 / Outlander and Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber provide additional context about Black Jack’s positionality relative to others in his world—especially via the Duke telling Claire how much Randall craves punishment.

Finally, let’s talk about Black Jack’s status relative to his self-made enemy Jamie Fraser. By which I mean not at all that Jamie is self-made, because of course he isn’t. As a Laird in charge of his own family estate on which tenant farmers pay taxes, Jamie comes from a more powerful family in the Scottish Highlands than Black Jack’s own back in southern England. We learn more from meeting characters like Mary Hawkins later in canon about how “not all baronetcies are created equal” as I once phrased it. Randall’s own father Sir Denys being a baronet didn’t mean much, as evidenced by Black Jack’s own comments to Claire during S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” and equivalent portions of Book 1 / Outlander about his parents paying for tutors to help their son disguise any hint of a Sussex accent.

Ironically the most power Black Jack could’ve had over Jamie in any structural sense would have come from serving as his commander when the younger man fought in the British Army himself. Which would absolutely make for a splendid fic premise, but never happened in canon. Jamie and Black Jack don’t meet until the former is already back from France and settling in anew on his family’s Lallybroch estate in October of 1740.

We certainly meet other people connected to Jamie’s own family who would qualify as colonizers though. Given I already discuss Lord John Grey elsewhere, here I’ll mention Jamie’s aunt Jocasta Cameron as a prime example. Storylines set at her River Run plantation—yikes—beginning in Season 4 of the TV series and corresponding portions of the novels reveal her as not merely a colonizer but an enslaver. One who has the means—and indeed the implements ready at hand—to liberate her slaves but declines to do so. Even after pressure from people close to her. Double yikes.

I don’t want to set Jocasta up as somehow being more villainous than Black Jack; the two characters show us different aspects of the human capacity for knowing harm. However, I do find it telling that a bisexual person whose worst behavior focuses almost entirely on one guy—and otherwise gets directed at people somehow in his orbit—often gets held up as this shining paragon of evil by viewers outside the queer community, a point Rowan makes herself in the original video essay. What I’m specifically unpacking here is the colonialism angle. The bleak side of humanity shows up in many forms in Outlander with respect to colonialism as well as other forms of violence.

The queer figure is not just a danger to the individual, the men or women who might be their victims, but also a danger to society at large—because their existence contradicts oppose truths about what is natural and right.

This tracks. Randall would say so himself—and indeed he does, in almost those same exact words. “I may have what are called unnatural tastes,” he muses to Claire in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” while letting her hair down around her shoulders and then giving her a big old sniff and shivering with delight, “but I do have some aesthetic principles.” You know, just in case anyone was still wondering if Black Jack’s interest in women was genuine. Whether in the show or the books, we get plenty of evidence that Randall is in the mood for cunt as often as not, to borrow his own phrasing.

Incidentally, I need to point out how “me myself, I’m not in the mood for cunt today” is probably the most bisexual line ever uttered on television. Today. Mercy.

And so here we see this twisting of a homophobic rhetoric of queer danger to create a monstrous rapist colonial figurehead.

First, a clarification: The relevant phobia here is biphobia rather than homophobia. Rowan’s video essay covers this overall topic and the distinction between the two phenomena with substantial detail and insight. What doesn’t come through clearly in the video is how gay people are treated with much more respect in the story world of Outlander than their bisexual peers. Nowhere do we see this more clearly than with Lord John Grey, another queer Redcoat whose path intertwines with Jamie’s in numerous ways over the years.

After first encountering Grey as a scared teenager whose life Jamie spares in S2E09 “Je Suis Prest” we encounter him anew years later starting in S3E03 “All Debts Paid” as the incoming warden of Ardsmuir Prison where Jamie is incarcerated. Swiftly mortified by conditions at the prison, Lord John enlists Jamie’s help in working with prisoners and eventually forges a tenuous friendship with him. Much chess is also played. However, a wedge also gets driven between the two men when Lord John places his hand over Jamie’s one evening during a chess game, unaware of his history with Black Jack or how it would make him react to any expression of affection by another man.

But over time, Lord John secures Jamie’s parole to the Helwater estate where each of them respectively wind up entangled with one of the Dunsany sisters. The younger Geneva, a feisty and cantankerous person who develops quite a fondness for Jamie, coerces the Highlander into sleeping with her when she reveals that she knows his true identity and could get him in a lot of trouble. To get Jamie employment and ensure that he could stay out of prison, Lord John had to pass him off as a run-of-the-mill parolee instead of the fabled “Red Jamie” who helped to lead the Jacobite rebellion. Rather ironic considering Jamie killed one of the actual leaders of the rebellion and could likely have gotten significantly better treatment from the Crown based on that—but that’s beyond the scope of this analysis.

Throughout his storylines, whether serving as warden at Ardsmuir or Governor of Jamaica or any of the other roles he occupies over the years, Lord John is shown to be empathetic and kind. Not without fault certainly. Amongst other things there’s an intriguing storyline later in canon involving him and Claire that serves as a reminder of how sexuality is often not black and white. But he does get set up consistently as a foil to Randall, perhaps most effectively in his choice to marry Geneva’s older sister Isobel and care for the child she conceived with Jamie prior to dying while giving birth. Lord John presents a different take on fatherhood, choosing to give of his presence to William Ransom rather than feeling he can love him best in absentia.

The books offer some fascinating scenes in which Lord John’s son William and Black Jack’s son Denys encounter each other while both serving in the British Army in the American Colonies. That’s how we learn some of the information referenced elsewhere about what Mary Hawkins has passed on to her son about his father, and how she feels herself. I resonated a lot with both men’s sense of having a hole inside them. At this point William has lost two mothers and two fathers—Jamie having had quite a hand in the boy’s upbringing until age six. By 1778 when he encounters Denys again, he has learned the truth about who sired him.

I could write a whole other essay about that considering how relatable the entire storyline surrounding William’s parentage is. Folks who read my work likely know by this point that I got into Outlander because the interconnected storylines surrounding the Randall and Fraser families resonate with my own trauma in a way nothing else ever has. For purposes of this essay though, I’ll point out that even after lying to his kid for many years and dealing him a psychic wound that will never heal as a result, Lord John gets hailed as a good dad and a good person.

John Grey absolutely isn’t a rapist. In fact, in S3E04 “Of Lost Things” he reacts with horror at the idea of Jamie giving him sexual favors in exchange for raising his son. It turns out that Grey is already marrying Geneva’s older sister Isobel—another fascinating subject for deeper analysis that I’m planning to incorporate into my “Dispatches from Fort Laggan” continuity.

Brief sidebar apropos of general queer representation themes: The relationship between Lord John and Isobel offers an undersung illustration in Outlander canon of the diverse dynamics in queer marriages. I think there’s ample ground for reading the union between Lord John and Isobel as either a “lavender marriage” between a homosexual and homoromantic man with a heteroromantic or biromantic woman who’s asexual or a purely romantic marriage that doesn’t involve any sexual activity because one person isn’t interested at all and the other person is only interested with members of their own sex.

What’s more relevant here is how Lord John and Isobel clearly share a deep affection for one another that engages their shared love for other family members—quite similar to the dynamic between Black Jack and Mary. In serving as a foil for Black Jack on some fronts, Grey serves as a mirror in others. Unsurprising then how by the time he encounters William again, Denys Randall has dropped “Isaacs” from his surname entirely after the death of his stepfather Robert.

On the colonialism front, it would be difficult to frame Black Jack as being somehow the worse offender. Although not a Jacobite himself because he doesn’t care about the outcome of the English-Scottish conflict one way or another, he serves as an agent for the Jacobite cause de facto by agitating unrest at Sandringham’s behest. Ironically an example of punch-clock villainy in that regard. Although I wouldn’t ordinarily associate that trope with Black Jack for his zeal in antagonistic behavior towards Jamie and anyone in his orbit, it certainly seems to reflect how he approaches his career. Randall has no less antipathy for his fellow English people than he does for Scottish Highlanders, and indeed awkwardly hopes for acceptance by the local people while new at Fort William per his exchange with Roger in Book 8 / Written in My Own Heart’s Blood.

Meanwhile, Lord John’s storyline sees him become Governor of Jamaica. Governor of Jamaica. If that isn’t the epitome of white settler colonialism I don’t know what is.

Here’s a monster against which are two culturally opposed heroes; English Claire and Scottish Jamie can feel equally threatened.

I think I covered most of the relevant contrasts here in my musings on the sexual assaults against Jamie and Claire during Season 1. Here I’ll add that indeed a major plot point for Claire is how she often does not feel threatened by Randall—and how readily he comes to consider her an ally deserving of his deepest respect. This seems especially interesting in the context of Claire’s own ambiguous sexuality, which I touch on directly in some brief discussion of Geillis Duncan. And from their encounter in the gardens at Versailles from S2E05 onward, Claire by her own admission doesn’t consider Black Jack any sort of threat. She wants Jamie to leave him alone and let him help his brother out without the two of them getting into trouble for having horny fights. Dueling was illegal in Paris at the time, and indeed Jamie gets arrested for fighting Black Jack at the Bois de Boulogne a couple episodes later.

Prior to that though, Claire frantically ruins Jamie’s original plans for dueling Black Jack by getting Randall locked in the Bastille overnight on suspicion of raping Mary Hawkins. The irony to end all ironies, surely! Randall himself doesn’t even seem that aggravated about it given Claire did this in an effort to spare his life. He does however feel aggravated about Jamie apparently deciding he’s not worth the trouble to fight, not knowing all the history surrounding Frank Randall or why exactly Claire seems certain that he’ll die in April of 1746.

Both Black Jack and Claire wind up badly injured following the duel—her with a complicated stillbirth that leaves the placenta inside her body and nearly causes death from sepsis, and him from a significant stab wound to the groin. In show canon per S2E07 “Faith” this appears to be mainly a soft tissue injury to the pubic mound and possibly a cut to the side of the base of the penis; in the novel version it’s more extensive and involves some maiming of the penis and one testicle. I mention this now because in Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber Claire reflects specifically on Randall being even less of a threat because of his injuries. He’s also very ill in the novel version, likely from a recent bout of cholera, whereas in the show his physical impairments are caused by the cattle stampede from the rescue sequence at the beginning of S1E16 “To Ransom a Man’s Soul”.

So it seems unsurprising that when Black Jack reconnects with Claire at Inverness (Edinburgh in book canon) and begs her to use her skills in healing to save his brother Alex’s life, the two characters find themselves on remarkably even footing. Claire lampshades this herself in repeating Randall’s “I am not the man I once was” line from S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” back to him. Randall also acknowledges this amid strong praise for her medical acumen. He has long since gotten direct perspective on those competencies himself considering the aid she rendered to a badly injured British soldier at Brockton in the same episode, along with her clear success in rehabilitating Jamie’s hand following the extensive injuries Black Jack inflicted to it in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison”.

In both the show and book versions of canon, Claire shows Randall as much compassion as she can, and also expresses respect in her narrations for how he has shouldered the financial and instrumental costs of caring for his brother largely alone. When she urges him to wed Mary in their interactions at the tavern in S2E12 “The Hail Mary” she echoes many of Alex’s own sentiments about Black Jack’s capacity for tenderness and how seriously he takes caring for his family.

Given she already knows how Randall will die, and continues caring for him as best she can even after it gets revealed that Frank’s family line descends genetically from Alex rather than Black Jack himself, her “I’ll help you bleed him myself” comment to Jamie in S2E05 “Untimely Resurrection” seems more for his benefit than her own. Indeed, in book canon Claire feels threatened by Jamie’s lingering obsession with Randall and his repeated rambling about the strange erotic dreams he has about Black Jack. She wants him to have closure on that part of his life, thinking that Randall dying will put a stop to that fixation. Unfortunately for Claire it’s not that simple.

Even Jamie himself doesn’t consider Randall much of a threat in the end. In the book version of canon, he even attends Black Jack’s wedding and serves as a witness for him, whereas Murtagh does this on the show. Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber details how Jamie escorts a drunk and crying Black Jack back to his own quarters, holding him up because he can’t walk on his own. We never find out what exactly happened between the two of them in that room, though goodness knows a couple of enterprising fan authors have done heroic work in envisioning potentialities.

Show canon does deliver entirely on the erotic tenor of the final encounter between the two men just as Book 3 / Voyager does, with much of S3E01 “The Battle Joined” getting devoted to Black Jack and Jamie grappling with each other while moaning against each other’s ears and looking as if they’re about to have orgasms. Makes sense considering the showrunners reportedly instructed Tobias Menzies and Sam Heughan to go for a combination of the final battle sequence from The Patriot and the sex scene from Cold Mountain in their choreography. They definitely nailed it on the filming. Very much the same energy in the books from all of Jamie’s flashbacks to those moments and the time he spent lying under Black Jack’s body.

An irony that seems worth mentioning itself for how Randall’s last act was to protect Jamie from getting finished off himself during the British Army’s death sweeps of Culloden Moore. In light of this and all the other history between the two of them, it seems less surprising that Jamie left his wedding present—which Claire had returned to him for safekeeping before going back through the stones to her own time—of a dragonfly preserved in amber on the battlefield with Black Jack’s body.

And it’s by standing up to his reign of terror that the two come together, eventually falling in love.

Reign of terror? Not so much, for reasons I’ve already gone into elsewhere. What precisely is Randall “reigning” over in the first place? He’s an exiled soldier who got given a remote fort on a bunch of barren rocks surrounded by water in a freezing cold place that he hates. He has no power over anyone except his own soldiers.

In terms of more overt antagonism, Black Jack focuses the vast majority of his awful behavior on someone who even while chained to a dungeon floor could still kill him with his bare hands. Jamie does kill Black Jack’s much larger and stronger bodyguard Marley in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” while restrained thusly. If Randall is keeping the Highlands in any kind of iron grip, it’s so weak that he can’t even keep his own bodyguard alive with a chained-up prisoner. Who isn’t even there by his own doing, mind—Jamie gets picked up by a random Redcoat patrol after getting coerced in S1E13 “The Watch” into joining the Watch with Taran MacQuarrie, a suspected Jacobite accused of treason. More details on this get revealed in S1E14 “The Search” as Claire, Jenny, and Murtagh all strive to locate Jamie.

Much of that falls beyond the scope of this analysis. Directly within that scope though is how whether or not anyone likes it, Jamie survives his incarceration at Wentworth Prison because Black Jack raced down there just in time to get him brought down from the gallows. Given canonical knowledge of how Randall does nothing without sincerity—however twisted that sincerity may be—this paints a complicated picture of his impact.

Indeed, one of the things that makes the dynamic between Black Jack and Jamie so interesting and satisfying is how in many ways they’re equals. I covered that extensively in my Ask response about foil dynamics in Outlander canon, so I won’t rehash it in this analysis. But TL;DR: Black Jack assaulting Jamie, and Jamie assaulting Black Jack in kind, was never an exercise in one person punching up and the other punching down. Rather, it is very much an exercise in two people punching sideways. Which a dear mutual illustrated masterfully in their “Killer” sketch previously shared here on Tumblr.

Claire and Jamie do fall in love though. That process is fairly telling on its own—as Rowan points out herself with the very next insight in the video essay. But a few additional details can further unpack sexuality in the context of that relationship, especially in the context of both characters’ interactions with Black Jack.

By opposing Randall’s villainy, they are essentially fighting to maintain the political and social beliefs of the 1740s Scotland, while also solidifying their own relationship and sexual identities—which are heterosexual and monogamous even across time and space.

Okay, folks. I’m flicking on my megaphone here to remind everyone reading this that Jamie is bisexual and that the omission of this key canonical detail could inadvertently reproduce some of the stigmas against bisexuality the video aims to dismantle. I absolutely do not think Rowan did this intentionally. It may stem from limited engagement with the source material in general. I wouldn’t expect a video essay covering a wide scope of media to go into 16K+ words of detail about a single character! That’s what I’m here for. In that spirit, I highly recommend folks interested in going deeper with Outlander canon revisit Jamie’s own narration of his experiences in S1E16 “To Ransom a Man’s Soul” and the many things he says and does in later episodes regarding Black Jack. The books go into even more detail about how much Jamie still lusts after Randall even after the assault at Wentworth, I’ll note.

The more important point here though is how erasure of Jamie’s bisexuality via inattention to his own words can inadvertently reflect Claire’s own behavior at the abbey in that episode: refusing to listen to Jamie unless he tells her what she wants to hear, and specifically shutting him down every time he tries to make her understand that Black Jack made him face things he already wanted beneath the surface.

Even regarding Claire, nuances abound that seem especially important to explore given the above. Specifically concerning the ambiguity of Claire’s own sexuality—how although she never narrates herself clearly in bisexual context, she certainly gets into some telling situations with Geillis Duncan. Claire may not be explicitly bisexual per her own words as Jamie reveals himself to be from S1E16 “To Ransom a Man’s Soul” and equivalent portions of Book 1 / Outlander onward. But we can certainly spot multiple bi-coded elements of her character before even getting to the whole Malva Christie business in Season 6 and Book 6 / A Breath of Snow and Ashes.

Geillis herself is another bi-coded villain who could put Randall to shame for the extent of her agenda and advance planning. Indeed, Geillis’s deeper intent and systemic aims qualify her much more classically for the villain designation than Randall himself, who behaves much more opportunistically. Let’s not forget that he leaves Jamie entirely alone for three years until the Highlander turns up in his office window at Fort William with an empty pistol! Likewise, Black Jack’s own service as an instigator of Jacobite rebellion only comes in exchange for the Duke of Sandringham protecting his beloved brother Alex—including not raping him, which gets further lampshaded by Jamie’s comments about how the Duke has treated him over the years.

It also seems worth noting how Claire offers a good example of how people who might be capable of polyamory through their capacity to love two different men at once don’t necessarily want polyamory. That’s why I abandoned a storyline in one of my early fic series development efforts—my first actually, which never saw the light of day in its original form because it morphed into “Dispatches from Fort Laggan” with a much greater depth of attention to the relationship between Black Jack and Jamie in parallel to his evolving relationship with Mary. Which winds up catapulting Jamie headlong into a raging attraction to Geneva Dunsany, someone much better equipped to meet his needs as a bisexual and kinky guy who’s perfectly capable of sustaining unspeakable horniness about an absurdly complicated man while also being a loving and devoted life partner to a woman.

But by making Lestat the only bi vampire in the show, his moral depravity can be seen as in some way linked to an assumed sexual depravity too—specifically of voracious appetite that separates his bisexual nature from either straight or gay counterparts.

This would be pretty accurate for Randall too. Kind of a missed opportunity to get things close to spot-on. With Randall though there’s even some Zig-Zagging of this aspect, which is part of what makes his character great. Although Black Jack has a voracious sexual appetite and is pretty much always DTF, he is also very much a Regular Guy with Regular Dick Function. He can’t just constantly get it up over and over. Between his alcoholism and his constant pursuit of sexual pleasure, he sometimes can’t get hard at all. He even has concerns about this with Jamie at Wentworth, gloating in delight when he does get an erection. The “can you feel that” scene in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” wherein Black Jack pulls Jamie’s hand against his crotch and expresses jubilation at having a boner is one of the funniest moments in the entire series to those of us who enjoy Randall’s character.

This is perhaps a good time to note that one thing queer villain representation often does beautifully is imbuing characters with hilarious and often bizarre senses of humor. When I’ve seen other writers frame Randall as humorless or “harrowingly joyless” I’ve wondered again if we watched the same show. The Brockton sequences from S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” alone ought to debunk this, from Randall’s passive aggressive dust party right down to his impish little wink at Claire while he dumps out the prized claret the senior officers were drinking before getting called out on some kind of wild goose chase.

Then there’s also his sardonic monologuing in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” about possible methods of killing Jamie in the morning, which is entirely tongue-in-cheek and intended solely to make Jamie get annoyed enough to tussle with him. I also consider the weirdly earnest threesome proposition from S1E09 “The Reckoning” when Jamie appears in the window of his office holding an empty pistol. It’s quite clear here that regardless of whether Jamie takes him up on it or just gets irritated enough to fight him fisticuffs and thus give him some nice opportunities to rub up against him, Randall is delighting in the offering.

Finally, we can’t forget his overjoyed little smiles whenever he sees either Jamie or Mary Hawkins. I covered much of this previously via in-depth discussion of Mary’s storylines. So here I’ll note that for all his own efforts to convince Claire that he’d be terrible for Mary, she doesn’t believe Black Jack in the slightest—because she’s already seen how he behaves with her, and likewise both seen and heard directly from Alex how kind and tender Randall has always been with his younger brother. Whom he basically raised, which is a whole other yarn.

Here’s the thing though: One doesn’t need to watch Outlander in any great depth to see that for Black Jack, much of the point of sadism lies in the aftercare. I haven’t belabored that point here overmuch because I don’t want to suggest that caretaking afterwards in any way negates harm done beforehand. However, Randall does consistently show genuine pleasure in taking care of another person. We see this in some ways with Jamie at Wentworth Prison in S1E16 “To Ransom a Man’s Soul” but then get a whole different context on it in Season 2, especially with S2E12 “The Hail Mary” when the curtain finally pulls back fully on Black Jack’s family life. The only moments where he seems to relax at all is when he’s helping someone feel better after a horrible privation—either by his own hand or from the ravages of illness. And in those moments, we see plenty of vulnerability. Which brings us to…

Unlike Randall, there is a vulnerability in and understanding of Lestat’s backstory that contextualizes his behavior.

I’m not so sure about this. Even midway through Season 1 starting with S1E06 “The Garrison Commander” this understanding of Randall’s character begins to fray at the edges. More details on that below. Likewise, we learn a good bit in Season 2 about Randall’s family and what has been going on behind the curtain of his own life as a result. But even beforehand, the scene in S1E15 “Wentworth Prison” where Black Jack forlornly talks to Jamie in the dungeon cell while seated and looking at him with sad eyes says quite a bit. He finds Jamie’s rejection in the face of a clear attraction painful; this is no less important for his own vicious response to that pain after Jamie taunts him about having no self-control. Subsequently we see in S1E16 “To Ransom a Man’s Soul” the lengths Black Jack will go to for the sake of affectionate treatment.

Not all love is constructive or good, but Randall leaves little doubt in his own behavior that his actions are very much in pursuit of love. This gets lampshaded a final time in Book 6 / A Breath of Snow and Ashes with the reveal of what Randall mouthed to Jamie in that one sequence of S3E01 “The Battle Joined” just before collapsing on top of him and dying from his wounds. During the abbey sequences in Book 1 / Outlander Jamie also recalls Black Jack lying beside him on the dungeon floor, crying profusely and begging him to speak words of love. Adding in the murky context missing from the show—about Jack having some sort of sexual history with either the deceased prisoner Alex MacGregor and/or his own younger brother Alex Randall—paints a telling portrait of a man desperate for affection and connection.

Though he doesn’t excuse it, we see his traumatic past, and feel how much he yearns for family and love.

Very true about Lestat, certainly. But I’d say this could also have easily been written about Black Jack.

In other portions of this essay I cover Randall’s behavior at Wentworth Prison in Season 1 and the Inverness storyline at the end of Season 2. To rehash here in brief, the only things that matter to Black Jack are (A) someone loving him back in a way he understands and (B) doing whatever he can to take care of his family. Black Jack doesn’t say as much directly to this effect, but he certainly shows us through action that yearning for family and love motivate a lot of his behavior. The fact that his pursuit of these things often happens through twisted means scarcely means he doesn’t want them. Quite the opposite.

As for the traumatic past, Black Jack and other characters alike (especially the Duke of Sandringham) drop hints throughout the Season 1 and Season 2 storylines—and even more so in corresponding portions of Book 1 / Outlander and Book 2 / Dragonfly in Amber—that Randall grew up in an abusive home and imprinted on that. It’s also clear from his interactions with Alex that he’s been protecting his brother from a lot over the years. The Duke himself certainly, but also other things. And in the corresponding sequences from the novels Jack goes into some detail about how little support he and Alex have ever gotten from their family back in Sussex, including from their older brother Edward even now that Alex is dying.

Then of course Black Jack himself talks aloud to Claire at Brockton about his traumatic present and how the armed conflict in Scotland has further warped his mind. He’s clearly shaken about finding one of his own men brutally beheaded and speaks in more general terms about being “not the man [he] once was” as a result of his military service. No surprise either that he looks like a fish out of water the one time we see him in non-military dress during S2E12 “The Hail Mary”. Black Jack may not like what serving in the Army has done to further damage his psyche, but at this point it’s all he understands and the only place he feels he belongs at all. On that front…

It’s not difficult to see the parallels between his existence as a vampire, and the isolation and threat many members of the queer community feel.

Here I should also include my response to the aforementioned excellent meta on homosociality in The Patriot canon. As noted previously I’m hoping to release a similarly focused reflection of my own in time addressing Outlander canon directly. For now I’ll applaud Rowan’s general attention in the video to how bisexual people often become isolated within the queer community as well as in the world at large.

Double marginalization is a lonely experience in the utmost—and one that can breed tremendous resentment. That anger has to go somewhere more often than not. Even without the added burden of silent rage from sexual violence and the constant “insult to injury” experience of having our own trauma collide with that of others walking a similar path, things are tough. And the data on experiences of rape and abuse in the bisexual community remain incredibly damning.

So again, I think Lestat and Black Jack would find plenty of common ground in one another’s histories. Although Lestat himself doesn’t really meet the criteria for sexual sadism, he certainly enjoys bloodplay and the general aesthetic of violence as part of intimate congress. This isn’t surprising in the slightest considering how the capacity to enjoy such pleasures often grows and sharpens in response to abuse of any form, including rape and domestic violence.

My own life has certainly been an exercise in this. If that seems confusing, consider: For people who are well accustomed to people bleeding on us when we didn’t cut them, it can feel immensely satisfying to have someone bleed on us because we did cut them.

Whereas the initial seasons of Outlander have no sympathetic or heroic queer heroes at all, Interview with the Vampire does give us another lead who fulfills this protagonist role in Louis.

I’m glad this was the last content in the video that mentioned Outlander directly. I think there’s enough context from the rest of this segment for viewers to understand the intended contrast here. Prior to Season 3 we don’t encounter characters in Outlander who are fully immersed in their queerness other than Black Jack, whereas Interview with the Vampire centers characters who show more of that immersion from the beginning on both the protagonist and antagonist sides.

Given the centrality of Jamie’s character arc to Randall’s though, the omission of his own bisexuality from this video essay seems quite the lost opportunity. To reiterate, in both versions of canon beginning with S1E16 “To Ransom a Man’s Soul” and equivalent sequences from the novels we get verbatim documentation directly from the source that Jamie is bisexual himself. This is in addition to his earlier comments about considering the prospect of sleeping with Randall at Fort William and only turning him down because he thought his dad would be disappointed in him. Not for having same-sex relations, but rather for capitulating to another man. That’s a lot to unpack, folks.

Indeed, Jamie’s storylines throughout the TV and book series alike are often demonstrations of how the ideation of heterosexuality and the pressure to live a heterosexual life do deep harm to bisexual men. This gets lampshaded further by the anvilicious contrasts constantly drawn between Black Jack and the decidedly gay Lord John Grey. The latter is set up as a perennial foil for Randall, getting into similar scenarios with Jamie—starting with his time as warden at Ardsmuir Prison in Season 3 and Book 3 / Voyager—but taking them in entirely different directions. Which I appreciate in essentials for the spinning of a superb narrative about complex post-traumatic stress. More so for living with that particular set of issues myself.

Once again for the good of the Republic: If you don’t heal what hurt you, you’ll bleed on people who didn’t cut you.

Apropos of this, I want to express particular appreciation for the video’s exploration of the “puriteens” phenomenon—and incorporate a caution for those slightly elder members of fandom. It can be very easy for people to fall into the trap of assuming that bisexual people are always hypersexual. And even easier to assume that those bisexual folk who truly are hypersexual are automatically threats because of this. More so if said individuals also happen to be kinky, and especially if they are specifically sadistic.

I mention this now because as queer people marginalized from within the queer community as well as without, bisexual and asexual folk stand on common ground. I have seen the transformative power in allyship between bi and ace people in fighting our shared oppressions. Sadly I have also seen many successful efforts to tear that natural solidarity asunder by making ace people fear us as predators. And the first against the wall, same as always, are the hypersexual and kinky among us.

So I’m happy beyond words to see openly ace creators like Rowan Ellis standing up for bisexual people. Making sure that our struggles and our humanity alike are always seen and valued. In kind, I strongly encourage everyone reading this to take this analysis of Rowan’s commentary on Outlander in the spirit in which I intend it. To say that I strongly support both the general content and overall standpoint of this video would understate the case.

Indeed, I offer this detailed analysis now because I know the depth of Rowan’s commitment to diverse queer representation. I want to build on the dialogue sparked by the video and to bring that depth on Randall’s character to the impressive breadth of focus in Rowan’s overview of queer villains. The fact that doing so amplifies the labor, effort, and insight of an asexual creator made me even more inclined to give this my full effort. I hope Rowan will keep putting her voice and perspective into the world for many years to come.

For now, I’m grateful for this opportunity to once again bring Black Jack Randall to my little corner of the Internet in dizzying detail. And moreover, to do so in amplifying the work of a fellow creator explicitly naming the harm done by respectability politics surrounding queerness.

Randall may not be the bisexual representation everyone wants, but he’s absolutely the bisexual representation the world needs. Because if he isn’t a resounding comeback to respectability politics that attempt to deny “problematic” bisexual people their basic human rights—and indeed an effective illustration of the deep harms those kinds of approaches to queerness not only do directly but also reproduce in cyclical patterns—I don’t know what character possibly could be.

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