#I should try to write more frequently and keep it shorter

[mareenique]

After reading many brilliant thoughts by others about it, I’ve managed to put my own thoughts about AMC’s IWTV and race in order and write it down. I’m only talking about the tv series because I’ve only recently started reading the books and it’s been a while since I watched the movie, so I won’t compare them. I’m also a white European woman so I’m sure there are things that I’m missing, but maybe I can still contribute something.

-------

One thing that was a big take-away for me while watching this series in regard to how it talks about race, is how you don’t have to be a racist in order to profit from a racist society and your place within white supremacy.

Or in other words: Lestat expresses how strange and stupid he finds the racial hierarchy that he encounters in America (and surely doesn’t believe in the race theory of the time, contrary to the other white rich men Louis has to deal with on a daily basis) but he still profits from his place in a racist society.

The show explicitly shows us that neither Louis wealth nor his existence as a vampire allow him to get away from how he is perceived and treated. And Lestat doesn’t get it. Because he sees himself as an individual. Someone who is neither connected to humanity, nor to whiteness. But Louis doesn’t get that luxury.

I think what upsets some people is that because in this adaptation Louis (and Claudia) are Black suddenly Lestat can also no longer be seen as an individual but also as someone in the context of how he is racialized = white. And that‘s something that makes us white people so uncomfortable when we are forced to do it for the first time (or the xxxth time, if we don’t learn to work through it...), because we are so used to seeing ourselves purely as individuals. And it really enhances the story in my opinion. Because the story was always set in “our” reality, not in a race-, gender-, or class-less fantasy world. But now race can’t be ignored. Just like it can’t and shouldn’t be ignored in the real world. Just like homophobia (external and internal) isn’t ignored in this series either. And it’s not done in a way that tells the majority audience “oh no look, sad Black/gay people.” but in a way that resonates with the minority audience (as far as I can tell) and forces the majority audience to think about why they are feeling uncomfortable and sit with it.

Over on my Twitter I talked about how wonderfully not sensational (not “oh look! two MEN kissing!”) the intimate scenes between Louis and Lestat are in this series are, how their homosexuality isn’t shown as shocking or scandalous to the viewer but treated as just two people in a (very complicated) love story. But I’m sure that someone with a lot of unresolved homophobia might feel very uncomfortable with that, and that’s good. I hope they sit with that feeling and THINK. But I’m getting off-track.

Lestat doesn’t think of Louis and Claudia as “lesser than” because of their race, however he also doesn’t see them as his equals. Which is probably because he just knows how much they don’t know and how vulnerable they will be in the “world out there”. But he also doesn’t tell them, yes because he wants to protect them, but also BECAUSE he doesn’t see them as equals.

After ep 6, I’ve seen some posts where people were upset about Claudia talking about Lestat as “massa” when she speaks to Louis, but I think it’s really just her interpreting not being treated as an equal in the way that comes most natural to her given the world she grew up in: She would read his behavior as racism and misogyny. Yes it’s uncomfortable, but it makes sense in the story and the timeline.

She emphasizes the racial context in her conversations with Louis because she knows that their connecting elements are that they’re both Black and they’ve both been turned by Lestat and thus belong to him in a way. So she does what she thinks she has to do to get Louis on her side. Because she knows she can’t break free of Lestat on her own.

And Lestat in that train scene is such a perfect performance of how you can be horribly racist and misogynistic without actively thinking that the other person is “less than” because of their race or gender, but simply by employing the tools that you have been handed IN a racist and misogynistic society. He wants to make her stay because he doesn’t want Louis to retreat back into his shell again like the last time Claudia was gone. But how does he do that? By employing the tools handed to him by a racist and misogynistic society: He uses the image of the cage and his knowledge about the abuse that happened to her against her. As a white man both of these tools (racism and misogyny) are easy for him to use in order to get what he wants, because there are systems of oppression behind his words that make them more powerful. Does he know that that’s what he’s doing, or does he just pick the low hanging fruits handed to him by the society he lives in? I don’t know.

But I mean, it’s basically summed up in Kwame Ture (Stokely Carmichael) quote, right?

"If a white man wants to lynch me, that's his problem. If he's got the power to lynch me, that's my problem. Racism is not a question of attitude; it's a question of power."

So anyone being angry about how “the series made Lestat racist and he wouldn’t do that” is missing a point in my opinion. I don’t think the series ever portrays him as a racist in the way that it does with the other white characters around him. The series just shows us what every white person living in a society rooted in white supremacy is capable of doing (not because we are inherently bad or whatever bs) because we live in a society that allows us to do these things, and gives our actions power if we follow the easy route and choose to act in a way that is in line with the power structure we exist in.

The racism of the time that the story Louis is telling us is set in is very overt and so we can see it more easily and it’s more easy to see why it’s wrong. So we don’t want ourselves or the white characters we love to be associated with THAT.

But rather than stopping there, we should take the lesson taught to us and allow it to reflect on how we view the story as a whole. How do we view our own emotional relationship to the characters in this context, and how do we or don’t we relate to them and why?

-------

Louis in the present is very rich and thus somewhat outside of the restraints still put on racialized people in our modern world. But I hope the series will keep the way they are incorporating race, gender and sexuality in the past story line in the present story line as well. So far we’ve only seen our modern day vampire(s) interact with one person: Daniel. So it hasn't really come up. Aside maybe from the way Daniel sees no issue with interrupting Rashid during prayer (which could be read as a comment about the way western anti-religious people often have low respect for religiosity, especially non-Christian religiosity. But tbh I don't think it's THAT deep and just another random incident of Daniel being a bit blunt and a bit rude). But I wonder how things might change once we step outside of that tower in Dubai and meet other vampires and see how they interact with the world.

And maybe there is also a comment about race in how present day Louis chooses to surround himself with a majority of non-white humans in Dubai. Now that he is in a situation where he gets to make the rules about who he keeps around, how and where he lives, and how he sustains himself, this is the environment he had built for himself. He is rich enough to exist outside of a human-made white majority power structure, and rich enough to have human blood without going against his personal moral codex.

That seems like a pretty perfect situation from the perspective of past!Louis. But even if we can say that he has achieved to break free from a lot of the restraints of a racist and homophobic world in the present day, he still doesn’t seem like he enjoys the kind of life he has now, living nearly alone in that beautiful but also cold and sterile tower...

#interview with the vampire #amc iwtv #iwtv amc #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #claudia interview with the vampire #I bottled up all of my thoughts about this series for too long and now that I actually sat down to write them out it got much too long #I should try to write more frequently and keep it shorter #if you read this thank you #I enjoy this series and the way it makes me think so much #especially the present timeline is so so interesting and I really hope we get a bit more of it during the second season #but they'll probably keep throwing us breadcrumbs for a while #mareenique-iwtv-thoughts

[ms-demeanor]

Hey! I appreciate your perspective on computer-based things. I think I need to get a laptop and would love your opinion on decent brands. If you don't have an opinion or want to answer please disregard the q.

Context: I'm often on the move and really want something small, light, and that will last a long time. I'm bad about buying new things or taking things to be fixed so ideally it's not something that dies quickly or needs frequent repairs. For a while I used an iPad for this but I need more of a keyboard than tablets have and the shelf life of an iPad is shorter than it should be for the cost. Mine is 7 years old and only works while plugged in... I liked my Macbook Pro I got for college but it's almost 15 years old and given I haven't needed a new one since I don't think spending all that on a Mac makes sense either. I use a gaming PC mostly but I'm going to need to travel a lot more in the upcoming year. I'm ok to spend up a bit since I want it to last.

I think you're going to have to adjust your expectations about the average functional lifespan of electronics. Seven years is a lot to get out of any tablet and fifteen years is way way way above average for a computer.

At work we estimate that the functional lifespan of a laptop will be around five years and the functional life of a desktop will be around seven years; we include upgrades in that lifespan, like adding RAM and storage.

It is not *unusual* to get more than five years out of a laptop or seven years out of a desktop, but if you are a heavy user of anything other than a browser and a word processor, that's about the time when you'll find that the computer feels slow enough to be frustrating. This isn't a hard limit, and it's not something that everyone experiences because people use computers differently, but if you're an artist and you use a drawing program that program will start to feel slow after a while because as updates and patches and drivers have been tweaked for newer devices they've slowly left your device in the dust.

This isn't planned obsolescence, by the way. Computer manufacturers try to "future proof" their devices to a certain extent, but you just can't anticipate certain kinds of changes. Maybe your laptop was manufactured before there were consumer SSDs available so its operating system doesn't take the advantages and limitations of SSDs into account. Maybe your desktop was built for DDR3 RAM and we're now on DDR5 and people aren't writing programs to the standard of the old technology, they're taking advantage of the standards of the new technology.

Since you were able to use your devices comfortably for such a long time, it sounds like you're not a very heavy user and don't need to worry too much about beefing up your specs. However it does sound like you want to keep your computer and use it as long as possible while paying a reasonable price for it (which is good! I think we should all try to extend the lives of our electronic devices as much as possible!).

I actually think you sound like a good match for a Framework laptop.

Framework is a company that makes laptops that are a lot more modular than what's on the market these days. They're mean to be easy to open up for upgrades and sturdy for heavy use. Most of the parts of the laptop are easily replaceable - including the screen - so you can use them for a long time and easily make upgrades that will help the computer feel fresher.

They're a bit more expensive than comparable PCs but much easier to repair if you aren't comfortable opening up your own computer (framework is intentionally built to be easy for people who are non-technical to work on their computers), and they are a LOT less expensive than comparable macs.

I still think you're probably looking at around 7 years of regular use out of a Framework and it won't *break* at that point, it will just. Probably be a bit slow and frustrating. You might not be able to get parts for it after a certain point. You eventually won't be able to upgrade the OS. But that's true of all computers.

I've still got my 2005 macbook. It still turns on, I can still use garage band on it. But it doesn't connect to the internet and uses such an old USB standard that it is extremely slow to transfer data on or off of and it cries and freezes if i try to use photoshop. It's not broken, it's just no longer useful as a daily computer.

What I'm defining as functional here is "Is able to run multiple programs (including at least one browser with 50+ tabs open and two office suites) at the same time for 8-10 hours a day without crashing, freezing, or losing data and restarting is not a major inconvenience."

In those terms, it does sound like you're probably in need of an upgrade (I can't imagine that your current machine is particularly quick) and I think that a framework laptop would suit your needs well.

If you're looking for something somewhat less expensive, you can generally find a decent thinkbook with a 12th or 13th gen i5 processor, 16GB RAM, and a 500GB SSD for around $700-ish, which is the low end of what I think you're going to pay for a decent laptop. I'm reccing lenovo here because I personally like them and have found them to be very easy to crack open for repairs and upgrades. Stick to the thinkbook over the thinkpad because that's the business line and is a bit sturdier and they are designed to be easier to upgrade over time.

Actually, here's a thinkbook with a 12th gen i5, 40GB RAM, and a 1tb SSD for under $700. That's a shockingly good price for that laptop; the reseller OEMGenuine is one I've purchased from many times before for work and I've found them to be reliable, though the reason those specs are so good is because they've added aftermarket parts, so your RAM and SSD won't be under warranty from Lenovo.

For Framework you're looking at at least $1000, but it's easy to plug and play with upgrades so you can start out with lower specs (except processor, don't cheap out on the processor) and upgrade later. The framework is a bit smaller and easier to travel with, but I have a laptop quite similar to the lenovo and it's not a huge pain to move around - it's very light but the 15" screen might be bigger than you're looking for.

If you're willing to spend a little bit more and you're very uninterested in doing your own upgrades and would prefer the most computer you can get for your money right out of the gate, this is a 12th gen i7 thinkpad with 40GB RAM and a 2TB SSD for $1150. (I've not ordered from this reseller before, so maybe check over their terms if you're considering purchasing from them.)

[hykwrld]

𝐍𝐂𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 + 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐔𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

pairing : nct dream (00 line + mark) x gn!reader (afab anatomy)

contains : sexual content, dom/sub dynamic, slight edging (jeno), public “sex” and slight degradation (donghyuck), brief mention of toys, bondage, temp. play, mirror sex (jaemin)

a/n : ahh omg my first work !! i’m sorry about the lack of a read more but tumblr was being weird so once it’s fixed i’ll add one <3 there will be a pt. 2 to this post for all of my sub!dream enthusiasts since i couldn’t pick which to write hehe i hope you all enjoy and if you do, please don’t be afraid to reblog w tags or send me an ask with your thoughts! (always accepting more thoughts abt these boys anyways <3) 

MARK LEE

there’s something so hot about nudes to mark that he frequently finds himself getting hard in his sweats at just the thought of the nudes that you might send him. you’ve always been hesitant to send him such exposing photos of yourself, scared that they would get out and end up on other people’s phones or that one of his friends would find them and make fun of you for them. mark understands your concerns, but he promises that if you ever felt comfortable and did send them, he’d make sure they remained in a locked album for his eyes only.

the reassurance helped a little and one night, you felt bold enough to decide to try it out. you knew your lover was out with his friends so you decided to keep it fairly mild, a mirror picture of some new lingerie you had bought. mark’s quick return to your apartment was enough to tell you that he enjoyed it. his reaction and praise for the photo gave you more confidence and soon, the pictures were more revealing, less clothes and different positions that had him fucking into his fist the moment he was alone, while his free hand dialled your number, voice already raspy with need.

“fuck, i can’t stop thinking about those pictures you sent me, angel, got me all worked up at the studio. promise i’ll take such good care of you when i get home, yeah?”

HUANG RENJUN

renjun is probably the most subtle about the way he slowly chips away at your innocence. he’s patient and takes everything at your pace, but also loves to see how your face flushes when he compliments you or your body, especially when his words are a little graphic. most of the comments come when you’re wearing something that shows your body off just right or something that’s just a little bit exposing that makes his imagination run wild.

he knows the compliments fluster you, watching the way you hide your face in his chest whenever he murmurs something in your ear. he also knows that the praise makes you more confident and what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t support that? he loves how you look in skirts so you buy a couple more, each one shorter in length than the last and he loves how your chest looks in tighter tops so maybe showing a little more cleavage wouldn’t hurt, right? he always stops you before you go anywhere, admiring you in the short, tight clothes, hands beginning to wander and grope at your body.

“always look so pretty, my love, can’t keep my hands off of you. maybe you should reschedule that lunch, hm? wanna see you fall apart for me in this cute, little skirt”. 

LEE JENO

jeno loves hearing you use your words for him. your face warms and you stammer while trying to explain to your patient lover exactly what you want him to do. at first, he was lenient, letting you get away with some muffled “please” into your pillow, too shy to say the dirty words. as time goes on, however, jeno gets stricter, a gentle hold on your face as he looks at you expectantly. “c’mon, baby, use your words properly,” he nearly demands and yet, you still barely meet his gaze as you whimper that you want him, that there’s a need only he can satisfy.

each time, he gives less and less, only touching when you ask him specifically for it. he wants to hear how badly you want his cock, how badly you need him. finally, you give in, body trembling from the first orgasm he’s given you. you beg, near tears, for him to touch you, that you feel empty without him, you need his cock to fuck you stupid. he’s broken you, made you so desperate that the lewd words fall past your lips without a second thought. 

“that’s my good baby, using your words so well. well then, it’s only fair that i give you a reward for being so good for me, yeah?”

LEE DONGHYUCK

donghyuck isn’t shy about how badly he wants you and how badly he wants to enact his fantasies on you, but he’s also patient, he takes his time to allow you to grow comfortable with the ideas, then come begging to him instead. he starts small, resting his hand on your knee in the library or the bus, leaving it there just long enough to fluster you. you swat his hand away at first, but grow more and more comfortable with it until you don’t even flush at the feeling of it there.

then, his hand moves higher and higher until he can feel the hem of your panties and you’re nearly panting from the arousal that begins to pool between your thighs. you turn to him, eyes desperate as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth in a pathetic attempt to keep yourself quiet, your legs already spread for him under the table. the library’s pretty full that day, everyone studying for their upcoming exams, but your mind is already clouded with lust and that’s when donghyuck thinks you look prettiest. 

“you look so pretty like this, baby, used to be so shy and now, you’re acting like a pathetic slut. how cute”.

NA JAEMIN

jaemin’s always been respectful of your boundaries, keeping pda to a minimum and stopping kisses before they can lead to something else. it’s no different in the bedroom, everything is fairly calm, simple love-making and he doesn’t mind one bit. despite this, jaemin’s mind wanders to slightly rougher things, different kinks, things he thinks you might enjoy, occasionally fucking into his fist at the thoughts that fill his mind. he brings them up one by one, just explaining to you what they are, always waiting until you’re fully comfortable with trying them.

it starts small with things like toys or blindfolds, moving up to more adventurous things like bondage or ice. he gets off on your pleasure, seeing how good he can make you feel with a few small additions. jaemin’s always the one who brings new things up, but recently, you’ve been hinting at a few that fills his mind with even more possibilities. that’s how you wound up where you are now, hands and chest pressed up against a large mirror, his hand tangled in your hair as he forces you to watch him fuck you. 

“so dirty, angel, wanting to watch yourself take me in front of a mirror, but fuck, this might be my new favourite too”.

#nct dream #nct #nct smut #nct dream smut #mark smut #mark lee smut #renjun smut #huang renjun smut #jeno smut #lee jeno smut #haechan smut #lee haechan smut #donghyuck smut #jaemin smut #na jaemin smut

[thelastofhyde]

ii. the revving of engines.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller’s not made it this far in the age of the apocalypse just to die at the hands of some adrenaline-crazed, no-brain-having fool who barely knows where to place her hands on the steering wheel. hind-sight fully intact and ever-so eye opening, he should have said no before frank could even finish his question: can you teach the girl to drive? read part one, the likeability paradox, here !!

warnings. no use of y/n ( joel’s nickname for the reader is sol ), panic attacks, perv!joel, slightly dark!joel, soft!joel ( for like a second ), a smidge of fluff, gun violence, murder, smut ( unprotected piv sex- don’t be silly, wrap that willy-, public sex, car sex but also not, exhibitionism, possessiveness, murder kink [ kinda but not really, joel just gets... more enthusiatic at the thought of protecting the reader], mentions/implications of panty stealing, male masturbation, sex as a form of payment, glory-holes, dubcon. joel has a massive c*ck because i said so <3 )

word count. 16.7k ( my dumbass really thought this would be shorter than part one- )

hyde’s input. this took criminally too long to write but i did warn you that i’m a slow writer, so hopefully this makes up for the wait. think i may be a little in over my head with this one because, woof, there’s a lot going on. i’m still trying to wrap my head around how many people enjoyed the first part, i’m speechless. thank you for every like, comment, reblog, ask that has given me the motivation to not just write a second part but to turn this into a whole series. i’m really looking forward to sharing joel and his sol’s story, and i hope i’ll be able to write it in a way that not only conveys the love i have for these two idiots in love but will also make you guys fall in love and root for them too. more to come of these two soon ( soon = whenever hyde feels like it ) &lt;3

taglist. @kayleezra , @newavenger , @luthienaliceisilra​ , @str84pedro , @baebee35 , @aheartgonewild ( if you’re crossed out, i couldn’t tag you for whatever reason ) + add yourself to the taglist here !​

read on ao3. (capitalisation available )

the journey has been one of silence.

it all begins three days prior to arriving at their destination, with a dishevelled joel startling awake. sitting himself upright, a string of grunts and groans flow from him as several new pains in his back make themselves known, one for each year he’s lived. sleeping on the couch is no place for a man of his age, but it has become his abode more frequently as of late whilst tess has let herself get acquainted with the likes of a recently widowed woman.

why on earth the two women seem to insist on occupying his and tess’ shared mattress for their sweat-provoking and sheet-tangling endeavours when the widow’s own bed now harbours one less occupant, joel is none the wiser.

“you sly fox!” it occurs at an hour much too early for tess’ level of excitement, a spark of something in her voice he’s not quite heard in nearly a decade now, back when she’d let it slip that she’d made contact with someone over the radio. “keeping this all to yourself!”

blinking out the sleep-induced blur in his vision, his hands rub over them in a further effort to clear his sight. the couch squeaks beneath the weight of him as he leans forward, elbows coming to rest on his pointed knees. confusion leaves him in a questioning grunt.

“c’mon, joel, the jig is up!” she’s insisting on maintaining her enthusiasm, and the man has to wonder just how good her night must have been for her to be so chipper come barely an hour past sunrise. “so, who is she?”

with only the sparing of a clueless, sleep-filled glance, joel’s risen to his feet and shouldered past his companion. headed straight for the minuscule kitchen, where once he would have boiled a kettle and prepped himself a mug of instant coffee, nowadays he’s lucky to find enough water to fill a single unwashed cup. he does just that, watching the water fill only a third of the plastic before downing it in one gulp.

tess is hot on his heels, following him through their cramped living space. he sighs, resigning himself to the reality he’s faced with: this is not a conversation she will let him walk away from. be whatever it may be, the woman is hunting for some answers. “what’re ya talkin’ about? ain’t keepin’ shit from you.”

he’s reminded, much to his own dismay, of a time she’d accused him of cutting deals on the side without her, back when her distrust and his aloofness had kept their newfound partnership on edge.

“oh, really?” her voice never loses that sense of excitement, and he’s beginning to wonder whether he should be grateful or resentful of this. the smile on her lips spreads wider over her face. “then explain these, casanova.”

there, dangling over her extended pointer finger, lays a blur of lace.

it is a dainty little thing, a blush of some pastel colour that’s oh so feminine it makes his toes curl at the thought. a tangle of fabrics so delicate he fears they’d fall apart with just a taste of his calloused touch.

it is delicate, it is soft, it is dirty.

and it is yours.

was yours, till he’d ripped it down your legs and stuffed the fabric into the back of his jeans. it was a mindless action, at the time, and one he’d forgotten about, tucked away in the unmarked box in his mind where he’d learned to place most things involving you. sleep-filled eyes, and wine-stained lips, and serenity-inducing laughter, and heavenly-soiled lace. forgotten about, until he’d been stripping himself off at the end of the night and the garment stumbled to the floor at his feet, calling for him like tess’ lover cried her name in pleas of more.

he’d tasted the softness of lace that night, first on his lips and then around his cock, tangled in the unforgiving grip of his frantic hands.

the fabric had not been forgotten since, always within reach of the man. where some kept trinkets of silvers and golds as their symbols of luck, he kept your lace, tucked safely in the back left pocket of his jeans, awaiting his nervous fiddling in times when stress ran high and only the softness of the fabric would pull him back down to earth

“they ain’t mine.” still, he snatches them out of her grasp.

back left pocket, tucked back into safety.

“never said they were,” she has a point, but it only serves to frustrate him. because of course she wasn’t implying they were his to wear- never in a month of sundays would the likes of joel miller fit himself into such well-kept lace-, but she sure as hell believes they are his. “thought i’d be nice for once and clean some of your clothes, since you seem to have forgotten how to. they fell out your pocket while i was busy folding some trousers.”

convenient.

that’s what it is, considering that in their who-knows-how-many years of partnership, the woman has not taken the time to tend to his washing. he’d asked her, once, body recovering from a near-fatal stab he’d taken to the abdomen. she had not said no to his request. or, rather, she had not simply used the word no. ask me again and i’ll finish what those raider’s started.

every surface of the room captures his attention, from the ripped wallpaper to the tattered remains of what once were curtains, anything other than tess, who hovers at his shoulder like a fly to shit.

he needs something to do, to distract.

thinking of the days ahead, he begins a list of things they’ll need- gauze, food rations, water, more gauze. joel has still yet to sharpen their knives, displeased with them since the moment he’d noticed tess’ struggling to cut through a cable wire. did they have enough ammo? maybe he’d need to grovel for some more off of bill-

“who’ve you been fucking, sunshine?”

frozen where he stands. mind in disarray, heart pounding a thousand miles an hour, blood somehow both everywhere and nowhere in his body at once. all he can think is that tess knows. sunshine. she knows, she knows, she knows.

she knows and she’s going to tell frank, who’ll tell bill, who’ll place a target on joel’s head and hit bullseye the moment he so much as tries to step anywhere near you, and then where will joel be? back to facing only the dull grey skies and locking himself away in bone-chilling solitude.

clarity befalls him.

she’s teasing. sunshine. it’s not an answer to her question, it’s a name meant to mock him. tess has no clue, not a single incline to guess what events had transpired in the stillness of the night the last time she’d dragged them out to bill and frank’s. she doesn’t know.

“if you don’t want to tell me,” the words leave her in a sing-song tone, and for a moment he needs to remind himself this is a woman his own age, not a teenager. it would be easy to confuse the two. “i’ll just have to figure it out myself!”

he won’t be the one to tell.

“laura silver.” it’s the first name that comes to mind, and the image it paints in his head brings forth a repulsion unlike no other. he’d rather lick shit off a stick than subject himself to her company willingly. by the twisted-up look on tess’ face, she seems to agree.

“really? isn’t she a bit... chatty for you? and, like, way too happy?”

she has no idea.

the questioning glances only amplify once the two set off, each stop they make along the way- to eat, to sleep, to rest their deteriorating joints- punctuated with that feeling in the air that joel dislikes so much. the unsaid, the unfinished, the more. it makes his stomach lurch with anxious thoughts and his heartbeat cease under the stress they bring.

birds tweeting, wind howling, leaves rustling becomes the soundtrack to their travels, guiding them onwards with encouraging notes and filling the empty pockets of silence that sit between the four, five, six steps he walks ahead of her, fingers curled around a weapon and eyes trained on anything that moves the wrong way. the guts and gore of clickers stabbed and bloaters beaten wet their clothes in the early hours, yet they dry come noon, coating their every inch in a sickening syrup.

“you both got another thing coming if you think he’s gonna let you through the door like that.” joel had not experienced anything like it since the ages where he’d arrive home hours past his curfew, knees scrapped on gravel and clothes stained in mud, stood beneath the dimming porch light as his mother washed him.

only, it is bill who holds the hose instead of the woman who’d raised him.

freshly hosed down, a trail of dripped water marks the space he crosses through the house out into the backyard, losing tess along the way as she calls dibs on showering first- as if joel wouldn’t immediately put himself last in any scenario that involves her.

what he finds is a garden in gloom, infant rosebuds so young and new to life they’ve yet to lose that tinge of green that separates them from the rest of the bush they inhabit. it is the image of winter, casting its blue hue on everything it touches, from the leafless trees to the wolf-eyed dog, who’s tail begins a slow wag from its place upon the floor before the mutt’s jumping up all four paws and bounding its way over to him.

the german shepherd crashes into him like a wave, nearly sending him stumbling backwards. it’s grown in the past weeks, he realises, large paws a little more suited to the length of its stretched back. he fights a fearsome battle to contain the man within him who longs to clap his hands down on the dog’s fur, with an inhale of breath he hopes will drag down the words of praise and greeting aimed towards the pointy-eared creature, joel manages to dismiss the animal with a shrug.

it follows him, even so, as he takes another step out into the yard.

frank’s familiar figure sits within a chair. he’s calm, staring out at his decayed world as though he’s merely waiting for the passing of time to bring back the colourfulness his flowerbeds once possessed. his hair sits the same, his clothes look the same and, yet, something is off. joel can’t quite put his finger on it, all he knows is that this man is half the man he’d bid goodbye to weeks ago.

“sorry for dragging you guys out here again so soon,” his words are gentle, like always, yet his voice is ragged. joel wonders if he too had caught that damn cold. maybe him and tess brought it into the house, leaving behind a tally of germs for the three occupants of the home to choke on. maybe you’d caught it too. maybe you were in need of someone to make you soup and fret over the temperature your body keeps. maybe he should have returned sooner. “but i’m sure bill’s already filled you in.”

bill has done no such thing.

joel shakes his head. frank’s never one to push him to talk, accustomed to the likes of a man who’s short on words and spreads any dose of warmth his soul may posses sparingly. it’s a trait he appreciates, the patience to never expect more. frank talks, joel listens, both of them agree on this dynamic.

“we’ve got nothing for you this time, i’m afraid," joel swallows a snarky then what d’ya call us out for. he’s not subtle enough to go unnoticed by the man who’s known him too long, who chooses to combat the raising of his hackles and the frowning of his brow with calmly spoken words. “but we’ll owe you one. a favour, i mean.”

that recaptures his attention. his shoulders lower in tow with his hostility and the dog nuzzles its muzzle into his hand, forcing him to uncurl his fist. “what’s the catch?” he asks because he knows frank, and he knows that frank knows him, that frank chooses his words wisely when they’re alone. he wouldn’t be beating around the bush, keeping his words vague and his tone secretive, if it weren’t for the fact that joel, likely, will not enjoy partaking in whatever favour they’re about to ask of him.

“we’ve got a truck, in the garage,” he shares, like this is news to joel, like he’d never seen the vehicle in question. “and it’s been a while since it’s had a run-around, breaks are probably squeaky as sin, and-”

“get to the point.”

frank smiles, less uneasy as joel’s usual candor nature gets in the way of his brooding image, interrupting his silent streak with a rushed out jumble of words the man’s sure would sound harsher were they directed at anyone other than the friendly-eyed artist. “can you teach the girl to drive?”

joel’s ability is not being questioned, in truth, but rather his willingness.

the request is sensical, understandable for a girl your age- whatever that may be- to have no experience behind the wheel. the damned mushrooms had likely already taken hold of the world by the time you’d reached the legal driving age.

it is not a difficult task either, he supposes, with no need for every intricate little road rule to be passed down. so long as you can learn to spin the wheel, shift the gears and control the pedals, you’d be good to go.

agreeing to it would also, in theory, be agreeing to the prospective scenario where joel miller finds himself trapped inside the small, four-wheeled confines of a moving vehicle with someone who grinds his gears and haunts his thoughts. there’s so much room to suffer in the solitude of your presence, so much potential to think up what-ifs and if-onlys in his head as you stare back at him, eyes beaming rays of pure-heartedness. i don’t like you, joel. it’ll echo in the distance between you.

“bill can’t do it?” his question is met with a grimace, and he wonders if the man had already attempted. perhaps you are beyond teaching in his eyes and so they’ve settled for calling in joel to deal with your unsalvageable driving skills. perhaps they know you already dislike the man and figured there’d be no harm in giving you more reason to, when he loses his patience and scrutinises your driving skills.

“she won’t let him,” joel’s head snaps up from the floor, eyes shifting from the mutt enjoying the carding of his fingers over its head back to frank. the greys in the man’s hair seem to have multiplied, the wrinkles on his face a little deeper. joel’s struck, his stomach twisting up, with the reality of noticing his friend is growing old. “said she’d sooner trust a clicker behind the wheel than bill. she asked us to call you guys.”

you called.

you wanted him here.

you guys. sure, it may be the collective of both him and tess. but he’s still a part of that equation, meaning you’d willingly brought him close, beckoned his return to the heaven he’d left you in.

one shower later and he’s wadding his way out back, into the garage. hair still a mess of towel-dried curls, clothes fresh and a little unfitting- he’d stolen them from frank, after overhearing the man inform tess he’d taken the liberty of burning their blood soaked clothing.

he’d agreed to the deal, much to frank’s delight and his own shame, mind too enraptured by the prospect of solitude with you to judge the situation at hand clearly.

the door creaks, a beg for oil, and announces joel’s arrival far sooner than he would have preferred, stumbling upon the scene of you. more specifically, the back of you, doubled over. everything from the waist up digging through the backseats of the vehicle, seemingly searching for something, while everything downwards sits on full display for his starved eyes to feast upon. boot covered feet, the hem of the most nonsensical skirt resting upon bare calves, the curvature of thighs beneath silk, the stretch of tightened fabric against your ass.

joel thinks himself a strong man, but he is weakened by the sight.

you startle at his entrance, rushing to straighten yourself so quickly your head smacks against the top of the car’s door frame. a hiss and a pressing of a hand to your head is not enough to comfort the witness of your harm, crossing those three steps forward needed to grip your jumper-covered shoulders and spin you to face him, eyes immediate with their scanning of your features, frantic to confirm you’re not teary-eyed, nor pouty-lipped, nor in the beginnings of a concussion.

“i never heard-" you pause whatever you wish to say when one of his hands covers your own, cradling the back of your head. he’s well-aware this is too close, too unlike him, too noteworthy. but he can not seem to care enough to welcomed back the distance that so often sits between you. “oh, it’s you.”

“sorry to disappoint ya.”

he surely is.

disappointed, confused, conflicted. here you stand, no runny nose, no bloodshot eyes, no scratch in your voice, no need to be cared for. it’s a selfish thing, to feel his heart lurch at the fact you’re in full-health, no pesky cough in sight, but his distaste towards the feeling only makes it double in size.

“no! sorry, i just,” you’re the first to inch back, head tilting to meet his stare with your own. he follows suit, taking your unvocalised desires and stepping away from you, hands back by his own side and vowing to keep themselves there. “i thought it would be tess teaching me.”

so maybe you’d never called for him.

he’s just the tag-along, the con to tess’ pro, the consequence to tess’ presence. you view him like the sun views the moon: a small, dim, lifeless rock that sits in wait every waking day, orbiting around tess’ planet.

it is not news, yet it stings like it. a fresh wound added onto the litter of marks that ache his soul. the pain leaves him in the only way he knows how anymore; a face devoid of emotion.

“not,” you’re uneasy. thrown-off. squitterish. hands tuck up into the sleeves of your sweater and eyes glass over with worry. the possibility that he scares you both lights his soul on fire and sends it to drown in a lake made of his sorrows. “that there’s anything wrong with you! i just... figured you’d have better stuff to do.”

he doesn’t.

“yeah, well, i ain’t doin’ it for free,” his proverbial foot shoots into his mouth, slamming shut whatever small window of opportunity he’d stumbled upon to say the kind thing, to do nice by you for once. i don’t like you, joel. but he could change that, if he just changed his attitude. and his nature. and his sense of being. so, just about everything about himself. it would not be much for the promise of a piece of his sol. it’s  much too late for that now and, so, he commits to the role life’s already chosen for him to play, the heartless bastard. “let’s get this over with.”

“jesus christ, sol, didn’t your daddy ever put ya behind the wheel?”

joel’s anger is unjustified.

he’s aware of this, in the back of his mind, yet any rational voices burn into silence at the heat of his ire. only twenty, or thirty, or forty minutes since you’ve hit the open road, since he’d buckled himself into the idea of being alone with you, and the car feels like it’s closing in on itself. every inhale a struggle for oxygen, every exhale a subdued desire.

perfectly manicured nails grip the steering wheel.

counting trees had worked, if only for a while, to keep his focus off everything occupying the driver’s side. the novelty wore off as you passed the thirty seventh in a row, where joel’s eyes finally drifted off from the view ahead to the one on his left.

a pair of lips sit parted in concentration.

he’d needed a new distraction, one he found as he popped open the glove compartment and found a man of his taste’s holy grail. well, at least the holy grail that was found in materials rather than between the thighs of- cds! rock, country, punk. the 70s, the 80s, the 90s. fleetwood mac, the rolling stones, johnny cash. that’s what he’d found, a collection bill must keep to hold an emblem of what the world once was: loud, rhythmic, lively. now static, quiet, lonely. not even a full verse into ring of fire and you’d switched the volume off. “i can’t concentrate with that crap playing.”

half a thigh, exposed by the slit up a skirt.

now he has nowhere to turn, to let himself run off to in thoughts that promise the sweet salvation of distraction. facing forward is not an option, the empty road ahead holding no ounce of his attention. focusing on the right as the world passes by outside the window holds no merit, and no amount of trinkets nor garbage that litter the nooks and crannies of the car helps. his eyes always find their way back to you.

breathtaking in the most painful way, you sit unaware of the effect you have on him. as you shift from third to fourth gear, as your thigh tenses to press down harder on the gas pedal, as nimble fingers unnecessarily practice using the indicators. you don’t see how his frown deepens and he scorns you with his stare.

“he was a bit busy making a name for himself,” you utter a reply minutes too late, when he’s already convinced himself you hadn’t heard him.

your focus is strict, eyes glued on the road as if you’re afraid an obstacle- be it something infected, or something animal, or something malevolent- will come your way. and all the while, joel’s sat in shock, pure fucking eye-widening shock, as the words you utter slowly seep into his brain. minute as it may be, it’s the first detail, the first piece of history you’ve offered of yourself. an absent father, the words cause a dull ache in the left side of his chest. 

god, he’s being too quiet, he needs to ask more while you’re willing to answer.

you switch to fifth gear with a delay that would have cost you points back in the days of capitalistic civilisations. the gear-box makes an ugly noise of which the engine follows up with a growl of its own. 

panicked, your hand shoots straight back to the gear-shift, curling around it so tight the white bones beneath your knuckles threaten to rip through your skin and put themselves on display. the car slows with the release of your foot off the pedal and he presumes you mean to lower the gears too- perhaps, you’ve thought it best to maintain the safety net provided in the third gear- but you must not be thinking straight, must lack proper motor-control over your body, as your hand pushes down on the stick and, slam!

the car comes to a complete stop.

the sharp pain that cuts up his neck as whiplash takes over, the weight of his upper-half flying forward and stopped only by the seatbelt that crosses over him, it becomes near non-existent as a strangled cry and a whimper of pain comes from the driver’s seat.

a scrambling of hands, a forceful push onto the pedal, a handful of panicked breaths and fearful mutterings of something involving bill and kill and will. none of it helps in the face of your problem. you’re stubborn, however, trying once more to push the stick forward, and getting nowhere. joel tells himself to remain delicate in his touch and composed in his heart as his hand clamps down on top yours, curling his longer digits around the gear-stick and giving it a tug upwards, effortless in his attempt to shift the car out of reverse and back into the first gear.

your eyes meet his. watery, and big, and full of fear.

“musician?” conversation, that will distract you in your moments of panic. he’ll talk you through the fierce currents of racing heartbeats and sweaty palms, till your waters are calm as can be.

the hand that still sits atop your own gives a soft squeeze.

“deep breath, sol,” he leads by example, filling his lungs with a sharp, deep inhale through his nose. you follow, nodding as if you’re in a trance yet you mimic him nonetheless. deep inhale, through the nose, inflate your chest. “atta girl. you’re fine. car’s fine. ya just stalled it, s’all. happens all the time.”

he’s hopeful to be helpful, but then the first tear wins the war over your composure, slipping down your cheek as you shakily exhale. another few- four, he thinks, but can not say for sure- follow suit, staining ugly cristaline rivers down the globes of your cheeks. another inhale from joel, another exhale from you. you breathe in tandem, as if relying on the other to remember such a human act is necessary for survival.

it’s purely instinctual, something as uncontrollable and unpracticed as the beating of his heart or the blinking of his eyes, the way his free hand captures ahold of your cheek. the rough pad of his thumb swipes over the bottom of your eye, so close that he feels the tickle of your lower lashes, collecting whatever tears threaten to fall next.

let them stain his skin instead of yours.

“ya dad,” maybe you need clarification, something to stall the rapidly speeding thoughts that race through your mind. “was he a musician?”

at first, silence. more deep breathing, less shaky exhales. your tears still wet his thumb but they no longer seem to be spilling down your cheek, collecting on your lashes like the dust on a shelf. he thinks of wiping the tears off the untouched side of your face, mostly to settle whatever part of him feels shaken at your distress, yet, as he slowly raises the hand that sits atop yours on the gear-stick, you halt him. fingers tangle messily with his own and squeeze so hard he feels the pressure deep in his bones, threatening to snap like twigs.

and, then, you shake you head.

no.

nonverbal, yet entirely understood by him.

your dad was not a singer. you hear him as much as you feel him. you’re slowly returning. to the car, and to a rational state of mind, and to him. a few moments pass, slipping between you with as much ease as his thumb stroking over your wrist, pushing down just that little bit till he feels the fading thrump-thrumps of a panicked heart. he speaks once you’re ready, once the slow rise and fall of your chest lulls his own self into a state of calm. “gonna need ya to turn the keys in the ignition, think ya can do that?”

you do as he says, inadvertently placing your trust in him and his words, and turn the key. when the car shudders yet fails to come alive, your head snaps right back to him, eyes a pleading mess for answers, guidance, help.

it does wonders to his ego, to that caveman mentality that sadly resides in some corner of his mind. needed, useful, protective. things he doesn’t get to feel with tess, doesn’t need to feel with tess. she takes care of herself, and him, and never asks for a damn thing in return. but you need him, need his calming words and his knowledge of vehicles.

for once, he’s a necessity instead of a casualty in your life.

“foot on the clutch, sol,” his pointed words hold no mockery, becoming a metaphorical rubber-dingy that he tosses your way, one more thing to pull you into the safety of a calm shore.

this time, the engine roars back to life.

you’re elated, a smile splitting up your cheeks even as you let the car crawl to a start, wheels turning slowly as you give the gas a light tap. he sees the way your shoulders sag, like a ten-ton weight has just been stripped off them. 

“told ya, s’just a stall,” it’s the nicest i told you so he can offer, especially as the lingering of that nasty feeling still creeps over your actions, subduing you in a way he doesn’t quite enjoy. you should not be meek, nor placid, nor doubtful yet that is all he sees as he watches you hesitantly drive the car into second gear. “used to happen t’me all the time. at the worst times, too. like... intersections and shit. can’t count the times i got flipped off by some truck driver.”

you giggle. quiet, girlish, subtle. joel almost mistakes it for a tickle in your throat, a discomfort you catch yourself coughing over. but, no. your shoulders dance, your lips tilt up, rapid little breaths sneak out your nose. it doesn’t even matter that it’s at his expense, the fact he’s the one to rouse such a delicate reaction despite his rough voice, and rough words and, well, rough everything, it’s enough to settle his soul with a deep contempt.

you continue slowly, not daring to test the power of the car. he says nothing, not a word about the waste of bill’s fuel nor the painfully boring pace at which the world flies by outside the window. you’ll speed up, he knows it, once you get your momentarily lost confidence back. talking seems to be your first approach to easing the tension in your stiff arms. “actor.”

he hums in question, quirking a brow despite your gaze being fixated on nothing but what sits ahead.

“he was an actor. a wannabe actor,” you’re soft spoken, trying your best to keep that shake in your voice under control. “my dad. so... you almost had it right.”

“anything i might know him from?” he tries, and fails, to match the lightness of your voice, his own far too gruff, and dark, and jagged to replicate the smooth edges of your own. 

“not unless you had a thing for cheesy teenage romcoms.”

the words seem to take control of him, forcing their way out before he can so much as recognise their existence. “i didn’t but my dau-” if you notice the way he halts himself, you say nothing.

“wanna know the most ironic thing?” he senses no real humour behind the few chuckles you let out, eyes lost ahead. joel wonders if you’re truly seeing the road, or merely looking at it, letting the world blur as your focus sits elsewhere. you await no response before continuing. “the only role he could never master was the present father.”

a father placing his dreams over his child, the idea is one he can’t quite wrap his head around.

joel had had big dreams, once. dreams that involved world tours, and golden records, and screaming fans. those dreams were shoved aside, not even a whisper to be heard in his mind, the moment he held his bundle of joy for the first time. screaming her little lungs off, tiny body covered in fluids he could never name, eyes staring wide back at him as she took in the image of her father for the first time. she became his new dream, his only dream. to hold, protect and love.

just like the stage, he eventually lost that dream too.

“i’m sorry,” he breathes the words out, quiet beneath the hum of the engine.

“why?” you’re not harsh with your delivery. in fact, you even glance momentarily in his direction and shoot him one of those smiles, the ones that steal the spotlight away from everything else and render him frozen beneath it’s shine. nonetheless, joel fears he’s done it once more, offended you without even trying. “it’s not your job to apologise for someone else’s mistake, joel.”

the silence which settles between you once more feels less like the awful quiet of drowning beneath crashing waves and more akin to the static of an untuned radio, with its antenna out of place and detecting no signals. it’s calming to sit like that with you and somewhere between the hum of the engine and the world passing by outside the windows, joel’s mind wanders off into dangerous territories.

territories where he thinks of this exact setting, you driving and him sitting in the passengers side fighting off the sudden languid feeling that grips his soul, only in his imagination it’s later, deep into the night. you’re not alone on the road, a collection of cars passing by and driving ahead, and the smell of cheap beer fills the car. snoring from the backseats, a sleepy girl finally given into the call of sleep after a long day. the image of his hand reaching over the console to find yours, matching silver bands clinking together as he lets himself entwine his fingers with yours.

he jolts up straight, head no longer resting on the window and eyes blinking away whatever make-believe daydream he’d inflicted upon himself, when a sound of anguish comes from your seat.

selfishly indulging in his silly fantasies, joel’d failed to notice your silence was not the same as his. while he bathed in warmth, you quivered in coldness. your nails now threaten to leave marks on the steering wheel, your lips point downwards in a frown, your thigh shakes nervously with each measly push of fuel you give the car.

it’s cruel of him to keep you driving in this state.

“there’s a gas station a few miles from ‘ere,” his words are punctuated by a defeated sigh, already beating himself up mentally for not noticing soon enough the state you’ve been sat in. “pull into it.”

if joel had a nickel for every time he’s seen you in this position, he’d have two nickels.

your chest heaving with every breath, your back pressed to his front, your closed legs stood between his own. flashbacks to the kitchen, all you’re missing is a knife in your hand and a counter-top for him to box you in against.

he’d believe the idea of popping the car’s hood and teaching you a little about the interior of a vehicle was a good one, a smart one, a chance to gain some knowledge that may prove itself useful. the plan was to show you where things sat- the engine, the dip-stick for the oil, the battery- and hope the momentary distraction would be enough to unravel your nerves, leaving you primed and prepped to drive you both back to the home joel would never share with you.

as marvellously innocent and simple as his plan was, he’d failed to take into account one important detail: you’re your own person, capable of things he’d never think to predict. so, when you’d stepped out the now parked truck a few minutes after him, sweater left behind and nothing but some flimsy, practically see-through white tank top, he’d just about felt all the blood drain from his face- and head straight to his crotch- while his eyes done little to hide the glaringly obvious staring at your breasts they indulged in, the blush of colour from pebbled nipples beneath the fabric enough to have him salivating at the thought of putting his mouth on them. “i’m not staining my favourite sweater with oil”, that had been your excuse for torturing him so cruelly.

he’s no better than the old perverts who used to drool over a woman jogging down the street.

“ok, so, this,” you shuffle forwards, feet crunching down on some crumbling gravel below. before joel can let relief flood over his senses at having just that slightest bit of distance between you both, you bend at the hip and lean across the vehicle, hands grabbing at a familiar yellow stick. “is the dip-stick?”

hearing your voice but rendered incapable of listening, he’s frozen. the fingers at his side ball into fists as that familiar beast seduces itself over his senses, flashing images in his mind of all the places he’s yet to place his hands. your neck, your waist, your thighs, the wanton desire to map out your every trace and burn it into his memory is endless, all-consuming.

your voice calls out his name.

he hums, you repeat your question, to which he huffs out an agreement, tongue too heavy to form words.

“then this,” you stretch further, fingertips reaching for the top right corner. not quite reaching your desired object, you shuffle two steps back and send him into turmoil as your ass presses tightly into his crotch. like a wounded animal, he sucks air in through his teeth and clamps his hands down on your hips. initially he means to move you but, inevitably, he holds you against him. “must be the battery.”

the jeans he wears seem to have grown a little tighter. uncomfortably so. still, he can’t bring himself to care, nor to readjust them, grip only clamping itself down tighter on you at the sheer threat of removing them.

he’d thought back to that night, more times that he cares to admit to himself. at first, it was a means to an end, a memory of lustful images to drive him towards some quick pleasure and relieve the pressure of stress off his shoulders, giving him the chance to actually get some sleep. your taste on his tongue, your hands in his hair, the weight of your body keening back into him. he felt it for days. weeks, even, ghosts that haunted his skin.

then came the guilt, seeping in like rain through the crack in tess’ and his ceiling.

he had no right to touching you the way he had. here you are, a glimmer of light that brings warmth into the coldest of place, while there he is, a thunderstorm of emotions all wrapped up in the darkness of rain clouds, threatening to stain and dampen everything he puts his care into. his daughter, dead. his brother, gone. and, hell, even tess has nearly slipped through his weak hold countless times. so, how dare he subject you to the danger of his caress, mark you with the touch of death his heart seems to bring?

hours of tossing and turning, unwrapping himself from tess’ arms as he’d crawl out of bed in the middle of the night to go wear his footprints into the floorboards of their living room, pacing back and forth as withered hands ran through greying hair, searching for some solution to this... this swelling in his heart, ache in his bones, longing in his loins at the memory of you.

bill had asked him once, years ago, what his greatest weakness was. he’d been wise enough to gruff out a harsh nothin’.

his answer has changed, since then.

you reach into the darkness of his spiralling mind and drag him back with three words. “texas, you good?”

he doesn’t quite give you an answer. not a vocal one, at least, settling for giving each of your hips a squeeze when words fail him. he’s gazing in admiration and wonder, eyes trailing themselves over the way you’re struggling to stretch further, the tips of your fingers fighting to reach the object you’d been trying to identify. one moment, you’re huffing over the fight to touch the car’s battery, and the next, you’re sending two tidal waves down joel’s spine: panic and arousal.

maybe, you don’t mean to do it. it could be purely accidental, an action you don’t even take a second to consider after years of living solely in the presence of two men who bare no interest in bending you over any surface. but, you do it.

you whine.

it’s born from pain, your entire frame shooting upright while clutching your hand close to your chest. joel knows that alone should be enough to vanish any explicit thoughts from his mind. the hunger only grows though, his insides twisting up at the notion of you being hurt, needing comfort. a kiss to a bleeding wound, he’d deliver it no questions asked.

his hands are still around your waist. your bodies are still pressed together. he feels every shaky inhale, every heaved exhale. it’s a struggle to pry your injured hand away from the safety of your chest, pulling backwards till your elbow juts outwards and your open palm sits level with his mouth.

it’s your pointer finger, a dark, angry looking mark running halfway down your fingerprints.

“‘s the matter with ya,” worry has always been something joel expresses loudly. raised voices, frantic movements, heavy steps. his brother had called him out on it, the morning after his parental care led to a heated argument and the slamming of doors, from both the pre-teen and the adult in the miller household. it’s a flaw that’s only worsened, with time and circumstance, and it keeps him from saying what he really means. are you okay? “you some kind of idiot or somethin’?” i can’t stand to see you hurt.

“i didn’t think-”

“clearly fuckin’ not!” be more careful. “touchin’ the damn battery like the car ain’t just been stopped!” please.

he’s better with actions, gentle in the physical even as he berates you verbally. he pulls in air through his nostrils before blowing it out through his puckered lips, directly onto the mild burn imprinting itself on your delicate skin. you hiss as his cooling breath makes initial contact and your hand jerks back, fighting to stray away from him. joel fixes his grip, making sure you don’t get too far before he blows a second breath.

“i’m fine,” you’re an awful liar, the grimace on your lips doing nothing to reassure him. at least you’re smart enough to not waste any more energy on fighting against him, slumping forward to rest your hand on the truck’s open hood. “didn’t even hurt that much. i just wasn’t expecting it to be hot.”

with no acknowledgement thrown your way, he huffs out another couple of breaths, mind already running off in thoughts of what comes next. a superficial burn, it should heal in a matter of days. if you’re lucky, the injured skin will merely peal away to reveal a fresh layer. if you’re unlucky, a blister will swell in it’s place.

joel only aims to ensure your luck.

bowing his head and leaning down, he captures your finger between his lips. your breaths catches in your throat as this new angle, new proximity to your face allows his eyes to take in the way your own seem to roll back, lips parted with something unsaid. he drags the tip of his tongue over your wound, which pulses and burns hot beneath his muscle. his tongue flicks back over only for him to lick at the burn once more, this time with a flattened tongue, smothering it in his saliva.

the suckle his lips give is purely selfish.

“that kinda-” a fluttery sort of noise leaves you, a pleasant little thing that seems unable to decide if it wants to be a giggle or a moan. it settles for something in between, unknowingly spurring joel on to suck around your digit again. “it kinda tickles.”

the hand he holds against your hip travels north, halting abruptly as the top of his thumb reaches the swell of your breast. being so affected by a braless chest is something joel thought he’d left behind in teenage-hood. the way his cock twitches in his pants at the knowledge that yours sit bare beneath the thin cotton camisole gives him deja-vu.

in a rushed- and entirely unthought over decision- joel switches the direction of his trail of fingerprints to move south, slipping down past where cotton sits tucked beneath silk. the skirt is soft and inviting. all his sick mind can do is picture you lain across a bed with silk sheets, your naked curves, and pert nipples, and dribbling cunt a whole different kind of soft and inviting.

skin meets skin when he arrives at the top of the skirt’s slit. he wastes no time, fingers dragging themselves under the material to feel the recently discovered terrain of your full thighs. with supple skin, warm and pliable beneath his hold, he indulges himself in letting his grip dig in and squeeze the meaty flesh.

all the while, his tongue licks over your burn.

“otis does that too,” you’re struggling to keep your grip on the car, a delightful realisation for joel. you’d played the innocent for far too long last time, hardly exposing your desires till push came to shove and your knife went clattering out your hand. now you force yourself deeper into his touch, your finger applying pressure to his tongue as it pushes down on the muscle and tickles his tastebuds with the bite of your painted nail. the quiet voice of his subconscious wants you to push deeper, till your digit hits the back of his throat, his eyes sting with tears and he’s gagging around you. “tries to lick wounds better-”

the sight of you shutting up, lips parted in some unheard noise as his hand cups the entirety of your clothed pussy, sends a wave of heat to joel’s already burning loins.

the furnace of your two intertwined bodies shields you both to the slowly dropping temperatures, with no time to spare and no care to give to the grey skies that roll in while he rolls your concealed clit beneath two fingers, pinching once or twice, possibly thrice, in hopes of pushing his emotional aches onto you physically.

fighting against the tight squeeze of your underwear’s band around his wrist, two fingers, a pointer and a middle, smooth their way past your pubic bone, over your aching mound and dip down to swipe over your slit. a soaked mess, a warm and sticky coating, welcomes them as joel strokes the outer surface of your cunt in a lax manner, taking his time to admire how soft your lips feel, how warm your skin burns, how hard your entrance throbs, all the while he’s coating your cunt it’s own liquid pleasure. his mouth drops your hand, the grip his own has on it tightening once more. though, this time, it’s not from the need to keep you in place but from a primal, possessive desire that seduces his rationality. “quit comparin’ me to your fuckin’ dog.”

the hand down your pants has a mind of its own, trading the teasing strokes up the length of your seam for the tight squeeze of your walls around his fingers as they penetrate you- two at the same time, no consideration for the discomfort the sudden sting of breaching your entrance brings.

you seem to like the pain, enough to let go of the vehicle and melt back into joel. your head meets his shoulder as your eyes roll back and your mouth falls slack, legs writhing to fight for more friction. he remains frozen, face a stoic slab void of expression if not for the crease in his brow where his eyebrows have furrowed. the fingers in your cunt curl, slightly, testing your patience with the way they press into the spongy tissue.

“joe- ah...” you fail to say his name, your two lips barely getting the chance to touch as he curls his finger a second time. this time harder, with more certainty in the way he’s touching you. “move, please.”

your lips, parted in gasps and cries that threaten to cut his fun short with the way they likely have his cock staining his briefs in precum, become public enemy number one as he decides they need to be shut, silenced, occupied so that he can hold off blowing his load again before he’s even had the chance to feel you clench around his cock.

with your finger still drenched in his spit, a fat bead of it dripping down the back of your hand, he shoves it into your own mouth, disgustingly intrigued with the way you welcome it so eagerly and drink down the taste of his saliva.

now you’re silenced, joel gives an experimental thrust of his hand, dragging both his fingers out till only the tips tease at your entrance before slamming them back in. the moan you let out is muffled, a sound that titillates him yet no longer threatens his sanity. you find another way to ruin him, however, body jolting and ass rolling back into his form when he starts to set a steady pace to leisurely fuck his fingers into your cunt.

“tried to be fuckin’ good. kept my hands to myself, didn’t- fuck!” he must reach something inside of you, knuckles deep and slick spilling down his hand, that has you mewling, eyes no longer shut as you crane your neck to stare up at him and your hips roll backwards, momentarily smothering his clothed cock between the swell of your silk covered cheeks. “didn’t bring up anythin’ ‘bout the last time i saw ya. but you just ‘ad to go and ruin it now, didn’t ya?”

“leasehmm,” you hum the incoherent babble around your own finger and joel can’t stop himself from forcing it further into your mouth, laser stare sharp enough to burn holes into your throat as he watches you gag.

“c’mon, you can do it,” you’ve got him trapped between your legs, both your thighs and the walls of your cunt clenching his hand in a vice grip as he continues his ministrations, satiating the taste for warm flesh he’s been craving since he slammed the door to the kitchen and tried to fool himself into thinking he could simply make his way back to tess in her drunken state, crash down to sleep on the couch and wake up the next day as if everything that had transpired in the moonlight was just another one of his perverted fantasies. awakening with the taste of you still on his tongue threw all hope out the window. “use your words, pretty girl.”

with an awkward bend, the pad of his thumb brushes over your neglected clit in a gentle circling motion, coaxing you further and further to that ledge of ecstasy he aims to throw you off, plunge you into the heavens of a blinding orgasm. crooking his fingers and grinding his cock into the base of your spine become practiced movements, a kind of push and pull dance his body plays with yours, guiding you both to the beats of your erratic hearts.

“mmmoel,” bless you, really, for trying so hard to speak while chocking on yourself, yet making no attempt to shove his hand away. your well-mannered nature has never made him so hard- and, trust that it has done so plenty of times- as you melt yourself into a writhing mess in his arms, blown out pupils and spit dribbling out the corner of your mouth all the while you do as he bids. “mmhop.”

“‘s the matter, sweet girl? hmm?” you’re close, he knows it. feels it, when your free hand shoots down to grip his wrist through the soft skirt, nails biting flesh even through the layer of silk. he half wonders if this is it, this is where you’re going to rip him off you and slap him in the face with the harsh truth: you’re too good to be touched by the likes of him. only, you simply clutch onto him and let him continue to play you like he’d once played a guitar, fingers plucking at the right strings and pressing on the right cords to make you sing a melody so sweet even the angels themselves would cry at its sound. “cat got your tongue? feels good, i know. ‘s okay, you can let go f’me, not gonna hold it against ya. just gonna hold ya through it, yeah? keep ya real safe in my arms while this pretty little pussy of yours takes what she needs, m’kay?”

the longer you take to tell him to stop, the more debauched the images of you in his mind become. once wishes of butterfly kisses and sweet surrenders beneath his naked embrace, now desires to have you on your knees crying, begging, praying for him to smother you with his sins.

with another thrust, he fucks a third finger into your cunt, stretching you even wider and trying his damn best to ignore the fact you’re still so tight despite the thickness of his fingers. that’ll only lead to his thoughts derailing to how much tighter you’d feel clamped around the girth of his cock.

he’d been modest, back in his younger years, shrugging off the cries of past lovers regarding his well endowed state as nothing more than flirtatious fiction, the kind of thing women would tell their man to make him feel special. only a few years ago he’d started to second guess his assumptions as he began to chase his highs with faceless bodies and all kinds of holes- mouth, cunt and ass.

most of the time his concubines get no chance to truly see his cock, too busy having their face shoved down into gravel, or into some brick wall in a sketchy alleyway, or, simply, the darkness that consumed the walls of the cubicle which kept them from seeing just who exactly they were fucking would also take away their chance to know what they were getting themselves into, what was about to get in to them.

their first reactions always seem to be a crying sort of sound, a sick pleasure washing over him and having his balls tightening. then comes the complaining of too much, too fast, too good, their bodies at odds with themselves and unable to decide if being impaled by him is their worst nightmare or their sweetest dream.

before they can ever decide, he’s ripping away from them and fucking himself to completion with his own hand. a mumbled thanks and- if it was one of those kind of deals- a drop of a med kit or some food rations to their feet, joel would be tucked back into his worn jeans and out of their sight before they’re able to catch their breaths and realise he’d left them there, stretched open and fucked out with no orgasm to show for it.

with you, he’d be different though.

there’s no need for his own pleasure if it came down to choosing between it and your own. the sheer thought of nuzzling his mouth between your thighs and lapping at every inch of your pussy, till his muscle aches and his jaw locks, is enough to have him on the precipice of cumming untouched. so, to think of a scenario where he slips his cock inside your velvet walls and doesn’t leave you a spasming mess after several earth shattering orgasms, over and over till a ring of your mixed juices decorates the base of him and you’ve milked him dry, that feels impossible.

“wait, joel, ah! please, please,” your head thrashes to the side, ripping away from your burned finger. you’re trembling, feet pushing up onto their tippy-toes as he fucks higher and higher into you. the hand around your wrists finds a new home curled around your jaw and his thumb begins it’s torturous circling of your clit once more, pushing and guiding and bullying your aching cunt towards an orgasm that’s sure to leave you breathless and- “stop!”

this time, it’s joel who’s recoiling his scorned hands.

pants fill the air, a desperate fight for oxygen as you stand before him, legs shaky and perked nipples chafing against the see-through fabric of your camisole. thunder cracks above, a deep and trembling noises that joel can’t help but feel fits the ambience, turmoil in both the sky and his heart.

he knows its for the best, to have you put your foot down and put an end to this ridiculous pursuit of lust joel’s imposing on you. not only have you made it clear you do not like him, but you’re younger, full of life, heart too mellow for a soul as dark as his. still, disappointment floods his bones.

both hands back at his side, he clenches them. wrong move, only serving to remind him one of his hands is smothered in your wetness, a schlick squelch bouncing up to his eardrums. you’ve turned to look at him, at some point. he notices the slight swell of your lips and the blown-out pupils, try though he might to ignore it.

staring right at him, you seem to be almost waiting on a reaction.

“‘s gettin’ dark, should prolly think of headin’ back,” joel won’t give you the satisfaction of hearing him beg, not when he knows it’ll get him nowhere. the hood, that’s what he should be focusing on. he shoots a hand up and slams the hood shut, fighting the urge to let his stare linger on the stain his pleasure soaked fingers leave behind on the blue painted metal. “bill and frank’ll be wonder-”

you call his name.

he can’t look at you, fingers fidgeting with some scab on his hand.

you try again. louder.

a sigh of resignation. he turns to face you, leaning back against the truck. the quirk of his brow enough to encourage you to get on with it, say what you need to say. paint him in shame, call him some names and then let you both be on your way.

you seem to take it as an invitation to approach. one step, then two more when he fails to back away. with a final step, you’re stood right before him, forcing yourself between the space of his parted legs. he’s never had you this close before, at least not with you facing him, and it’s almost too much. the familiar anxious pit in his loins creeps back, leaving him all too aware of the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins.

you smell... christmassy. burnt wood, dusted cinnamon, mulled wine. warm.

he can’t remember the last time he even thought of christmas.

he jolts at the feeling of your hands on his thighs, the coldness of them burning through the rough material of his pants. he’s not sure when it happened but he somehow finds himself sitting on the truck’s hood, hands splayed out on either side of him and knees bent over the edge as he parts way for you between them.

your hands smooth up the muscles of his thighs, up and down in repeated motions. soothing, calming. his heart beats a little slower with each movement.

only to jackhammer against his ribcage as your touch begins to move higher.

“i didn’t mean stop as in, stop touching me,” you breathe out the words like they’re the most delicate of secrets, only for his ears and your own to know. fingers threading through belt loops. a pull or two. he’s vaguely aware of the sound of metal clinking as you release him from the strain of it’s buckle, and the biting sound of teeth unzipping. “just... just wanna see you... feel you this time, when i... if that’s okay with you.”

he’s nodding his head before you can even finish your words, nearly crumbling as your fingers brush against his bulge. “‘smore than fine by me. shit, that’s... yeah.”

a pathetic man, that’s what he’s become, a meek shadow to the man who moments ago had you on the precipice of cumming around his fingers while you babbled incoherently. you seem to have turned the tide, whether you’re aware of it or not, hand sinking beneath the withered band of his boxers.

you don’t give him the relief he wants- needs- instantly. instead, you tease, fingertips dancing down the underside of his shaft and following the trail of a vein he doubts you’re even aware of. sliding back up to his tip, you revel in the weakness he displays as you brush over heightened nerves, sensitive to your touch and stained in earlier excitement.

“you’re warm,” is not exactly what he’d expected you to say, if he’s honest. that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it, mind firing into overdrive as you fully wrap yourself around his cock. ignoring the chafing, you work your hand over him, grow familiar with the length of him, tip to base. “big.”

with your free hand, you do your best to peel back the layers of fabric till nothing stands in your path of gazing at his cock, heavy in your palm and red at the tip.

“yeah? ‘s bigger than you’re used to, ain’t it?” joel coos, you nod, tongue darting out to wet your lips as your eyes meet his. wide, glossy, intrigued, a mirror of the scared look you’ve worn when you’d stalled the car.

joel groans at the memory, the way he’d taken care of you, coaxed you back to a rational state of mind.

he wants more of that, more chances to protect you.

even if it’s against your own mind.

“‘s okay, sol, you’ll learn to take it,” you keen at his words, sinking closer to him, shoes scratching on the gravel beneath you. you squeeze your hand around him and he chokes on an inhale. “gonna teach ya to take it like a champ.”

he reaches behind him, tugging the gun out the back of his trousers. he was stupid to place it there in the first place, a rushed action he’d made when stepping out the vehicle. he hadn’t wanted you to see the weapon, to be reminded that the world outside bill and frank- the world joel resides in- is not safe, not from infected and certainly not from people.

before he can put it to rest on the hood, you snatch it out his hand.

you’re inspecting it like it’s the first you’ve ever seen, yet the way you perfectly wrap your hand around it and point past his shoulders tells him otherwise. there’s familiarity in your stance, like you’d once lived under rules where bill didn’t prohibit you from touching a firearm. it has him wondering, longing to know who you were before. where you’d come from, how you’d met the two men you share a roof with.

you play with the safety, snapping his attention right back to the present.

the sight of the gun in your hand fills him dread. and misery. and a sense of nausea. you’re far from weak, no matter how much he’d like you to be, but there’s just something fundamentally wrong with the image of you holding such a destructive weapon.

you should be holding otis’ lead. or a canvas depicting frank’s recent masterpiece. or the end of some wine bottle bill’s struggling to open.

or joel’s hand.

instead of speaking his mind, he pries it from you with a huff- from both of you- and lays it to rest somewhere towards his right, out of sight and out of mind. “‘s not some toy for a girl like you to be messin’ about with.”

“neither are you,” you make a point to rack your pretty nails over the untamed curls of his pubic hair, the occasional flash of silver a reminder of his aging state. you don’t seem to notice, or care, too busy bringing the attention back to his leaking tip.

a sound adjacent to a growl escapes him, feral and domineering. shame exists within him, for a moment, witnessing himself be at such a loss of control. when his hands find purchase on your waist, the feeling dissipates and what takes it’s place is pure adulterated need, throbbing in his very core.

he tugs you forward, closer, catching the way you’re struggling to reach him, hand gripping his thigh for support.

“y’gonna hurry on up ‘ere,” impatience punctuates the soul, driving him off the cliff of sanity and plunging head first into the rocky territories below. “or d’ya need me to do all the work? lay ya down, nice and pretty on the hood so i can fuck you?”

you deny his offer with actions, clambering your way into his lap, legs splayed out either side of his thighs. the skirt bunches awkwardly between you both and steals his view as you rest down against his stiffness and smother it in the warmth of your clothed cunt.

there’s dampness on your panties, teasing him as you give an experimental roll along his cock, holding it tight between both your bodies.

“shit, joel,” a hiss through your clenched teeth and your face twisting up in something- pain? arousal? both? he can’t quite pinpoint it. your hips roll again, this time reaching higher, teasing him with a visual of what’s to come. “feel so thick, don’t know how i’m gonna-”

“didn’t i already tell ya-” he grabs at your skirt, irritation clear in the way he rips it up the length of your legs, exposing your skin inch by inch. “you’re gonna learn to take it?”

your hand dives under the fabric before his can, fingers curling around his cock once again and giving him a salacious stroke, taking your time gliding over the smooth skin and sensitive head. “mhmm. you gonna teach me?”

he nods, affirmative.

the next few minutes are nothing but messy grinding. like a pair of hormone-crazed teens, you explore the joys of rubbing up on each other. two pieces of wet wood searching for that spark in between. you make the most effort, working the muscles in your thighs to slide up the length of him and to grind back down, the wet patch in your panties growing with each stroke. joel sits back, allows himself the rare luxury of being taking care of. the last time he had a pretty girl in his lap, she had solace in her eyes and a couple twenties stuffed down her sparkly bra.

“what d’ya bring me ‘ere for,” he’d berated his younger brother after, his anger seemingly coming across as unserious to a giggling tommy, “was fuckin’ depressin’. kept lookin’ at those girls and thinkin’ bout if their poor dads knew what they were up to.”

he can’t help but wonder if bill and frank know what you’re up to.

“hey, hey, wait,” the words tumble out of him erratically as he catches up to your actions, the hand around his cock suddenly holding it still as you raise your hips. his hands pull and grab at the fabric of your skirt, a frustrated grunt slipping out of him as he hoists it up past your waist. this time, you’re covered by a shade of baby blue cotton instead of lace, less sultry yet far more appealing in his eyes. comfortable, that’s what they look like, the kind of pair he’d find you wearing stood in a kitchen in the early hours of the morning, one of his wrinkled old t-shirts the only thing keeping your frame concealed. joel’d always had a good imagination, and it serves him well, decorating his mind with several images of a domestic bliss he’d never get to share with you. “lemme see.”

you’re a smart girl, it’s one of your best qualities, and so you need no further instructions to understand what joel’s asking for.

he watches like a hawk as your fingers tug your panties to one side, a pretty window of slick covered skin that has him involuntarily jutting his hips up off the truck, his head slipping up your seam and pressing into your clit, an action that sparks the reaction of your own hips grinding down. you recover quick, hand back on the task of gripping his base and holding him, while your over reaches back to grip his knee, giving you a grip to steady yourself on as you straighten your thighs.

“this what you want,” your voice calls through the lustful haze in his mind as he takes in the sight of you sinking down onto him, the head of his cock fitting snuggly between your velvet walls. it’s almost enough to make him cum on sight. “to watch? me sitting on your dick?”

joel wonders if you’re trying to shame his desires. ultimately, he’s too lost in the way you cling around him to really care. if anything, he almost wants you to be disgusted by him, making the act of devouring your pleasure that much more sinful.

hands grip at your hips, with moon-shape indents forming around where his nails dig into your flesh. patience is a virtue he scarcely possess but he forces it on himself, fighting back the need to slam you right down on him and carve a home out for his hot cum inside your empty womb. he can’t allow himself the fast-paced indulgence he’s used to, not when he sees the deep breaths you need to take or the pained wrinkle in your brow with each inch you sink deeper and deeper down on him with.

he let’s you take your time, eyes starring with a crazed expression at the point your bodies meet. once he’s fully nestled inside the warmth of your cunt, your forehead rests against his own and he’s forced to look into your eyes and once again notice the way your pupils sit dilated in lust.

it’s a sight he’d like to get used to.

“kinda regretting this,” dread plummets through his heart and a ball forms in his throat. your walls hold him in a vice grip that seems to contradict your statement, until you clarify. “thinking i could take it like this. i’ve never, you know, in this position before-”

“you’re doin’ great,” joel’s own voice sounds pained, straining beneath the buzzing energy that’s begging him to relinquish control to his lust. it would be so easy, effortless even, to grip your hips and fuck you down onto him like you’re nothing if not a hole to get himself off in. unfortunately, his heart stands in the way. “shit, fuckin’ better than great.”

neither of you keep time of how long you sit like that, pelvis to pelvis, his cock buried into the hilt and a puddle of your wetness collecting along his pubic bone, the bristle hairs providing a rough friction for your clit.

eventually, initiative is taken, and you work up the nerve to roll your hips.

the view he’d been enjoying is stolen as your skirt slips back down to pool around you both, his hands too occupied gripping at your waist as your own find home on his sturdy shoulders.

another roll of of your body, slow and steady, lighting every nerve in his cock on fire with the sweet burn of your cunt fighting to keep him inside, refusing to let him slip too far out before you’re filling yourself back up again. your lips fall open in a pathetic moan, the sweet smell of your breath hitting his nostrils as you sit forehead to forehead.

and joel wonders if there’ll ever be a part of you he’s not enamoured by.

your confidence grows as you begin to set a pace, bouncing yourself up and down in his lap as joel grips here, there and everywhere on your body. a pinch to your hardened nipples, a trace of your hidden thighs, a cradling of your face. there’s not an inch of you he wants to neglect, staining his fingerprints all over you with every frantic touch.

this is nothing like the back-alley exchanges of body heat he’s grown accustomed to, this is nothing rushed and everything felt. it’s a carnal hunger for the feel of flesh and the taste of sweat. it’s feral, and lustful, and downright intoxicating. it’s the need to get his fill of you over, and over, and over again, till the fountain of your velvet warmth overflows with his seed and has nowhere else to run but down the length of your full thighs and dripping onto his emptied balls below.

“joel, please,” he decides he likes you much better like this, your whole body gripping itself around him-arms, legs, soaked cunt- in search of a sweet salvation only he can bring as your usual bright smile and quick tongue become reduced to nothing but whimpered breaths and desperate prayers. “i’m- god, i can’t-”

your thighs tremble as he tightens his hold, keeping you steady when the exhaustion of exhilarating yourself on top of him begins to take a hold of you. the need to take over becomes primal, blunt nails tearing into the meat of your thighs and bouncing you down on him with an effortless look he hopes will fool you out of noticing he’s seconds away from blowing his load prematurely, mind and body too close to the edge of nirvana from simply having the weight of you on him.

he just needs to get you there first.

“hate this fucking skirt,” the grumble was meant to be a thought he keeps to himself, but the giggle it rouses out of you makes it worth the slip-up, your own hands delivering the mercy of helping him drag the length of it farther up, marking a clear path for his own to sneak under and find your pulsing clit. “don’t wear it again.”

a few tight circles with just the right amount of pressure has you melting deeper into him, your arms curling around him as your head lays itself to rest upon his shoulder. your every breath delivers a brush of heat against his already burning skin and he wishes there were no plaid shirts nor camisoles resting between your heartbeats. 

“but it’s so,” he must have struck gold, found some hidden gem in the combination of the pressure of his fingers on your clit and the rhythm at which he’s fucking you down onto his cock, for you clamp down on him so tightly he worries you may cut off his circulation. “soft and, oh, yes! and it- it fits me so perfectly-”

“not sure if you’re talkin’ bout your skirt or your pussy,” he grunts out, a teasing smirk on his mouth that dies the instance his lips press to your neck, nose chasing the scent of your lingering shampoo.

“you’re so-” he’s so, what? you don’t get to finish, hand fisting into his hair and moans falling from your lips like autumn leaves. 

“tsk, look at ya,” he certainly is, and loving every inch of you he sees, hips rolling down with the guidance of his hands, head tucked safely away from the world in the crook of his neck, hands gripping any part of him they seem to reach. if art is subjective, then you’re the damned mona lisa, the starry night, the birth of venus. “can’t even fuckin’ speak properly, mouth’s good for nothin’ when you’re full of cock.”

you nod into him, hips moving faster, nails digging deeper, moans getting louder. he’s got you so close, a few more thrusts till he’s sure to have you flying off the handles and cumming around him.

you whine his name.

he meets the roll of your hips with the raising of his own.

a pull of hair, a bite of skin, and then you’re-

“oh shit, ain’t this a pretty sight.”

joel’s blood runs cold.

you’re frozen against him.

just past your shoulder, directly in joel’s eye-line, by the gas station’s entry stands a man. he’s younger than joel, maybe even younger than you. his clothes are stained in all sorts- sweat, dried blood, mud- and are tattered, as if he’s been wearing the same thing everyday. the strap of a backpack sits over one shoulder and he seems to be carrying no weapons but the hunting knife in his belt.

the intruder- if he can even be called that out in the openness of the world- takes a couple steps closer but they’re not full of confidence. if anything, his frame seems just as shaken as you both, fingers fidgeting with the adjustable cord of the bag’s strap.

“please, don’t stop on my account,” he seems to be trying to play it cool, but fails to let out the light-hearted chuckle he intends to, a noise more similar to a choke taking its place. “heck, give me a little performance even”

joel’s not sure what’s gotten into him- if it’s the fact he’d been moments away from making you cum, or the dropping temperatures that have you sinking deeper into his warm body, or the sheer desire to possess you so intimately under someone else’s knowledge- but he finds himself rutting up into you again.

you don’t join in, limbs still locked in shocked, yet a moan is breathed into his neck.

“shit, man,” the stranger sounds amazed, as if not even he thought joel would gift him such a sight. his hands find something new to fidget with, struggling to undo the buckle of his tattered leather belt. “pull up her skirt, lemme see how she’s taking you.”

he obliges and bunches the fabric up in his hands, exposing the sight that lays beneath. it’s not the explicit sight the man must be hoping for, the snug fit of his cock inside your cunt mostly concealed by your pushed-aside panties.

unable to stop himself, joel wonders if this man would prefer you in something more scandalous than the blue cotton that he so deeply adores.

“sorry- fuck! just, it’s just been a while,” the buckle comes undone at last, a button and a zipper follow. one hand dips beneath the waist band of the man’s boxers. “swear i’m not trynna be a creep, or nuffin’. can you... could you squeeze her ass? wanna see how much of a hand full she is.”

this time around, you let out a sound that’s less pleasant to joel’s ears, a far cry from pleasured as he so greedily cups a handful of your ass. the realisation that, though your body may contradict you with the canting of your hips into his or the continued arousal you drip between your pelvises, you’re not enjoying this, hits him like a truck.

you’re not moaning in pleasure, you’re whimpering in fear. you’re not shaking because you’re cold, you’re shaking because you’re scared. this man is scaring you.

joel is letting him scare you.

“swear i’ll just- a few minutes and i’ll be out your hair, ok?” the man’s fumbling, bag dropping off his shoulder down onto the floor as he works over his cock. joel wonders if it’s uncomfortable, stroking himself without the help of spit to ease the slide, and scoots his hand over to his right, fingers slipping over the hood in search. “just really need this, man, you’ve no idea how it gets out here on your own-”

nothing usually crosses joel’s mind when he pulls a trigger.

becoming numb to it, blanking one’s mind, treating it as normal. it’s the only way to come out the other side of it without it weighing on your conscious. it was built over time, the first few months a struggle to even touch a gun after what happened on outbreak day. shooting humans had always been the easy part, reminding himself there’s an evil in them he doesn’t need to meet to know it exists. the infected, he’d struggled, compassion sinking deep into the pit of his stomach as he’d glance at their once-alive eyes, now nothing but a breeding ground for some mushroom.

the shot rings out, moments after the bullet hits its target and, this time, you cross his mind.

defenceless, shaking, clinging onto him. it’s shameful to admit that it turns him on, has his balls throbbing with unloaded cum, to protect you. to play the role of saviour, supporter, guardian to the fearful girl in his lap.

he doesn’t even care enough to spare the dead man a look, eyes back on you.

you’re already staring right back at him, shock written all over your face. “you... you killed him.”

“he was holdin’ a gun, sol,” he’s not sure if it makes you feel any better. you do, however, seem to shuffle closer to him, chest to chest as you take in what he’s telling you. “was gonna fire a few rounds into me and then where would that leave ya, huh? free for the taken.”

thunder roars above your heads.

your brows furrow, conflictive expressions taking over you while you assess what’s just happened. he tries not to think too much about the fact his cock is still very much nestled inside your soaked pussy, throbbing with the impending release life keeps stealing away from you both.

“you killed him.” you repeat, more sure in your words this time.

“i did.”

lightning lights up the darkening sky.

“i should be scared of you.”

“you should.”

one last rumble from the storm clouds.

“but i’m not.”

the heavens above seem to open as cold, thick drops of water fall from the sky, quickly soaking everything they meet. the gravel, his shirt, your hair. the rain seems to have no boundaries, slipping between you both and filling the little gaps it manages to find.

neither of you move from where you’re seated, letting the cold overtake your bodies. you both use it as an excuse to move closer, arms tangling around one another as you stare each other down with judgement, assessing what either will do next.

you call the shots, experimentally rolling your hips, testing the waters to see where he’s at.

joel meets you just where you want him to, touches more frantic than before and far more sloppy, neither of you conscious of the goosebumps that line your skins as you indulge in one another’s bodies, fucking beneath the pouring rain like some silly scene out of a romance film.

“i was protectin’ you,” he breathes onto your neck, mouthing at your flesh and enjoying the thudding of your pulse beneath his tongue. “keepin’ you safe, sol. ‘s what i do, what i’ll always do.”

it’s unclear if the words are meant to assure you or himself.

it doesn’t take long till you’re both back at the edge of glorious relief, the unmet orgasms from earlier rearing their heads all at once and flooding over both of you. one of his hands snakes it’s way under your skirt to rub at your clit, while one of your own threads itself in his hair and tugs sharply, till he feels a sting in his scalp.

what a sight it is to behold as you cum, eyes rolled back, lips parted in a mute scream, soaked hair sticking to your forehead and every other place it touches. joel wants to see you through to the very end, hold you while you shake and break completely on his cock, but the warmth that creeps up his loins takes that priviledge away.

only as the first spurt of thick cum shoots out of him does joel manage to rip you off him, jostling you further up his lap and providing him with the friction of your ass cheeks to sooth over his spasming member as he paints your lower back and inner skirt in his pleasure.

he watches you falling apart in the heat of your orgasm and his bones ache a little less, his soul feels a little lighter, his heart seems to beat a little better.

joel never manages to put his thoughts into words quite properly.

“you’re not,” he breaths out, shaky. you’re still rutting against his limp cock, soaking him with your slick and whimpering into his shoulder as his head bumps against your aching clit, the come down from your orgasm hitting you harder than his. he’s vaguely aware of how tightly he’s gripping you, arms holding you flush, anchoring you down against him as the rain continues to pour. “you’re not real.”

you’re mumbling something but it falls on deaf ears as joel fails to reel his thoughts in, eyes skittish as they jump from watching water crash against the windows of the deserted gas station to the limp body of the stranger, cock still in his hand and a bullet straight through his forehead, a sick red washing away along the gravel.

“...here. i’m real, joel,” a kiss pressed to his forehead. you’re gentle with him, whispering into his good ear and he wonders if you know he can hear you better on this side, he’d never mentioned it. a hand coaxes his own off your waist and guides it upwards, pressing against the left side of your chest. rapid thumps. you mimic the movement, hand pressing against his own heart as you rest your forehead against his. “i’m here. we’re both here.”

joel drives back.

there’s no prior discussion where you agree on this. he simply cleans you both up- to the best of his abilities-, sits you down in the passengers seat and walks his way round to the driver’s side. it’s silent, and this time it’s the uncomfortable kind. the kind that wrestles with his mind and puts discomfort in his heart. there’s something unspoken between you both and he does not know how to begin to talk about it, not without the risk of messing it all up.

you don’t protest this time around when he turns on one of bill’s old cd’s, and, so, billy joel sings you all the way home.

at some point, he convinces himself you’ve fallen prey to sleep, eyes closed and head slumped to the side, searching for the safety of something to rest itself on. slowing to a stop, he takes his time undoing your seatbelt and maneuvering your lax limbs till your head meets his shoulder. the drive onwards is slower, more careful as he drives over any bump in the road and each turning he takes less sharp.

“i owe you a thank you,” you eventually mumble, weight still leaning against him and eyes very much shut.

he nods, though you do not see it. “okay.”

it’s all he can think to say, unsure what a girl like you could ever thank him for. all he’s done since the moment he met you is dampen your shine and stain your kindness with rough hands and a rougher heart.

“for, you know, not telling tess,” your response brings more questions than answers. not telling tess what? “i just... she’d hate me, if she knew, and she’s some of the only family i have left. i couldn’t stand to lose her over a few... mistaken moments between us.”

joel wonders if he’s part of this short list of family you have.

he doubts it.

“don’t see why she’d care,” he’s choosing to ignore that word, mistaken, yet it’s not enough to stop his fingers from twisting tighter around the wheel, tension in his wounded heart.

“of course you wouldn’t,” you wrestle down a yawn and nestle your head deeper into the crook of his neck, body hunched in a position he can’t imagine to be too comfortable. he keeps this thought to himself, decidedly enjoying this false image of tender touch. you ground him, weight down on his paper-thin mind-state like a rock that promises to keep all his pages in place. “you’re careless.”

there you go again, displaying such casual cruelty.

you’re careless.

how twisted life is to give him everything he’s worked so hard to be- a man feared, untested, unmessed with- only for his every want become his waking nightmare as it sits on your own lips.

i don’t like you, joel.

“‘s that why ya don’t like me?” he can’t help himself, even if he wanted to.

“i don’t like you because you-” a pull of breath. an opening of eyes. a raise of a head. you don’t make it far before he’s raising a hand off the wheel to encourage you back down to rest upon him, half-worrying he’ll be strown apart by the next gust of wind should he lose the weight of your head on his shoulder. “i can’t tell you.”

“why not?”

“you never brought me that dress.”

there’s no answer he can give that won’t incriminate him and steer you on the clear path to see just how caring a man like him can be. every fabric he’s seen the wrong colour, the wrong length, the wrong style for you. the closest he’d gotten to finding a dress worthy enough of slipping down your skin was stripped from the corpse of a woman joel’d been tasked with disposing of. in a moment of weakness, he’d nearly taken it, till his skin began to crawl with the implications of gifting you a dead woman’s dress, the last piece of clothing she’d worn while her blood was still warm and her lungs filled with air.

you fall asleep, for real this time, not even stirring as he maneuvers himself out of his jacket and drapes it over your damp figure, body sinking deeper into his own- as deep as the console between you allows.

night has taken hold of the sky by the time he pulls into the fenced community, headlights lighting up the path back into the garage. pulling the car to a stop, joel eases your weight off him and steps out the car, mindful of how he closes the door over. he makes his way around to the passenger side and pries the door open to find you still sleeping, peaceful as can be, the dull army green of his jacket contrasting the pastel shade of your skirt.

he takes a moment, sinking to his knees, and let’s himself indulge in the image of you like this a little longer, before the watchful eyes of bill or the curious glances of tess stand between the ways joel longs to look at you. softness greets his thumb as it brushes over your cheek. you seek out his warmth, chasing it even as he moves downwards to swipe at the dribble of spit threatening to spill out your slacked lips.

if he were a better liar, perhaps he’d claim this was his way of attempting to wake you up.

“what happened?” frank is the first to greet him, eyes blown a little wider than usual as he takes in the sight of you curled against joel, one arm round your back and another under your knees keeping the weight of you off the ground. “is she okay?”

“nothin’s happened,” the man’s reactions to joel’s return to the house has brought on more pairs of eyes, tess and bill flooding out the kitchen to catch a glimpse of him in the hallway. “she’s just tired. ‘s been a long day and-”

“your clothes are wet.” bill’s eyes are glaring, tearing apart every detail they can pick up: the gentle grip he holds you with, your sweater thrown over his shoulder, the peaceful manner in which your sleeping form sinks into his warmth, the jacket that’s slowly slipping down your form to reveal bare shoulders and soaked cotton.

his tongue feels heavy, his mouth turning to sandpaper as the anxious feeling of being watched dries up his senses. hardly aware of it, he’s straightening his spine and puffing his chest, staring the older man down before flickering over to where tess stands, face much kinder looking as she watches you sleep. “you just gonna stand there, or are ya gonna show me her room ‘fore my back gives out?”

that seems to get the ball rolling, all questioning and staring left behind as frank guides him three doors down and slips the door open, stepping aside to let joel in. he doesn’t bother hitting the light, a part of him not wanting to pick up any details to linger on around your room, using what little light the moon provides to find his way over to the bed. frank’s gaze is burning a hole in joel’s back even as he drops you down onto the mattress, and it’s almost like he can hear the buzz of energy radiating from everything the man wants to ask him.

it’s not till the four of them sit the dining table and joel’s shovelling a fork-load of food into his mouth that the next question comes.

“why was her sweater dry?” it’s tess who asks, punctuating it with an obnoxious sip from her glass.

all eyes are on Joel, a spotlight she’d shun directly on him and leaving him on display. bill, in particular, seems to be clinging to his every movement, anticipating his answer with the clenching of fingers around the steak knife in his hand.

“what?” it’s all he can manage without the fear of saying too much.

“your clothes were all wet. but her sweater, on your shoulder, it was dry.”

how had tess even noticed that?

“she took it off,” it takes a couple minutes to answer, a pause he tries to play off as simply his need to chew on the food he shovels into his mouth at last. it feels heavy, slipping down his throat, like he can already anticipate it’s return to the surface alongside his bile. “said somethin’ bout not wantin’ to get oil on it when i told her i was gonna show her the different parts of the engine.”

silence.

eyes shooting back and forth.

tess looks at frank.

frank looks at bill.

bill loathes at joel.

and then, “oh.”

tess says it like it’s the start of a sentence, an audible ellipses that she’s refusing to elaborate on.

“oh.” joel parrots, hoping they’ll drop the topic and allow him to go back to the raging waters thrashing around in his thoughts.

luck is not on his side.

“that makes sense,” the woman continues, attempting to cut the tension with an airy chuckle and a shrugging of her shoulders, as if doing so will shake the tension out of everyone else’s. “was worried that poor girl was running around with her tits out in front of the likes of you.”

bill grips tighter around his cutlery, knuckles white under the dining room light.

straightening up, a momentary lapse of judgement and a foolish flash of red hot possession shoots over him, embarking him on the road to saying perhaps the dumbest thing he’s ever said.

“would that be so bad?”

a hand smacks down on the table. a chair scrapes, another following right after.

“bill,” frank’s tone is nothing if not a warning, hand on the man’s forearm as he soothes his thumb over his skin.

“it’s late,” it comes after a deep breath, the kind a shrink would teach you to use in times of stress, or fear, or anger. bill isn’t even acknowledging tess, fully focused on joel. “you should get going.”

plates half full, bellies half empty, the four of them step away from the table. tess slips on a jacket, one she’d not had prior to arriving, and passes joel a loaded bag. he figures she must have had her pick around the old clothes shop, loitering whatever was left that could either fit them or keep them warm through the remainder of the cold months.

he throws it over his shoulder without question.

the air has shifted, a tense feeling floating around the atmosphere that exists between him and bill. tess and frank are seemingly unaware of it, laughing and talking amongst themselves as the group makes their way to the front door.

joel is the last to step out and, in doing so, he pauses, glancing backwards into the open doorway. 

he calls out to tess, all three heads turn.

“need a piss.”

“take your time,” it’s the friendlier of the two men who responds, threading his arm around bill’s and dragging him along with him. it reminds him of why he likes frank more. “we’ll walk tess to the gate.”

he watches the three figures fade away into the dark of the street, carefully stepping back into the house once he feels the safety of distance. he tries to keep his footsteps light, suddenly aware of how quiet the place feels without the panting of a dog or the rustling of someone in the kitchen. he counts the doors as he goes- one, two, three- and turns the handle of the third.

the room is still dark, but that’s okay. he’s used to darkness. his eyes carefully scan the floor with each step he takes closer to the bed, watching out for any discarded dog toy or worn clothing splayed across it. at some point, his steps meet carpet instead of cold floor. he’d not noticed it earlier, but then his sense had been rather focused on the precious cargo he carried.

he finds you where he left you, hair a mess upon your pillow and chest rising steadily in the breaths of deep sleep. only, you’ve gained a companion, the unmistakeable beady-eyed stare of the german shepherd meeting joel’s in the dark. the dog makes a noise, half whimper half whine, and the tip of its bushy tail begins to beat against the mattress, matching the rhythm of joel’s heart.

like before, he lets his hand brush your cheek. instead of wiping saliva, he brushes a few stray hairs away from your peaceful face. you shift and he panics, fearful you’ve awakened, only to relax as you sink deeper into the pillow.

his hand lingers longer than necessary.

another whine from the mutt gives him the will to at last pull away from you, trading your soft cheek for the smooth fur along the dog’s head. his fingers card through it, nails digging a little to scratch at otis’ scalp.

“you take care of her,” for me. “alright bud?”

he must be losing his mind, for he swears he feels the dog nod.

the steps he takes on his way out are less careful, though he’s slowed by the amount of times he seems to insist on turning back to glance at the bed. maybe it’s for comfort, the peace of mind of knowing he’d brought you back safe and sound.

maybe it’s with longing, his aching joints begging for him to crawl his way in beside you, cocooning you between himself and the ball of fluff behind you.

shaking his head, an array of self-aimed insults plough through his mind, joel curls his hand around the wooden frame of the door, steadying himself to glance back one last time.

“joel...” he freezes, caught in place. how long have you been awake? how do you know it’s him? how are you so softly spoken when your voice is hoarse?  “turn the lamp on,” a yawn. he hears rustling and imagines you readjusting yourself into whichever position brings you most comfort. the thought of if it ever gets lonely, sleeping with no one to hold, crosses his mind. he refuses to let it linger. “don’t wanna wake up to the dark.”

he shuffles over to where he sees the outline of a lamp, fingers sliding around in the dark till they hit a switch and a lovely orange hue overtakes the room, bringing it to life. little trinkets, scattered papers, a couple pictures in frames line the desk in front of him. he’s seen too much for comfort, avoiding looking at anything else in your space till he finds you, curled up in the bed too big for one, otis’ head resting on your hip.

you still have his jacket over you, ignoring the warm comforter you lay upon.

he thinks he musters up a smile. if he does, you’re returning it, eyes sleepy and lips lazy in their movement. it’s a peaceful moment, the kind joel doesn’t get many- if any- of these days. he won’t waste it by speaking what’s on his mind. your eyes slowly drop once more, surrendering to exhaustion.

the bedroom door creaks behind him on the way out.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #pedro pascal smut

[spacexseven]

ALSO since you are a lover of The Chuuya ill do some pathetic subordinate au chuuya stuff too! I'll try to make this one shorter since the dazai one is such a monster.

I think hed kinda do the opposite thing that dazai does- not that he doesnt kiss your ass a LITTLE, he’ll definitely send a bunch of gifts to your house and rush to complete some of your work for you and write you love poems (that he never sends, too embarrassed. probably for the best. his prose tends to go from Suprisingly Sweet to Incredibly Creepy really fast.), but unlike dazai hes pretty attached to his reputation and thus doesn't wanna burn it away by sobbing for you until you finally cave and come hold him, as much as he might like to. to keep up his street cred while still getting you to trust him, he'll have to be more subtle. (he's not subtle at all everyone knows)

I could see his MO being to just kinda. put himself in your space as much as possible. surely, if he just hangs around you and doesnt insult you or anything like that you'll eventually realize hes not that bad? he'll even come and help you with your work, see! nice guy, really! please forget all the shit he used to say to you and that time he choke slammed you into a wall he won't do it again!

he finds himself really wanting to be useful to you. he was a pretty shitty superior, he'll admit that, but there has to be a way to make it up to you! if there's something you want, he'll get it for you. a task that needs doing, he'll complete it. a nuisance that needs to be dealt with, hes your guy. very easy for him to go to the traditional Ill Kill For You yan route here, anyone whose bad to you will know his WRATH. abusive relative? not anymore! cheating ex? bye bye! some fuck harassing you? gone! anyone who hurts his angel has to die, hes put you through enough already as it is.

- 🩹

i love your wonderful brain my friend :>

cw: yandere themes, stalking, implied breaking in + murder

compared to dazai, chuuya's hit by guilt faster, and harder. it takes a great toll on him, but he abhors the idea of anyone knowing that he was feeling broken-hearted and remorseful over some lower-ranking member. so unlike dazai's public (and embarrassing) pleads for forgiveness and lovesickness, chuuya's far more...silent about it. sure, he makes sure you're receiving his gifts, lightens your workload, and watches out for you, even deciding to avenge you in many instances. he's aware of and has long accepted the fact that he will never be recognized for his efforts, never be thanked for his help and he definitely isn't going to win your favor with anything he does, but how can he leave you alone?

of course, everyone else knows. there's whispers amongst the members of black lizard that executive chuuya nakahara personally takes care of anyone who dares utter a single negative word about you, koyou has to deal with chuuya's numerous requests for advice, and even dazai knows that chuuya's become a lovesick little puppy (naturally, he fails to notice the irony).

it's a regular sight now, to see chuuya bent over and scribbling on a piece of paper, before groaning and ripping it to shreds. anyone who manages to put together the strips is able to see what looks to be multiple lines of poetry, quite eloquently written if not for the extreme emotions being expressed in them.

while he avoids meeting with you directly, chuuya can't help but linger. he waits around the corner from your home, hoping to catch a glimpse of you walking by. he stands by the pavement outside the bar you frequent, cigarette in hand, figuring out a way to bump into you and make it look accidental, hopes you'll stop if only to stare for a moment. at least he's not all in your face and annoying you to no end like someone is, and that should score him a few points, right?

and yes, he yearns to be of some use for you, wants to help you in any way possible so that you don't see him as a nuisance and throw him aside forever. and if helping you meant staying behind you and cleaning up, if helping meant exacting revenge in your name, or even if it meant staying out of your way, he'll do it without complaint.

#yandere bsd #yandere bungo stray dogs x reader #yandere bsd x reader #yandere bungo stray dogs #yandere bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #yandere chuuya x reader #yandere chuuya nakahara #chuuya x reader #drabble 🐟 #bsd 🐟 #ask 🐟 #anon 🐟 #dazai 🩹 🐟 #subordinate au 🐟 #chuuya 🐟

[hannie-dul-set]

— arranged by: member (eldest to youngest) | date (latest to oldest) | type (full-length to drabbles to blurbs). i don’t recommend reading my older works because they’re terrible. still putting them on here for the sake of bookkeeping | last updated: 23.12.18.

HOME FOR THE BITCHLESS. wherein your friend offers a room for you to crash in while your dorm is being renovated, but fails to mention that your new housemates don’t know how to talk to women (oh, and they also have an ongoing bet about you, too).

PAIRINGS. choi soobin, choi beomgyu, lee heeseung, park jongseong, sim jaeyun, park sunghoon x female! reader. GENRE. housemates! au, rom-com, sitcom, reverse harem time baby. GENERAL WARNINGS. too much swearing, references to/jokes about sex but i will not write smut, an awful amount of secondhand embarrassment, all of the boys are pathetic (check each chapter for specific warnings). WORD COUNT. (currently) 22k.

[monsters don’t hide under the bed] 

LOVE VOMIT.  [n.] — the term when you become too full with your feelings too quickly and too frequently that you end up spitting everything out before even getting the chance to digest. this happens to you more often than you’d like to admit— every quarter, actually, ever since starting college. but what can you do when the prospect of falling in love is just too good to say no to? what can you do when maybe the next desert might actually stay inside your system this time?

or, wherein you fall in love with a different guy every season but fail to notice the one that’s been looking at you the whole year.

PAIRING. choi soobin x  reader (ft. the rest of txt x reader). GENRE. college! au, orgmate! soobin, strangers to friends to lovers, slice of life, romance, humor, mild angst, comfort (no hurt), SLOWBURN, featuring some members of seventeen, enhypen, and le sserafim. WARNINGS. reader is shorter than soobin, swearing, drinking, kissing, unrequited feelings, annoying org jargon. WORD COUNT. 36k.

THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER DRINK BEYOND YOUR LIMITS (OR MAYBE YOU SHOULD?) soobin blacked out one evening and forgot something he shouldn’t have.

PAIRING. choi soobin x reader. GENRE. fluff, humor, lovestruck! soobin, based on the manhwa “daybreaking romance.” WARNINGS. drinking, swearing. WORD COUNT. 1.2k.

모기 / MOGI. in which all of your life, you and beomgyu have been stuck together like glue whether you liked it or not. and as much as you want to change that, life seems to have different plans. 

PAIRING. choi beomgyu x reader. GENRE. childhood friends to not quite friends (derogatory) to not quite friends (endearment), romance, humor, very light-barely there angst, pining idiots, college! au with flashes to high school, featuring an ensemble of 01z idols. WARNINGS. swearing, many many (fake) death threats, so much secondhand embarrassment, mentions of sex, mentions of blood and gore, the worldly problems of a teenager, mc has anger issues, gossip. WORD COUNT. 14k.

THE BOY WHO CRIED WOLF. you don’t buy it when beomgyu keeps trying to make a move on you.

PAIRING. choi beomgyu x reader. GENRE. fluff, humor. WARNINGS. swearing, beomgyu is embarrassing. WORD COUNT. 1.6k.

BFF PRO MAX. best friends doing not so best friend things.

PAIRING. choi beomgyu x reader. GENRE. fluff, suggestive. WARNINGS. making out. WORD COUNT. 582.

[rockstar! au]

TOMORROW X TOGETHER MASTERLIST. © hannie-dul-set.

#masterlist

[forasecondtherewedwon]

remember it once - chapter three

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Jack x Belle Rating: T (will change) Chapter: 3 / 7 Word Count: 2900

For today's @dodgerfoxweek prompt: love letters/banter

read on tumblr: one | two

The months are long without her. Jack finds himself softening towards Sneed of all people. Following the lifesaving procedure Jack performed on Belle, Sneed has demonstrated a genuine interest in bettering his basic surgical skills and acquiring the more advanced techniques he lacks. He’s still superior, still snide, still essentially Sneed, but now he listens to Jack’s ideas and, occasionally, compliments him on his successful surgeries.

The number of successful surgeries has been increasing steadily since Belle introduced ether and carbolic acid, and with Sneed cooperating, the two doctors are able to work side by side in the theatre on the same patient. This frequently shortens surgery time, which has manifold resulting benefits: decreased blood loss, reduced risk of death from time spent under anaesthesia, shorter duration for Jack and Sneed to endure each other’s presence. Strangely, the situation has become something akin to… training each other. When Prof goes, the hospital’s power structure should actually change for the better, with two capable surgeons sharing their knowledge. Sneed will be Jack’s reliable right hand, and Jack has dreams of bringing in new doctors who will contribute to the pooling of information rather than existing in competition with one another and risking lives in the process.

Of course, it isn’t a completely smooth partnership. Sneed can be awfully Sneedy at times. Whenever he makes a dig about Jack’s reading, Jack urges him to put his own educated shoulder to the wheel to see if he can find the cure for being an insufferable git. Someone really should, he insists while watching Sneed’s mustache twitch with restrained petulance, in this day and age.

Unless he’s tending to his patients, Jack keeps his evenings for himself. He’s trying not to gamble, not to drink too much (admittedly, “too much” is an inconstant measure), not to say yes to Fagin’s more suspicious plans; anything he claims is “foolproof” is particularly to be avoided. It isn’t exciting, but nothing really is without her.

Just once during the four-month voyage that carries Belle to England, a letter is delivered to Jack. Well, it’s delivered onto another ship, to the postmaster in Port Victory, to Government house, into Fanny’s hands, and she turns up at the hospital—to his initial confusion. Since Fanny escaped marriage to the Lettuce, Jack isn’t aware of any renewed interest in Sneed. He doesn’t understand what she’s doing here. When she says she’s received a letter, he imagines the very worst and feels his face drain of blood, but Fanny launches into a description of Belle’s experiences thus far. By her tone, Jack slowly recognizes that this letter was not followed by a note about Lady Belle Fox’s tragic burial at sea. He exhales. Even though Fanny feels that she’s communicated everything, Jack asks her to read the letter. He wants to hear Belle’s words.

Tell Jack I would write to him if Mother was not watching me like a hawk, Belle writes. I forgive her, only because we have been two months at sea and even the pastimes which were initially the most novel have become dully familiar. Without a full household staff to command—and Father, crucially Father—her attention falls heavily on me. She tells me to do my embroidery and study my Latin instead of the anatomy texts she finds “vulgar” and “revolting.” This is most amusing, considering her own pricked fingers and the seasickness that rears its head whenever she attempts to read for an extended period.

“It sounds dreadful,” Jack remarks, crossing his arms.

“But you were in the Navy!” Fanny protests. “Don’t you love the sea?”

“I didn’t mean the sea.”

She may be willfully ignoring the implication that he was talking about her mother.

It is not recommended that I stand on deck, Fanny reads on, but after I had done it once, I was determined to return. Fanny, it takes the breath from one’s lungs. Blue. Everywhere. To be in constant motion, harvesting the energy of the waves. Some mornings—

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

Jack’s vision had unfocused as he listened, reintroduced to the sea he’d made his career upon through Belle’s eyes. He realizes the question is Fanny’s and blinks.

“Which part?”

“All that dreadful… air! The wet!”

“Keep reading.”

Fanny sulks but lifts the paper once again.

Some mornings, I catch the dawn. The sky is the blackest thing you can imagine, and then, suddenly, the ship and all of us onboard are born into the world. I believe we are hardly real between sunset and sunrise. Colours seem to seep up from the horizon as though the paintings you love so much have been washed in the distant water, fleshy pinks and bitter oranges rise and bleed. It is the most vital thing I have ever seen. I only wish Jack were with me. Tell him, Fanny. I can hardly believe I won’t sail from one shore and meet him at another…

“It becomes a bit… romantic,” Fanny explains, not exactly bashful, but certainly aware that she is privy to something Belle and Jack would ideally keep to themselves. “Would you like to read the rest alone?”

Ah. Then it is uncomfortable.

Before he can speak, Jack watches Fanny’s eyes widen as she recalls the disastrous dinner. She’s about to assume (only because Sneed bloody announced as much) he can’t read. He heads her off, quiet and flushed while he explains that it is difficult, not impossible. Easier when words are written clearly with plenty of space, more difficult when someone’s handwriting is cramped and smudged. He can read. It just takes time, but he will spend time on Belle, he will sit with her letter and focus and squint in order to relieve Fanny of her messenger duties.

“But what about when you want to write back?” Fanny asks, eyes searching but kind.

“I’ll ask—” But who will he ask to correspond with his fiancée on his behalf? Fanny is probably the best choice as she’s keen to support their romance, but she’s nosy. He might (he does) want to say things that only Belle’s eyes will read.

“Oh! I have already thought of something much better!” Fanny gushes. Jack hasn’t yet had the opportunity to suggest a single name.

—

“It is the images that I find so very awful,” Fanny explains, supporting this assertion with a grimace as she pages past an illustration of a grotesquely swollen tongue, “but it was the images Belle seemed to like best, of late.”

She’s installed him in her sister’s room. One of Belle’s medical texts is open on her desk, and the pair of them stand over it in contemplation. The Governor is in town and the household staff are either entirely disinterested in what Lady Fanny and Dr. Dawkins might be doing in Lady Belle’s bedroom or else they don’t care a whit. Even if they did care, Jack thinks, what are they to do about it? Most of them probably can’t read any better than he can, if at all. They certainly won’t be writing to Lady Fox to inform her of the young doctor’s latest misdeed.

“What do you think?” Fanny asks.

“I couldn’t overstate their usefulness,” Jack says, turning a few pages himself. “And I suppose they are things of beauty, when done well.” He traces graceful lines of musculature. “The detail shows an interest in precision and care, which I can certainly relate to.”

“Not of the images themselves,” Fanny complains, closing the volume with sudden petulance. “My idea! Drawing to Belle instead of writing to her!”

“I’m not sure I have your… skill,” he states cautiously, recalling Fanny’s very memorable trees. “Not to mention your instruction. You must have had tutors?”

“I did have one, but he was quite rigid. We had a difference of taste.”

“I see.”

“Have you ever drawn?” she wonders.

“A little,” Jack admits. At last, he removes his hat, setting it on the desk. He brushes a hand through his hair. “We surgeons try to keep notes of our surgeries—successful and not. Often, Hetty will take dictation for me, but if she’s busy, or the procedure’s something I did by feel rather than by sight, it can be easier for me to try to sketch what I remember.”

Fanny smiles encouragingly.

“Try, then.”

This is how he removes his coat and pulls up a chair. It is how he casts his eyes over the pencils and sticks of charcoal, the messy potted watercolours, before reaching out to touch the tools with his fingertips. Jack doesn’t notice when Fanny leaves him to it, but at some point, there is a cup of tea on the desk into which he accidentally dips a brush. He doesn’t realize until he fills his mouth with the chalky flavour of diluted paint.

It's his own palm he’s attempting to represent. He curls and opens his hand, studying the toughened skin. In his mind, he peels back time, scrubs away the callouses to peel back his very skin, remembering his palm ripped open from the ropes on the first ship on which he sailed. Jack sketches the ragged edges of the injury, the glow of abrasion. With a sodden brush, he dips into the red, then swipes across the paper, watching the wound bleed as the water spreads. He wrings some of the water out before applying more paint to the spot, getting the colour rich and real and—

Fanny shrieks from behind him.

“How awful! I mean, excellent.” She smiles in apology. “I wish I had never seen it, and I mean that as the most sincere compliment.”

“I understand. I appreciate your opinion.”

“Do you?” She looks genuinely surprised. “I can see why Belle fancies you.”

It really isn’t his place to tell his fiancée’s sister she should expect more than basic respect from any man she’d hope to marry, so he doesn’t. Fanny is much more assured in the advice she gives to him, offering blunt criticism as she points to different parts of his creation. Not unkind though.

“Again soon?” she asks when she’s done and he’s standing to go, realizing he has paint soaked into the sleeves he didn’t roll up his arms soon enough. Unusual. It’s normally blood there.

Jack nods.

—

While he’s still learning, Belle’s letters begin arriving from London. Fanny dutifully shares each one. Now that Belle has more freedom to write—physical freedom, without her mother looking over her shoulder—each letter contains the sentence “Fanny, stop reading.” Jack appreciates the honesty of Fanny reading this line aloud, though she does also frown at being excluded from the rest.

The rest.

It has to be Fanny who explained, and Jack is grateful for it. The remainder of Belle’s letters are written larger, with spaces between the letters, each word cleanly executed on the page. They’re legible, specifically for him, exactly how he told Fanny a letter would need to be to lessen his struggle.

At last, he has an account of her longing firsthand. She doesn’t speak of the engagement—there is still a risk that Fanny would spy the word, even if she weren’t intentionally snooping—but it’s clear she isn’t only writing to an acquaintance, a friend, a fellow student of the human body. That Belle refers to well enough, perhaps dangerously so, but it’s all in Latin. The switch from one language to another stumps Jack at first, but he learns to watch out for it. In Latin, Belle is both formal and erotic, and Jack finds himself angling her letters away from the eyes of Hetty and Fagin, though neither knows the language. While Belle’s sentences are stiff, the parts of the body she employs Latin to address—parts of his body, and hers, frequently imagined together—evoke visceral memories. The dusty old language can be surprisingly sensual, Jack finds, when Belle writes of skin on skin.

He responds with broken bones, chipped teeth, dislocated jaws—drawings of all the latest cases to pass through his ward, everything Belle’s missing. It’s when he’s replicating the twisting line of stitches he threaded into an elbow the other day that he has the idea to embellish beyond paint; Jack pokes through her belongings (sorry, Belle) until he discovers her embroidery thread. After that, his art becomes vivid in a way that almost astounds him, even as he jabs the needle through the page. He lays a skin-coloured wash on an arm, then raises a blue vein down its length. He adds fibre ribs to open cadavers, creeping lines of red to blood-shot eyes. When he gathers both Fanny’s art supplies and his strength to recreate the surgery he’ll remember for the rest of his days, he brings Belle’s aorta to life in crimson before sewing in the noose that ties it off. I love you, he tries his best to say. I love you all the way through.

—

Dearest Jack,

I must tell you immediately, or with as much immediacy as a letter from Britain to Australia can allow, that my mother and I will be home in Port Victory sooner than we had planned. Therefore, do not suspect me of neglecting our correspondence if you do not hear from me with the regularity to which we have both grown accustomed. I may be boarding a ship within the week. I fear my mother is being overly cautious, but as an earlier departure is to my benefit, I was hardly about to protest. The responsibility for her agitated state is mine, as I will unfold.

I’ve told you of my time at the University College Hospital here in London. As access to the hospital was key to my mother getting me here, she has allowed me to maintain a standing appointment with staff. I have observed so much and taken copious notes. Your letters also inspired me to seek out a young nurse here, who I was told had something of a talent for drawing. I’ve paid her to illustrate my notes, so that we might more easily replicate these new techniques on our patients when I am back.

Though I miss you terribly—you know I do, Jack, do not be too jealous of London’s sick and injured, monopolize my time though they may—there has been so much to learn that I was deeply frustrated by the wave of sickness that suddenly swept the city. Before you leap to chastise my response, yes, I know it was a selfish one. You see, at home, you might have called on me to help mitigate the spread of illness. Here, I am an indulged guest. I may be present at surgeries and question patient doctors, but in the case of an outbreak, I am denied entry. Foolishly, I complained about this to my mother. Rather than commiserate with me over the injustice of my being shut out when I have the time, inclination, and very possibly the skills necessary to help, she determined they were quite right to bar me. A mere two days later, she decided we had better leave them to it and sail for home while our own health is still sound.

This does not mean I have seen nothing, and, Jack, I am not so selfish as to hope this illness reaches Port Victory. It appears to be neither influenza nor typhoid. I may have been able to diagnose it with closer study, but such a thing was denied me. At least these male doctors cannot separate me from my books; I have already begun packing my trunks with all the latest literature. I know you will make time for me so that we can discuss things properly. It is an enormous comfort.

It's been more than half a year since our separation began, yet I doubt you have forgotten what awaits us upon my return. My mother will see how you have flourished in your role as Head Surgeon, and she will know how steadfast our love has been. I believe our engagement has lasted long enough. I long for us to be united in all ways.

Yours across oceans,

Belle

—

The months are slower than ever, but not even Sneed on his crankiest day can bother Jack now. When Prof finally stepped aside, as recognition for his substantial contributions to the health of the colony (To the death rate, more like, Jack thought, but resisted impertinence just this once), he was allowed to maintain his residence in the house meant to be passed between head surgeons. Braced for the worst, Jack was surprised that this didn’t mean he wouldn’t be offered the things his predecessor had enjoyed.

Instead, they built him a new house.

The day he was granted his own bed is still clear in Jack’s mind, the day he was given his own quarters at the hospital even clearer. An entire house is so overwhelming that he puts off moving in. He’s afraid of the strange and terrible objects that will fill it—spoons in the kitchen and settees in the parlour. Innumerable trinkets for Fagin to nick, no doubt. Jack will have to pretend to mind, because the best thing that will be in the house will be Belle. He can’t imagine being concerned about much else.

He takes to strolling down to the dock each morning. On one of them, Belle’s ship comes in.

#dodgerfoxweek2024 #my writing #The Artful Dodger #dodgerfox #Dr. Jack Dawkins #Lady Belle Fox #Lady Fanny Fox

[lilasamaaa]

Miss missing you | Charles Leclerc x Reader

Genres | Angst.

Word count | 2.1K

Warnings | Breakup, depressing thoughts, mentions of cheating.

Summary | Reader wakes up the day after her breakup with Charles and reflects on their relationship. Inspired by the song "Miss Missing You" by Fall Out Boy. Author's note | Sorry for being criminally addicted to writing sad things.

Don't panic, no, not yet

The living room shutter is closed. Impenetrable.

She has no idea how long she's been like this, slumped on her couch in the dark, her face irritated by the relentless assault of her tears. Outside, she knows life has gone on without her. She suspects the sun has risen, like every morning. That darkness has given way to light, like every morning. She even heard her neighbors in the hallway, heading to work. Like every morning.

Taking a deep breath, she feels her heart and throat tighten, tears doubling. She didn't even know she had that much water in her body. It's not just an ordinary morning. It's the first of many mornings where she will wake up with her heart in pieces.

I know I'm the one you want to forget

She remembers, a few years ago, listening to Taylor Swift's "Mr. Perfectly Fine" for days on a row. She remembers cursing Joe Jonas, she even remembers feeling so sorry for Taylor. What kind of guy breaks up with his girlfriend over the phone?

Well, Charles, apparently.

She's not stupid, not blind, not even a little naive.

She had felt it coming. Had noticed him slowly drifting away. The calls were less frequent, and the ones she managed to intercept, shorter. She knows there was someone else. Maybe multiple someones. They'd somehow stopped talking about him, about her, about them. They only talked about races, cars, airplane trips. That's the only thing that seemed to keep them together. The only thing that had brought them together in the first place. She, the daughter of the CEO of one of Ferrari's sponsors. Him, the one who wore the suit with the logo printed on it.

Cue all the love to leave my heart, It's time for me to fall apart

She wished her heart would close. She wished she could block his access to it. She wished she could reclaim it, as one might retrieve the keys to an apartment once shared. But that bastard remains wide open. It's almost embarrassing, the way her heart, cruelly empty, hopes to be filled again. To feel his warmth once more. To beat for him again.

Her mind has stopped functioning, but her heart, somehow, hasn't stopped. It keeps beating, selfishly. It keeps her alive. For what? To feel the hurt, the betrayal, the despair? Honestly, it's worth the effort. The poor thing should have just stopped.

Now you're gone, but I'll be okay, Your hot whiskey eyes have fanned the flame

She's young. She's had flings, but she's always been the one to end them. Charles was her first serious relationship. The only significant one, actually. She didn't think the pain would be so raw, so physical. She feels like she can sense her heart crumbling a little more each time she thinks of him. She feels it in her chest, swelling, taking up space, trying to escape. It wants to leave her body. To break free from this darkened, wounded brain that suffocates it.

She's not against the idea. It can leave. She can function without it. She's almost convinced of it, if that's what it takes to feel alive again. To feel like her again.

Maybe I'll burn a little brighter tonight, Let the fire breathe me back to life

Her heart isn't the first to be broken. Won't be the last.

She's heard stories from friends, from close ones, who've gone through breakups. Today, she feels so foolish for feeling so little concern about those stories back then. She's always been a listening ear, an unwavering support. She's sat in bars, cafés, bedrooms, listening to stories of betrayal and broken promises, and she simply didn't believe it would ever happen to her. As if she were above the laws. Above all that. She remembers listening to tales of broken hearts like children listen to myths of dragons, of wizards, of magic.

That's what it was for her. Fantasy. Something so unreal, so inconceivable.

Even though it hurts, she has sworn to let herself feel everything. The good as well as the bad. She knows that one day, she will look back on this period of her life, and she won't be overwhelmed by sorrow and pain anymore. But today, she has to go through it, let the flames lick her body to better heal her wounds later.

Baby you were my picket fence, I miss missing you, now and then

She'd never introduced a boyfriend to her family. Never envisioned a future with anyone. Never looked at houses with anyone. But with him, she did. A few months ago, while strolling on the hills of Monaco, she'd passed by a gate behind which a stone path led to a discreet little house. She'd fallen in love with the garden bordered by trees and flowers. She'd liked the color of the gate surrounding the property. She'd even found charm in the slightly crooked chimney protruding from the roof. She'd taken a photo of the "For Sale" sign and sent it to Charles. He had responded with a series of emojis (a face with hearts for eyes, sparkles, a star, the rest she can't remember). He had promised to call to set up a visit.

She would never walk down the stone path.

Chlorine kissed, summer skin, I miss missing you, now and then

She's never been drawn to wealth. She was born into it. Penthouses, luxury cars, diamonds hold no charm in her eyes. She's always been searching for more authentic, more simple things.

One summer when Charles had suggested a yacht outing, the lovers had ended up on a poorly patched-up rowboat that was taking on water. The monacan had complained all afternoon, but she still remembers the sensation of lying against him, against his warm, salty skin, alone in the world in their small boat. A feeling that no amount of money could ever buy. A feeling that no amount of money could ever get her back.

Sometimes before it gets better, The darkness gets bigger

What had begun as sweet and innocent had taken a turn.

Times were tough. His job was demanding. Exhausting. She did her best to support him, to show him he could lean on her anytime he needed. He wouldn't talk. Little by little, she was abandoning more and more things from her daily life to dedicate herself to his. His stability. His success. His worries. Sometimes, she felt like she was losing herself, but she knew it was temporary. She thought she would soon get the old Charles back. Even when he started going out late. Even when he started coming home late. Even when he started not coming home at all.

The endless suffering hadn't brought her anything. In fact, it had taken everything from her.

The person that you'd take a bullet for, Is behind the trigger

She knew the signs, had seen them in her own parents. When they ate together, he could go through the entire meal without meeting her gaze. When she placed her hands on his body, he would sometimes shiver. Not the shiver of anticipation from the early days. The kind that suggested he didn't deserve the display of affection.

Her own friends seemed oblivious to the situation. "I ran into Charles yesterday, at the club," "I saw Charles in town with a friend", "Aren't you with Charles today?". Were they trying to pretend everything was fine to protect her? Or were they already distancing themselves from a situation they didn't want to witness?

Oh, we're fading fast, I miss missing you, now and then

She pinpointed the breaking point as her sister's wedding. How ironic, she'd thought. Celebrating love, respect, and unity when I feel none of these things in my own relationship. Charles had arrived late, his hair disheveled, tie slightly askew. She had felt tears burning behind her eyes, had bitten her cheek to hold back from exploding in the middle of the church. She refused to believe that he had done that to her. That he had disrespected her on this day, in this place. Her entire family had cast a glance in her direction, had observed the way Charles had slipped between the guests to sit next to her. Without a glance. Without a touch. Her sister, speech in hand, had taken a few seconds to start. "With you by my side, I know I can face anything," she had started saying to her husband, letting her eyes meet the teary ones of her little sister.

Making eyes at this husk, around my heart, I see through you and we're sitting in the dark

He told her everything, recounted everything to her. From what he felt in the car during a race to his latest argument with his brother. She read him like an open book, could anticipate every word, every gesture, every thought, even. To joke around, she often said she knew him better than she knew herself. Upon reflection, they got together when they were eighteen. Had she even had time to get to know herself, or had she cowardly built herself around him?

The idea of pursuing her life's journey without him terrified her. She didn't know who she was, who she wanted to be. She didn't even know if she liked herself. She sometimes wondered if he knew her as well as she knew him. If he knew her favorite color, her favorite song, her favorite season. She always ended up pushing those somber thoughts away, reminding herself that these concerns were those of a schoolgirl, and got back to her duties. To taking care of him.

So give me your filth, make it rough, Let me, let me, trash your love

She was gentle, with a calm nature, almost maternal.

She never lost her composure, never raised her voice. But she had yelled that day. When they arrived home after the church ceremony. She would never forget, and he probably wouldn't either, how her voice had broken when she had shouted three words, three little words that had been enough to shatter everything. "Who is she?".

She, who admired him so much, who thought of him as a man of the purest and most sincere nature. She had given him a chance to repent. He hadn't seized it, hanging his head low. That day, facing her anger, the pain of a betrayed woman, she'd found him so small that he was almost ridiculous. He hadn't responded, of course. Hadn't said a word.

I will sing to you everyday, If it will take away the pain

She'd stayed. She wasn't sure if love made her do it. Perhaps it was out of habit. Or masochism. But she had stayed, and life had resumed just as it was before, for a few weeks. They had started waking up side by side again, sharing their day over a meal again.

Making love, again. She hadn't even realized they had stopped touching each other, desiring each other. How long had it lasted? A week? A month? Six?

He played the piano in the evening, proclaiming a love strong and indestructible over the keys, letting his fingers glide from white to black, filling the apartment with sounds and colors that had disappeared. Of feelings that had disappeared.

Oh, and I heard you've got it, got it so bad, 'Cause I am the best you'll ever have

She had let herself dream of the life before.

A life where Charles had only touched her, only tasted her. A life where she didn't discreetly grab his phone every night when his breathing indicated he was asleep. A life where she didn't send messages to Carlos at all hours of the day and night to find out where he was, with whom he was when she wasn't there. A life where her sister didn't regularly tell her how worried she was about her, finding her too thin, too stressed, too distracted.

So, she had left. She had left the spare keys he had given her on the dining table. She had fled his apartment and returned to hers, the one she had just returned the keys to the owner, ready to move in permanently with him. She had spent three days alone, spending entire days in the dark. Ignoring the messages and calls of her mother, her father, her sister. Carlos, too.

Baby you were my picket fence,

By the end of the third day, he had finally called, and after three rings, she had picked up.

Neither of them had spoken for several seconds.

Then, he had done it. For the first time in months, he had been honest with her.

"It's not working anymore," he had sighed into the phone. "I can't do it anymore."

She had hung up.

Lain down on the sofa.

Waited for the day to save her from the night.

I miss missing you, now and then,

Now and then.

#f1 #f1 2024 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #carlos sainz #fall out boy #miss missing you

[soongtypehuman]

Update on Things

It’s been almost 4 months since the craniotomy that removed the tumor that was crushing my brain. The hope was that the surgery would cure the mild to moderate cognitive issues I was dealing with, or at least stop them from progressing. I’m sorry to say that wasn’t the case, and many of the problems have gotten dramatically worse.

I don’t want to go into too much detail, least of all because it’s boring. My short-term memory, ability to read and write, as well as speak fluidly, have all been affected negatively. I’ve just had another EEG to see if the seizures are continuing, and will have another MRI this week to assess the amount of damage to my brain from the tumor that had been affecting it for years and any damage caused by the surgery, and to check for a stroke. It’s a lot of fuckery I don’t have all the answers for yet. Once I have answers, then I can begin a more exacting treatment for the problem(s).

Unfortunately, as I said above, the problems are affecting my ability to write.

Planning and outlining have always been the backbone of my writing process, but even more so now. Everything is slower and requires a lot more concerted effort and lots of revision.

In short, I’m not able to create as quickly as I once could, although I’m hoping that will change eventually with enough rehab and figuring out new ways to work around my setbacks.

Ideally, I’d like to continue posting every Sunday, just as I have for over a year, but I might have to accept the idea that, as far as things go at the moment, I might not be able to use my writing time for both a weekly ficlet while also finding the time, energy, and focus to work on longer fics. For the time being at least, I might have to switch to posting every other week so I can allot more time and attention to the longer fics.

I just don’t know yet and can’t set anything in stone either way.

But I did want to say something about all of this because I was worried people might see me posting less frequently or posting work that isn’t as long as it used to be and think that I’ve gotten lazy or lost interest. That couldn’t be further from the truth. If anything, my love of this series is one of the few things in my life that brings me joy and that I can count on (my most beloved @monotremer being the main source of that), and one of my biggest motivators in rehab is trying to return to being focused and prolific where my writing is concerned. But I also have to accept that some things may never return to the way they were.

In any event, I hope to keep posting work regularly, but hope everyone understands if I’m not always able to do that.

Updates on what’s coming:

I was working on a longer fic to post to the Data/Lore collection today, but didn’t finish it, so there’s a shorter ficlet in the non-explicit Positronic Rivalry collection instead. The D/L fic should be ready to post next Sunday (fingers crossed). And while all that’s happening, I’m still working on the multi-chapter in the main series that got much bigger than I originally intended. It’s slow going, but it’s going, and my hope is that it’ll be ready to post in July.

#craniotomy #fibrous dysplasia #writing

[caeli0306]

Hello! Welcome to the unhinged record of my writing and other obsessions

Hello! I'm Caeli. I'm 23 and a journalist by day, rabid Fourth Wing/Empyrean and Star Wars fan by night. FW got me back in to reading fantasy, and then IF left me with a crippling book hangover. I turned to writing fanfiction for the first time to try to get my mind off of it, and now I spend my days writing... and then go home at night and write some more.

My fics (all posted on AO3):

Completed:

Tales from the Airport Bathroom - Xaden/Violet spy/soldier AU almost entirely from Xaden's POV where Violet is Stab Happy and Xaden is a Simp, the meet cute is on an airplane, and Xaden gives wife guy vibes as Violet destroys her enemies. Completed, four chapters, 19.5k words. (1)(2)(3)(4)

the present, the past, and you in between - VERY angsty one shot from Xaden's POV where he reflects on his lifelong love for Violet. Completed, 1k words. (1)

Did Someone Say Shots? - One-shot College AU where Xaden thinks his feelings are unrequited but has to look out for Violet on an evening where she goes a little crazy with the Fireball shots. Completed, 10k words. (1)

In-progress:

castles crumbling - Xaden/Violet assassin-spy/soldier AU, aka the extended version of Tales from the Airport Bathroom. In-progress, chapter 5 posted 4/29, 31.5k words and counting. (1)(2)(3)(4)(5)

On hiatus:

Swan Song - 2nd gen fic following Xaden and Violet's second daughter, Fen, as she tries to figure out who - or what - killed her sister Nora in a world where Tyrrendor is independent and the venin have been defeated for 25 years. Featuring the fan favorite Aidan Matthias, Rhiannon's adopted son with Tara, a brand new squad, and a squad leader with a very familiar name. Chapter 13 posted 4/14, 72k words and counting, on hiatus until after my move. (1)(2)(3)(4)(5)(6)(7)(8)(9)(10)(11)(12)(13)

Addendum - Companion piece for Swan Song. A series of one-shots expanding on the background of my Swan Song fic and giving perspective from different characters' POV's, especially Nora's. Chapter 3 posted 3/5, 4.6k words and counting, updated sporadically depending on story needs. (1)(2)(3)

Things to know:

Update Schedule:

I don't have one! Like I mentioned in my intro, I am a journalist by day, which means I already do a lot of writing on a daily basis. I love it, but that also means that during busy news cycles I might not have the time or the desire to write. I do this for fun and because I love sharing the worlds in my head with other people, but my first priority will always be myself. If I haven't updated in a week or two, that doesn't mean they'll never be updated! I will always put a note on my Tumblr if I'm putting something on hiatus, along with an estimate for when I plan to start updating again.

What I post about

In order to keep myself accountable, I post frequent updates on my writing progress here. As I said above, I write these stories because I love them, but also because I love sharing them. This helps me stay on track, while also letting people know the general progress of the next chapter.

How long will castles crumbling be?

TBD! Tales from the Airport Bathroom was no plan, just vibes. castles crumbling is the extended version, so it will obviously be longer. While I do have a general plan for this here extended version, I don't have a chapter-by-chapter outline the same way I do with Swan Song. This is partially because I'm still going back and forth on how parts of this story will go, but also because I want to try writing in a bit of a less structured way than I have been doing. I can't imagine it will be shorter than 25 chapters, but honestly, who knows? I'll update this when I have a better idea.

When will you update Addendum again? When should I read the different Addendum chapters?

I created Addendum because I wanted to give people insight into Nora without interrupting the flow of Swan Song. I expanded this concept by adding in a Violet POV chapter as well. These provide context to certain interactions, foreshadow future events, or otherwise flesh out the world in which Fen and the other characters inhabit. In short, it will be updated as needed.

Nora's First Addendum - Read after Chapter 4 of Swan Song

Nora's Second Addendum - Read after Chapter 7 of Swan Song

Violet's First Addendum - Read after Chapter 9 of Swan Song

Lastly, I love hearing from people who read my fics. Feel free to message me whenever, whether its to provide constructive criticism, ask a question, offer up a writing prompt, or just to say hi!

[themauvesoul]

Sometimes I feel like I am a guy trying to plug a hole in the Hoover dam with my pinky finger. Anyways. Here is what you actually need to know about paragraph length, sentence length, and the like:

Yes, the rule is TECHNICALLY that you’re supposed to start a new paragraph with each new action or thought. However. On a more basic level, a paragraph is just a group of sentences that are conveying the same idea, and there are one million ways to skin that cat. For instance, here is an excerpt from a personal essay I wrote a while back:

Here it is again:

And here it is again:

All of these are technically correct, but they read slightly different. The first one reads faster than the other two, and the ideas in the paragraph blend and bleed together a little more. The middle one is much more measured and even. And the last version reads very slowly and dramatically, with heavy emphasis on certain words and phrases. What makes these three passages read so differently is the length of the paragraphs. Readers tend to pick up the pace during long paragraphs, and slow down quite a bit when they get to shorter paragraphs. Additionally, you’ll notice that the two one-word paragraphs add a TON of emphasis to those words. This is because they’re so visually distinct AND extremely short.

The trick to formatting your paragraphs is NOT following an imprecise rule that is frequently difficult to apply to your own writing. The trick is to vary the length of your paragraphs.

This:

And this:

are both equally annoying. The version without any paragraph breaks goes on and on, and eventually you get tired of reading it. The version with TOO MANY paragraph breaks feels like it’s shouting at you, because every sentence is so important it deserves its own paragraph. Formatting paragraphs is, first and foremost, about including enough variation to keep people interested and paying attention.

And this exact same principle is true of sentence length. If you scroll back up and look at the pic where I put every sentence on its own line, you’ll notice very quickly that there’s a lot of variation there. Some sentences are one word, some are three lines long, and most fall somewhere in the middle. This is intentional. It keeps the reader engaged. If you look closely at this paragraph, you’ll see that I’m doing it in here, too.

The reason for this is identical to why varying your paragraph lengths is a good idea. Long sentences move quickly, short sentences slow the reader’s pace and add emphasis, and medium sentences keep the reader at a comfortable, easy pace. You can use long sentences to add urgency, a sense that time is moving quickly, or a level of confusion as the reader tries to decipher your six line sentence. Short sentences pack a punch. It’s the difference between a freeze frame and an establishing shot. You can use the rhythm and meter of spoken language to help out with this as well. Most people sort of instinctively vary their sentences in length, tone, and emphasis. Nobody irl is speaking to one another in a series of five-word sentences because it sounds robotic and disgusting. If you write in the natural cadence you use in spoken language, you will automatically vary your sentences enough to keep a reader interested.

One thing to note about this is that the emphasis sentence and paragraph lengths create, much like any other fun writing trick, is like cayenne pepper or salt. No emphasis is bland, but too much makes your writing inedible. Figuring out how to season your drafts is a process that you can only complete through experimentation.

This is why you patently SHOULD NOT listen to writing advice that is broad, basic, or positioned as universally applicable. Everybody has their own preferences wrt spice and salt! Two people can look at an identical work of art, and can very easily get into an argument online about whether it’s bland or over seasoned, because they fundamentally have different standards. The best way to improve your writing is to learn how and why the tools in your toolkit work, experiment with them, and show other people the results.

#anyways. can u tell my number one pet peeve is generalized writing advice online #that presents itself as universal. but is largely a matter of personal taste.

[samanthahirr]

For the meta asks, 1 and 18??

Thanks so much for the questions, silverbrume! Fun Meta Asks for Writers

#1 - my current BIG project is Off the Books (13/21 chapters posted, and I hope to have it finished by year-end!), a 00Q fic that on the surface is about Bond & Q hunting down Silva to get revenge for M’s death, while falling in love along the way. But thematically, it’s about untangling the damage that M’s years of manipulation did to Bond & Q, and getting Bond to admit that he can’t keep repressing-and-ignoring his traumas or trying to convince everyone (including himself) that he’s "fine."

On the shorter side, I’m working on a Riverhouse Remix (which per the rules must remain a mystery until posting). I know which story I'm going to remix, and I know the sequel I want to write for it, but I’m currently trying to puzzle out how much of the original fic I can/should include (as in overlap) in my remix to create a comprehensible, standalone story. An interesting challenge!

And on deck (ha!) is my 00Q merman AU, which I am increasingly excited to write! I’ve got most of an outline written for it, and I’ve decided to stick to a straight-forward, chronological structure instead of experimenting with flashbacks/flashforwards. That means it’ll be 25k minimum (more like 40k...), but I’m coming to terms with another long-fic commitment and a boatload (HA!) of maritime research.

#18 - I love this question about alternative versions of my own stories! I don’t have many alternate versions in my notes because of how much planning I do in advance of writing, but here’s my wildest example:

I originally came up with a loose outline for a fic about aromantic!Q having a bunch of sex with a few different double-0 agents…but I couldn’t see it coming together as an actual “story.” So I took my favorite scene idea from the outline—one in which Q asks Bond to help him shave so he can go down on 003, and Bond shaves Q for her pleasure while she watches, leading directly into a threesome—and I reimagined it as a standalone OT3 fic for The Man from UNCLE fandom (Aftershave). As part of that reimagining, the shaving became Gaby’s request and Napoleon’s challenge/dare, with an emotional arc of Illya overcoming his discomfort with Napoleon’s difficult personality (frequently mocking/teasing Illya) so Illya can admit to them both how deeply he actually trusts Napoleon…and then Illya goes down on Gaby in a threesome with Napoleon.

When I DID decide to develop the aromantic!Q idea into a full story the following year (Touch It, Stroke It, and Undress It), I needed to reimagine that shaving scene into a different kink. I made 003's request be for Q to wax his chest for some corset dress-up instead of shave for cunnilingus, and I wrote a 00Q wax-play scene instead of a shaving threesome. And since I still wanted to hit that threesome beat, I created a brand new threesome for 00Q + Alec as a capstone. 

So in this particular instance, Chapter 6 of Touch It is an alternate universe retelling of Aftershave, which is an alternate universe retelling of a half-written 00Q scene in my notes. Trippy!

#ask meme answers #00q #my writing

[lilac--sun]

Okay I should ACTUALLY start posting more frequently, I had family issues going on but we're all good now<3 (when Nightmares name or NM starts with a purple letter that means it's him uncorrupt)

Dream is naturally an EXTREMELY good aim. He chose the bow as his weapon of choice because he could close his eyes and still hit his target. Not only does this help in battle, this helps in everyday life, he can toss something behind him and make it into a basket/trashcan without even looking.

Every time killer walks into a room he slaps the top of a door like a middle school boy, Dust has joined in on this and they're in the process of getting cross to do it

The entire gang is bilingual with the exception of Dust, he's multilingual. Nightmare speaks Spanish, Killer speaks Arabic, Horror speaks a bit of German Cross speaks French and Dust speaks Sweetish, Norwegian he knows sign language and can write in Greek.

Nightmare is very reserved and quiet, unless you get him drunk. He's a happy and loud drunk, so when the gang got him drunk for the first time they were amazed about how giggly he was, he's also a lightweight which I think is pretty funny so after about 5 drinks he was OUT on the floor

When Dust wants to relax but can't sleep he makes visible 💤💤💤 with his magic so the gang knows he's relaxing (I feel like classic does the same thing tbh)

Nightmares uncorrupt body is still physically trying to keep up. When uncorrupt he looks like a slightly taller 11 year old, when his mind and corruption is thousands of years older

Cross has hundreds of self harm scars all over his body, and he was extremely self conscious of them and REFUSED to let anyone see his bair arms. That was until he trained with killer for the first time and saw that his arms AND legs were covered with scars and literally nobody seemed to mind so he dropped his coat and nobody said a word about it, so he started wearing shorter shirts afterwards.

Error loves being the center of attention all the time 24/7. So when the gang is all together and they don't make him #1 he gets kinda pouty, or hits them with "Why iS nobod-d-d-dy paying atTentiOn to meeee" until someone pays attention to him

Horror loves cheesy romance films just because of how bad they are. He'll sit down and binge like 4 or 5 really bad ones and cry laugh at them until he falls asleep

Nightmare sings in the shower but he'll deny it until the day that he dies

Inks current mood(with or without paints) is directly corresponded with the AU he's creating. It usually ends with copies and copies of a random AU

First time Nightmare called Dream "brother" after the truce, Dream let out so much positivity, NM couldn't be near him for a few hours

[numbknee]

i seek your advice numbknee. i really wanna write my own kyman fics and i have so many ideas for them but i’ve never written a fic before and i’m frightened to dip my toes into it. i’m not a writer, i’ve never written before. like how do you just sit down ans qrite something??? jfkgk i’m so confused, what’s your process or do you have any writing tips? i ask you cuz i love your writing and i look forward to your posts a lot.

That's so awesome, good for you dude!! Writing can be a really fun creative hobby but I totally get where you're coming from. The first fic I ever wrote was for the adventure time fandom 10 years ago (yikes I'm old lol) and I was really scared to post it. I don't remember how exactly I got the courage to finally put it out there but it def feels like diving into the deep end. Just know that everyone has to start somewhere!

The good thing about fanfiction is that it's as "low stakes" as you can probably get when it comes to creative writing. It's not for a job, it's not for any academic assignment, it's just something you do for fun. And I think the culture around fanfiction understands that a lot of writers are amateurs and are generally supportive regardless of your starting level in terms of skill. Personally, I would rather read from an inexperienced writer who's clearly trying their best and has some interesting ideas over a more polished/experienced writer taking themselves too seriously or treating fanfic writing like a competition.

There's no single "correct" way to write, because ultimately you have to do what best suits your own style and preferences. But for me, I generally start out with an idea for a single scene that inspires me and come up with a story around that scene so it fits into a cohesive fic. For example, for my first kyman fic I initially had the idea in my head of Kyle being mesmerized by Cartman dressed in drag and impulsively making a first move on him. I worked backwards from there, so I had to come up with 1) why he was doing drag in the first place, 2) why Kyle would be there watching him, and 3) how they end up alone together so Kyle can make the first move. The last one was the trickiest for me to figure out for some reason, but eventually I came up with the idea of Cartman tripping in his giant heels and injuring himself so Kyle would have to help him inside the house. It was funny but also helped move the plot along.

Planning out the scenes ahead of time like this can help a lot, but also don't be afraid to change things up as you write it out if you think something else works better. Since you have a bunch of your own ideas, start out with the one scene/scenario that inspires you the most and plan it out from there. I'd suggest first writing a shorter one-shot since that's easier to plan for than a longer, multi-chaptered fic. There's a ton of resources online you can find to help with story structure if you're not sure where to start or how to build on your idea. (Like this video about the 6 essential questions of storytelling).

Other logistical things: Make sure you save your work frequently. Spell-check is your friend. If you're not comfortable asking someone to beta-read your fic, use text-to-speech or read it aloud yourself to help catch any mistakes and listen to how sentences flow. I highly recommend using AO3 to publish your work since it has a great tagging system and helps you get visibility because of that, but also ensures your work will stay safe from the whims of corporations destroying/erasing fanworks since it's independently run and funded.

One last thing to keep in mind: it's nice to get positive interaction from the fandom, but ultimately you should write for yourself and your own enjoyment. If you only write seeking the approval of others, you're never going to be happy because you're solely basing your writing's worth on strangers' opinions. There have definitely been fics I've written that didn't get as much interaction as I would have liked, but in the end I was happy I wrote it because it was something I could be proud of having made for myself as my own audience.

Hope this helps! Good luck 👍

#ask #anon #my post

[in-flvx]

Hellooooo

I didn't come across a private chef Sirius ask? Or maybe I just missed it but I'm curious since the title is misleading?

I am becoming obsessed with your writing and ideas and just your blog! 👀😍👀😍👀

Hey hey, no there wasn't a Private Chef Sirius ask yet, and I'm super excited that you are interested, bc I love this AU. It let's me work with one of my fav thought experiments: how different would each of the Marauders be, if just one of them hadn't gone to school with the others. The title is a bit misleading bc Sirius ended up not actually working as a chef, but you'll see in the snippet.

The following morning begins with watery coffee, and kisses, bittered from that, in bed. Rubeus tells Sirius that he loves him still, and Sirius buries his face in Rubeus' armpit hair. It smells masculine in a way that Sirius relishes in. The sweet a reminder of the intimacy they shared, forever ago. Masculine and bitter, and sour in the way only alcohol manages to make someone smell. And yet. Rubeus smells like the first harbour Sirius ever knew.

"So, what brings you back to the isles?" Rubeus is wearing his glasses, from just having read the paper, but now looks at Sirius. There is hope in his eyes, that breaks Sirius' heart. Not for you, old man, not for you. "Work, actually. They need a hand at someones summer residence." Rubeus' face falls a little. "When do you start?" Sirius sighs. "Today. Or rather I'll have to arrive today. Not sure if they make me actually start today as well." Rubeus sniffs a little, but instead of protesting, he busies himself with making sandwiches for Sirius, despite Sirius' protests. Not much later, they share a last kiss before Sirius takes his old bike, and takes off.

Another drive through the scottish countryside, shorter this time, brings Sirius to the manor of his new job. It's large. Dark and oppressive, like so many houses of Sirius' childhood. Ivy ranks over the light facade. Natures protest against the building. Trying to strangle it. He can feel himself straighten up, as if his old gouverness had stuck a hat needle between his vertabrae again. With crunching stones, Sirius parks his bike. As he gets up, a stern looking woman stalks towards him. "Mr Black, I suppose?" She asks. Sirius is sure he can hear some of the brogue scottish in her RP. "Hi, yes that's me," Sirius gives back with his friendliest smile. "Minerva McGonagall," she introduces herself, and then continues to admonish Sirius for putting his bike where he had, and to instead park it behind the house. Sirius follows her instructions. "The Potters and their friends will start coming by Saturday. Mr Potter likes to keep company. His friends as well as the mother of his son join him here for the summer," McGonagall explains on the way. "By then you'll find your way around the manor and understand the workings, and routines of this place." Sirius parks his bike in a garage with several limousines and a few less fancy cars, which in all likeliness belong to the staff. "These are the cars you are expected to drive. While we have a chauffeur, you are going to do our shopping, and should one of our Masters require a drive you might have to step in. Everything you'll need for bigger repairs is stored here as well." Sirius nods. The garage is fancier and older than those he worked in so far, though that doesn't have to mean much. "The shack right over there contains Mr Filch's utensils. That is our gardener. He will expect your help frequently, as his old age forbids him from certrain work." Sirius nods along, as McGonagall shows him around. "Mr Slughorn and myself are the heads of our regular staff, but you are not the only newcomer here. All the more important that you don't embarrass us with incompetance or the unwillingness to help. One of our maids only started this week as well, and our new chef will arrive on friday." It starts to rain when they arrive back at the manor. "I understand you have a wide array of skills?" "I should hope so." McGonagall looks at him expectantly. "I'm used to farmwork, understand mechanics, and worked in several kitchens." "You will get to show off all of your varied skills over the summer." McGonagall uses a small key to open the door, and leads Sirius through a badly lit corridor. They cross several staircases which lead to different parts of the house. The very first, right behind the entrance door leads to the living quarters of the staff, as McGonagall explains. Sirius can hear two girls singing a round. Both immediately stop when McGonagall opens the door. The girls jump up in greeting.

[prowerprojects]

Well, who could have predicted what went down between SA2 and now. And I imagine if certain events went differently, we might some things would be way different. Especially when English is telling one story and Japanese telling another. (He wasn't the only character who experienced writing issues, his in particular just became "unfocused" after a while until they started scaling back the cast a bit.)

Hmm, probably would have helped if he had more kids around his age to interact with frequently. Cream slowly faded to the background {to her fans' dismay}, Marine is in Blaze's dimension and good luck finding Charmy interactions. Closest thing now is Sage and that's a mystery for now.

I think his theme song pretty much laid out his aspirations and still holds true for his Frontiers story in both versions of it. Presented differently in it and SA2, but ultimately the same goal: Finding his own style and path. (How far his potential goes really depends on him, so him pushing himself in different ways [and perhaps at times too much] could make him discover more things about him he hadn't before. That, wanting to show his friends his new skills is a good motivator too. xD)

I don't expect a drastic timeskip either; at most it'd probably be a few years. I'm sure they want keep the characters relatively similar-looking in nature if they ever decide on any physical or outfit changes to fit their current story, but not disrupting the iconicness of the designs. It's not the same as making an adaption with a different art direction. (Heh, I actually like the idea of him having a ponytail, to go along with his tails. Like Bark's, but shorter. But I can see them going for stylized models; the Mario crowd has been going nuts over "Wonder".)

In Boom's case, since it was meant to be its own subsection, the characters having designs that distant them from their Modern selves made sense from a marketing standpoint. Mixed on release, warmed up since but not wholly. At least wasn't the early concept art, Sega stomped down hard to get what we got. (It was mainly Knuckles and Sonic that got most of the criticism, with Amy to lesser extent, and Tails having little to none. Heck, some think his Modern self SHOULD have the goggles and toolbelt. Funnily enough, some did like the idea of a bulkier Knuckles, just not top-heavy, and more like his ancestors. And I have seen some scarf/adventure-looking Sonics here and there. And the surprise that was Vector, that leather jacket does suit him.) In any case, making changes isn't easy. Execution matters so much.

Considering that Eggman has a Vtuber model now; that'll likely mean other characters down the line, depending on the topics that pop up. (Though Shadow does feel like he's next. Hoping that his is mainly him and Tails before Sonic inevitably pops in, which is a recurring gag for that series.) But yeah, just a few fun shorts. Nothing crazy.

Yeah, his development from sa1 to sa2 made sense, it's unfortunate that it didn't work out in the long run.

Actually... idk about that. I feel like interacting with the other kids a lot would only highlight how more mature he is compared to them. When with his own friend group of older friends he still comes off as more childish than them. Maybe if they'd leaned into "youngest characters all being friends" from the start, but we'll never know now.

(Though take this with a grain of salt since maybe I also have a bit of resentment over people trying to metaphorically "banish them to the kids table", as if they all need to hang out with each other just because they're the same age.)

Yeah "Believe in myself" is a great theme for Tails and I feel like. You need to listen to it to understand him as a character, though I feel like it fits what he's going through in Frontiers somehow better than sa1? Like, a lot of the stuff mentioned in the song you can't really get from his story in the game itself (or maybe I just. forgot or wasn't paying enough attention). (Though it might also be the case of them writing frontiers and using the song as a baseline for his character and arc, while in sa1 it was probably the opposite)

Maybe they will change up some clothes!(Tails with a little ponytail? Aahhh it would be so cute) (I do agree with those people I wish Tails had goggles and a toolbelt in the mainline series. Maybe not on a permanent basis but at least goggles when he's flying? On the other hand, I do enjoy the main characters all having pretty simple designs. I also agree with Knuckles being bulkier, I like what they did for the movie, it just makes more sense for the type of character he is)

I only brought up Boom as an example of people reacting negatively to the redesigns, and it wasn't even canon.

Man Shadow could give us so much lore. I need the next season of TailsTube now (I can't believe it was a whole season? 4 episodes? Tails you hack) Man I really want some Tails & Omega interactions. I need to know what their relationship is like in canon. Or Cream? You could use Cream for the Chao lore. Aahhhh.

#tails #project.txt #project.ask