#i've had a lot of feelings and no outlet lately so!

[from-the-clouds]

bad liars (savior complex ii) - joel miller x f!reader

part one | masterlist | song inspo |

Baby, you're a vampire You want blood and I promised...

summary: It's been a month since Joel has last seen you, fully healed since your last interaction. But you haven't spoken...at all. Your radio silence becomes cause for concern when he hears about an outbreak of Infected at the hospital where you work. There's enough explanation in this part that you could read it on it's own, probably, but I'd highly recommend reading part one first to get the full experience. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 7.9k warnings: SMUT - 18+ ONLY, minors DNI. (porn w/ plot, unprotected sex, oral, rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, age gap. dom/sub dynamics.) Heavy angst, multiple POVs, implied drug abuse, alcohol use, canon-typical suffering! Blood mention. Both reader/Joel are insanely emotionally unavailable, and love to lie to themselves and each other! (please dm for specifics if you have any questions). a/n: Ya'll loved savior complex and I'm so happy! Literally don't think I've had a fic get that many notes before, i had so many requests for a part two and because it felt like i left things open-ended enough, this came to me pretty easily! It might be the horniest thing I've ever written and also very angsty (what's new?)....but I think you'll like the ending <3 Special to @ay0nha for letting me yell at you about my writing and to @zbeez-outlet for the wonderful idea.

Joel exhales and runs his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair – the tips of which were frozen together from standing outside for so long. It had gotten cold out. Very cold. Boston always did this time of year, and because of it, people stayed in, and crime in the QZ dropped, making it a safer place - though that wasn’t saying much. 

Of course, the cold didn’t stop him from dealing. It did make his job a hell of a lot more difficult, since FEDRA was bored, out looking for trouble, and didn’t have more pressing matters to attend to. Although today, he must’ve been in luck, because the only sign of FEDRA had been helicopters and tanks that were clearly on a mission, driving to the opposite side of the QZ. Good, he had thought. A distraction. 

Joel leans back against the brick wall of the alleyway, pulling the hood of his jacket up over his ears, stares at the ice in the cracks of the pavement. When he hears the crunch of gravel underfoot, he straightens.

The man approaching looks nervously over his shoulder, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his flimsy sweatshirt. Dave, a customer of his for some time. 

“You’re late,” Joel doesn’t bother with a proper greeting.

“I know, I know, I got held up on my way here,” Dave answers, immediately beginning his excuse. “They cleared out the hospital because of an outbreak, that whole area was locked down so I had to take the long way.”

“Outbreak?” Joel tilts his head.

“Infected. I guess a bunch of hospital staff got bit. FEDRA had to go in and put them all down.” 

Joel feels a distant pang of concern somewhere in the back of his head. “How many?”

Dave shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man, that’s all I know. It’s not like they’ll ever tell anyone what actually happened.”

Joel can’t help but think of you. He knows a couple people who work at the hospital, most of them through smuggling, but you’re the only one who he’s really able to bring to mind at the moment.

“So, can we, uh…”

Joel pulls the plastic baggie out from his pockets, fishing out the pills. On his end, Dave produces a wad of credits, his shoulders sagging in relief once they’ve made the trade and the drugs are in his hand. He takes one immediately, shoves the rest in his pocket. “Thanks man, I’ll see you next week?”

Leaning back against the wall, he nods, and watches his customer disappear down the alleyway. 

The second Dave is out of sight, Joel’s chest tightens, and he takes a deep breath. There’s no reason why news of Infected at the hospital should concern him. If FEDRA had been called in – they would’ve gunned down anything that moved until it was under control. He knew, better than anyone, that they would do unspeakable things in the name of keeping order. Innocent people probably died, but the dead can’t get infected.

It had been about a month since Joel had last seen you, after he’d gotten beaten within an inch of his life and ended up on your doorstep, and you were the only person that could help. It hadn’t gone at all how he expected it would – at the end of the day, he had been surprised by your tenderness. 

Still, despite that you’d let him take you on the edge of your bed, legs wrapped around him, bouncing on his cock, he wouldn’t really say that it changed anything about your relationship. He had actually been kind of afraid that it would, that your attitude towards him would shift to something more amicable.

But you hadn’t spoken to him in a month. Joel had told you he owed you one after you stitched him up, and had anticipated that you’d take him up on his offer pretty quickly. There were so many things he could do for you to make your situation better. Maybe you’d need credits…. Medicine…. Food…. Booze… Pills, something, but you haven’t reached out. You could just be biding your time until you really need the favor.

Still, the radio silence takes him aback. He should be relieved that you aren’t talking to him. But nothing? Even if it’s not about a favor…he wants some kind of confirmation that you’d both made a mistake. After all that, did you really expect nothing from him?

It dawns on him there’s now a chance you’ll never speak to him again, because you’re one of the ones that FEDRA killed. Or worse….you had gotten bit. 

Joel passes by the hospital, taking the long way home. Everything is locked down, taped off. There’s a crowd around the place – family members, he assumes, pleading with FEDRA agents for information and getting nothing in return.

“Go home. I’m sure they’ll turn up,” he hears one of them say to a weeping woman. It’s useless to ask for an honest answer, for one of them to actually care. 

Joel could go home. He could crush a couple pills, snort them, and quell the burn with a couple drinks. He could fall into restless sleep and wake up the next day as he always did, go about his business as usual. Survive. One day at a time. 

Would he ever get confirmation that you’re alive? Because at this rate, he’s not sure he’ll ever know either way. 

The feeling is going to linger. He hates it. Were you gone? If you are, he can handle knowing. Its somehow worse not to. 

He tries to justify it to himself. You’re one of his solid connections to the hospital, you’d traded with him for medical supplies before. This is business, really, if he thinks about it that way. If you’re dead, he and Tess need to find someone else to work with. 

Joel decides to take a detour on the way back to his place.

It’s past curfew when he arrives at your apartment, the sun has long since dipped below the horizon and with that comes an even harsher cold. Boston winters, he thinks to himself. If he is capable of missing anything, he’d say he missed Texas. Before all this, the last place he’d be caught dead was on the East Coast. 

Joel raps on your front door. He forgets how shitty your building is, that you sleep here alone every night, listening to your neighbors arguing through the thin walls, shady characters slinking out of shadows in the dimly-lit hallway,

A few seconds pass. When he hears nothing behind your door, he knocks again, a little louder. 

More time passes. He knocks again, louder. Maybe you didn’t hear him. 

Nothing. He does it again. Could you be asleep? His jaw clenches.

Still nothing, and Joel knocks even louder. Maybe you’re not even here, and you work nights, and he’s just missed you as you head out for another shift. But he knows that’s unlikely. Since he’s known you, you’ve never worked nights. So where the fuck were you?

Joel’s pounds on your door, yells your name into its chipping paint. He listens for something, anything, on the other side, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, but he keeps going The side of his fist starts to hurt, but he can’t stop himself. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he hears one of your neighbors yelling from the end of the hallway. 

‘Shut the fuck up!’

Joel doesn’t hear exactly where the voice comes from, but it’s enough to snap him out of it. He halts his movements, his forehead falling against hollow wood, and in the silence, hears his heart pounding in his ears. 

“Fuck!” he kicks the wall just outside the frame of your door so hard the drywall gives, leaving a hole behind. “Fuck.”

He stares at the result of his outburst for an undetermined amount of time. You were all alone. To his knowledge, you had no immediate family to inform. Who would be around to remember you? He’d never really know for sure what had happened. 

“Joel?”

He looks up, his hands still clenched tightly into fists. When he sees that it’s you, standing at the end of the hallway, they loosen. 

You look horrible - haggard, tired, your hair tangled and matted. As you move closer to him, he doesn’t miss the way your shoulders are hunched underneath the weight of your backpack. But once you’re standing in front of him, you straighten, lift your chin. 

“What is this?” you ask. “What are you doing here?”

There’s no animosity in your tone, he thinks. You might be trying to put some in there, but you don’t have the energy to do so, so it just comes out sounding very flat.

Joel realizes, suddenly, that he doesn’t have a reason. A real reason that wouldn’t….give him away. He puts his hands on his hips, thinks desperately. You do nothing to help.

When he settles in silence, offers you nothing, you just sigh and shake your head. Your teeth are chattering, lips cracked from the cold, and you seem desperate to get into shelter, twisting your key into your lock and opening the front door. Once you step inside, you flick on the lights. He follows you, closes the door behind you both, and locks it.

“Oh, yeah, come on in, I guess,” you say over your shoulder. 

Joel crosses his arms, standing in your kitchen. 

“What, am I in trouble or something?” you ask. “Because if I am, you’re gonna have to wait until I’ve showered.”

“It can wait,” Joel says, and sits at one of your kitchen chairs. 

You shrug off of your backpack and leave it on a chair, then unbutton your coat, tossing it on top. Joel swallows hard when he sees the damage it’s been hiding. Your scrubs are dirty, tattered in some places, one of the sleeves hanging, partially ripped off. And they’re covered in dried blood. It’s smeared on your arms, on the back of your neck. Not yours, he hopes. 

What the fuck happened to you? You don’t turn to see his reaction, don’t look over your shoulder to see if he’s going to ask about it. It’s almost like he’s not even there, and you clearly wish he isn’t. 

He realizes then, that he has the confirmation he’s looking for. You made it out alive. He doesn’t actually need anything else from you. And you’ve given him a perfect out. He can leave while you’re in the shower. 

But he doesn’t. Not when he hears the shower start, or the screech of the curtain across the metal rod, the sound of water hitting the basin. He stays there, motionless, until you duck out of the bathroom with your arms wrapped around yourself, wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, hair damp and teeth chattering. 

You pad with bare feet onto the tiled area of the kitchen, brushing past him. 

“What the fuck happened to you?” he asks. 

You finally look at him, like you’re surprised he spoke up, or even asked the question. A choked, bitter laugh leaves you, and you shift your attention away from him, reaching into your cabinet for a bottle of bourbon. “Pass.”

You pour yourself a whiskey, and Joel watches you throw it back in one go, your nose scrunching up, your hand clasping into a fist as you take the shot. The taste doesn’t stop you from pouring another drink and gulping that one down, too, without as much of a reaction as the first. It’s only when you start pouring the third that he intervenes, standing and crossing the room to cover the glass with his hand before you can grab it. 

“Slow down,” he says.

“I know you’re not telling me what to do in my own home.” Your mouth opens as you look up at him, incredulous. 

Joel looks past you, shakes his head. He supposes your right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch the self-destructive behavior, which is funny considering how often he engages in it himself. He gives in, removes his hand from your glass. “At least…pour me one. You shouldn’t drink alone.”

Your expression softens slightly, and he’s able to see all the pain you’re hiding, just for a flash, before you turn to retrieve a second glass from your cabinet. 

Once you hand him the whiskey, he sits in the middle of the tiny loveseat you’ve got in your front room, expecting you to sit in the armchair across from it. Instead, you approach with your own drink, nudge his knee with your own, and Joel slides over to make room so you can fall onto the couch beside him. Much closer than he’d expected. 

It’s surprisingly good bourbon, and he wonders how many times you’d wasted it by downing it like you just had, instead of taking your time, savoring. He waits for you to get settled before he speaks again.

“What happened to you?” he tries once more, a little softer this time. 

There’s some contemplation on your end, you look at him for a moment, then at your glass, then back up at him again. He can almost see you trying to figure out how much you’re going to share, but he wants to know everything.

“There was an accident at the hospital,” you answer, finally. 

Joel slings his arm over the back of the couch, angles his body towards where you’re curled up, legs tucked underneath you. I’m listening.

Your voice stays even, blase. “A guard at the border broke protocol…and someone who was infected was brought in. By the time we realized, it was too late….”

“Were you hurt?” 

“Almost.” you say. “I mean, yes, actually, I’m a little scratched up, but…it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.”

Your teeth start chattering again. Joel wonders if it’s because of the cold, or your nerves. Figures it’s probably both.

“My coworker turned and I uhm….I had to…” you say into your glass, your free hand flexing like it’s trying to shake off some unpleasant muscle memory. “I had no choice.”

“I understand,” For whatever reason, he spares you from telling the story. To him, taking down Infected was nothing. But to you…“What else?” he presses.

You shrug, avoiding his eyes, one of your arms coming to grip at your opposite shoulder. “I can’t really remember. A bunch of people died. FEDRA came in and just started gunning everything down….” you shook your head, and straightened up.

“I heard about that,” Joel offers.

“Wait…you knew about this?”

“Yeah.”

“So then why are you here, asking m-” the rest of your sentence drops off, your lips parted slightly. The look on your face shifts, slowly. Your eyes narrow. Remorse turns into something more neutral, then into curiosity. “Oh my god….you were worried about me.”

“No.”

“Yes, you fucking were,” your lips curl slightly, it’s not quite a smile, but it’s something close to amusement. 

“No,” Joel defends himself. “I wanted to hear what happened from someone–”

“No you didn’t,” you interject, but he raises his voice to finish his thought.

“–who actually works there, not FEDRA’s propaganda.”

“No you did not. You’re checking up on me. You came over here after curfew to see if I was–”

“Enough,” Joel growls with enough conviction that it shuts you up, and he’s grateful, but its not enough to wipe the self-satisfied look on your face, because it doesn’t.

“What are we, like, friends now?”

He doesn’t answer, and slugs back the rest of his whiskey.

“Or would that be too much for you?” You don’t wait long for him to give you an answer, probably because you know he won’t respond. “I mean, if we’re both being honest–” He definitely wasn’t being honest. “–Today was really fucked up.”

You’re leaning forward now, some of the space between you is gone. And though you’re trying to give the impression that you’re unphased by everything, your hand is clenched tightly around your glass, and you avoid his eyes. It’s painful to watch you resist the urge to trust him. Not that he’s ever given you a good enough reason to – he knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he wants it anyways.

“It’s funny…” you say after a while. “I remember thinking that I didn’t want to die. At least… not like that. I’ve never felt that before…That’s something, isn’t it?” you ask him. 

Joel looks at you, and is surprised at the vulnerability in your expression, sees you looking for some kind of validation from him. “....It is.” 

You finish off your drink, and put the empty glass on the coffee table, shift closer to him.

“It looks like you healed up okay,” you say, after a spell. “How’s your shoulder?”

“A little sore, nothing I can’t handle.”

“Did you take those antibiotics?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And I can’t even tell you had a black eye.”

“I’m fine,” Joel asserts. 

Another shiver wracks your body, and he can tell this one is actually from the chill – your apartment is cold as fuck, it even is starting to bother him. 

“Don’t you have a heater?”

“Kinda,” you glance over at the radiator in the corner. “Sometimes it works.”

“What do you do when it’s colder than this?” It was only November, things would only get worse. 

You shrug. “I don’t know….just be colder, I guess.”

Joel imagines you curled up in your bed alone, wrapped in a thin comforter, shaking in front of him like you are now. He winces. 

“How long are you going to stay?” you ask, changing the subject.

“I should probably go now.”

You nod, scoot closer. “But maybe…” you trail off, contemplating. 

Joel sits up straighter, prompting you when you don’t speak again. “Maybe what?”

“Maybe you could stick around for a little while longer.” There’s a warm hand, yours, that lands on his thigh, and he recoils like you’ve touched him with a fire iron. He rises to his feet. 

“Hey,” you stand along with him, step in front of him to block the pathway to the door. He could easily get past you, obviously, but it’s not as simple as that. 

Of course he’s fucking thought about what happened the last time he was here – his arms around your waist, his mouth on your neck, your chest, your hands on his shoulders, whining his name. A freak accident, a glitch in the matrix, a statistically improbable thing. 

“What?” he asks as you step forward, the fingers on your free hand sliding into the belt loops of his pants. He feels blood rush to his cheeks, to other places. And you’re still fucking shivering. You look so fucking miserable, he wants to yell at you to put on a coat, to wrap yourself in a blanket, in his arms. 

“Joel,” you say his name softly, tilting your head up, leaning close. And then your hand is on the side of his face, and he realizes you’re fucking pleading with him. He knows what you want, but he has a feeling this isn’t just about sex. You’re looking for comfort, as if he’s capable of giving it. 

“We made a mistake…once,” he tells you. “We’re not going to make it again.”

He says it to hurt you, but it doesn’t work. It’s like you knew it was coming all along. “I knew what I was doing,” you answer, earnest. “Didn’t you?”

Yes. You glance down at his hands, which are squeezed into fists so tightly, his knuckles are white. If he’s not rigid, he’s not sure how he’ll be able to resist. He wants you. God, he wants you. He never thought he’d be able to have you again. 

“I could help you loosen up.”

Joel’s walking on the edge of a one-thousand foot cliff and hoping his foot slips. He wants to surrender. The only thing he thinks might save him is to say the meanest thing he can. Maybe you’d get turned off.

“Listen to yourself,” he says, finding the strength to meet your eyes. “You want me so bad, you sound pathetic.”

“Asshole,” you step closer, your mouth twitches, your lips are inches apart. “Do you think I care what you think about me?”

Joel realizes his plan has backfired. But he really only has himself to blame, he should’ve known better. With you, he’s never in as much control as he wants to be, and deep down, he likes it. 

“Go lie down on the bed.”

It’s the only thing that seems to shock you. “What?” 

“I won’t ask you again,” Joel steps backwards, crosses his arms. “Go lie down.” 

──────

If you told yourself a couple months ago that one day you’d find yourself pinned down by Joel Miller, you’d think it’d be because he was about to kill you. Maybe because you cheated him out of something, maybe because you did something else to piss him off – it didn’t really matter. Regardless of how fucked up it was, that idea would seem more dignified than what was happening now. 

Your back is being pressed deeper into the lumpy old mattress, and he’s on you. His mouth is warm, hot, wet, and dragging down your neck, nipping, sucking, licking. Your hands are itching to reach out, to skate down his torso, trace along his jawline, tug at his hair, but you can’t because he’s got them pinned above you with only one of his own. Anytime you try to fight him, his grip only grows stronger. 

It was shameful, really, but you had asked for this – begged for it, basically. There were a number of reasons why – one of which was to blow off some steam after a near death experience, the other because you’d fucked him before and it had been good, much to your dismay. There was also a third reason that you weren’t interested in acknowledging now. 

After the night Joel had gotten jumped, and you’d taken care of him, everything has changed. It’s a cliche, but true. You’d known what you were doing when it happened, and had no regrets. But it was probably not supposed to happen again, and you tried to keep it that way, more for his sake than anyone else’s. But….he was the one who showed up tonight after he’d heard what had happened. It wasn’t nothing.

Joel pulls away from you so abruptly that you gasp, shivering in the wake of his impossible warmth. 

“Sit up,” he instructs, and you turn to find him at the end of the bed, arms crossed. 

You obey, mostly just for the view. You hope to admire him, fresh from kissing you – flush skin, wet lips, tousled hair. Only he’s frustratingly stoic, unsullied – like he hadn’t been touching you at all. 

“Look at me,” he says, and you do. 

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

“It’s nothing,” you agree. 

“I won’t be gentle.”

“I don’t want you to be gentle.”

“Good,” you watch his shoulders loosen, just a little, and he takes one step backwards, his eyes tracing down your body and then back up. “Strip for me….” 

You aren’t dressed sexy at all, you remember, a sweatshirt and sweatpants. If you had thought this through a little more, you might’ve tried to make it nicer for him. “....Okay.”

“Start with your shirt,” he says, and you grab at the hem, but he snaps at you. “Ah-ah….slower.”

You swallow, nod, and carefully lift the fabric, dragging it up over your stomach, over the swell of your breasts, revealing your tight, thin white tank top. 

“That’s it, nice and slow.” 

Joel’s voice is soft but stern, a low rasp that makes your cunt clench around nothing, and he’s not even touching you. The sweatshirt is pulled over your head, falling somewhere on the crumpled bedspread. 

Languidly, you lean back, shifting your weight to get off the mattress, and Joel palms himself through his jeans. You can see where he’s straining against the denim, and you find it hard to tear your gaze away as you go to pull off your sweatpants. Joel stops you again. 

“Turn around.”

You do, and you’re sure he has a nice view of your ass as you slide them over your hips, bending over to let the fleece pool around your ankles. Slowly, you rise back up, looking at him over your shoulder for approval. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. Your stomach flips. A month ago, you would’ve done anything to get him to stay away from you, and now, you’re terrified to disappoint him. 

That’s the problem. You’d spent most of the day fighting for your life — literally. But even after standing behind a barricade of heavily-armed FEDRA soldiers outside the hospital, you didn’t feel as safe as you did when you saw Joel at your door. You need him. For now, at least.

“Now the shirt,” he tilts his head towards the mattress, nodding encouragingly.

You get back on the bed, sitting back on your heels, and begin to pull the tank top up. It’s your last layer up top, you’re not wearing a bra, and you’re feeling a little vulnerable with him just watching you, fully clothed and composed, your gaze falling down to look at the threadbare linens. 

“Eyes up,” he instructs. “Look at me.”

Taking in a shaky inhale, you do. It’s not easy. Everything about him looks dark, animalistic. A coiled ball of energy, waiting to pounce.

But, even when you’re bare before him, he doesn’t. 

“Lie back, close your eyes.”

Of course, you don’t refuse, settling your head against the pillows. 

There’s a sound of a belt – his belt, unbuckling, the snap of a button, the dip of the bed where he kneels when he comes to hover over you. Two hands land on top of your thighs, pressing the backs against his denim-clad knees, thumbs pushing your legs further apart. 

And then…nothing. He’s still. He’s still for so long, that you actually think that something’s wrong. When you open your eyes, you’re met with a view of the underside of his jaw. You can just make out the pinched expression he’s wearing as he looks down upon you. Disdain, maybe…but it’s not meant for you, it’s for someone else….him.

“Joel,” you murmur. Instinctually, you reach for his hand.

The second it makes contact, he smacks your hand away so hard your whole body jolts. “I told you to close your eyes.”

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, closing them again. 

You are well aware that he’s actively working through shit, probably doing some kind of mental gymnastics to rationalize why it’s okay to fuck you again, which, when you really think about it is kind of….pathetic. It’s the only thing that makes you feel any sort of power in a situation where you’ll surrender everything else. It’s a fair exchange. 

Maybe, on a different day, you would want it softer. You’d like to think he’s capable of that, even though he seems determined he isn’t. Luckily, you don’t want it softer. After today, you want to be so far gone you can’t think. 

Joel answers by leaning down and catching you in a bruising kiss. Finally. You press yourself against him cause you’re freezing and he’s so warm, and you frantically begin to unbutton the flannel he’s wearing, making it about halfway down before he pins your hands above you again.

“Slow down.”

You whine, a little frustrated because all you want to do is touch him. The fingers on his free hand hook around the elastic of your underwear, and he starts to drag them over the curve of your ass. 

He’s got to be joking with how deliberately he’s moving, anticipation only building underneath his featherlight touches.

When he’s got your panties around your ankles, you slide your legs together so he can pull them off entirely, keeping them closed as his weight shifts, and your thighs are pulled back apart.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he doesn’t need to feel you to see it clear as day, with you spread open in front of him. “So fucking desperate.”

He’s all-but glaring at you, like you’ve done something wrong, and for a minute, your eyes flick away, just for a second of relief from the tension.

“What, are you embarrassed?” he asks. 

“N-no,” you stammer, though it was supposed to sound confident. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t press you, his head dipping down to press his lips to your knee, then an inch higher, then an inch higher, then higher – keeping his eyes locked on yours the whole time, an arm winding around your thigh.

“I wanted to do this last time.” A confession. 

“Yeah?” you sigh, trembling. It’s maybe the nicest thing he’s said to you, but you can’t even acknowledge it, because you’re buzzing.

He turns his face, his beard scraping along sensitive skin. “Mhm,” his deep rasp vibrates directly to your cunt, and when his head dips down, you close your eyes – it might just be better to focus on only one sensation at a time, you’re not sure you can handle seeing what he’s about to do.

Joel’s mouth is on you the second you do, and you gasp. He licks up the seam of your lips, mouth latching around your clit, swirling with his tongue, and back down – firm, determined, practiced. You try to buck up, but he has an arm locked around your hips. 

He removes himself from you just enough to utter two words. “Stay still.”

You want to protest, but you realize that he’s let go of your hands, and it gives you the opportunity to thread your fingers into his hair, while you dig your heels into the broad expanse of his back, and he groans, tongue curling into you. 

“I’ve thought about this,” you gasp, answering his earlier admission.

“When?”

“At night. More than once.”

“Fuck,” Joel growls, and you wheeze when he works one finger into you, forcing you to take it along with his next words. “You know how fuckin’ bad that is? Dreamin’ about a man nearly twice your age?”

“I d-don’t care, I want you anyway. Y-you can do whatever you want to me,” It’s too early to be past the point of speaking coherently, it really is, but you’re already there. 

“F-fuck,” Joel repeats himself, and pushes another finger inside you next to the first, the stretch almost uncomfortable, but quickly fading to pleasure. “I’m going to.”

You’re not the going to tell him, though, that he’s the first man whose ever gone down on you, because you’re a little fucking scared for some reason. It’s intimate, very intimate, more than you expected. 

The truth is, you weren’t actually very experienced at all. You could count on one hand the number of partners you’d had, and still not use all of your fingers. While some of them were good enough, they all paled in comparison to Joel. There had never been anyone like Joel. 

His fingers curl as his tongue swirls around your clit and you cry out, inhale sharply. Minute by minute, you’re getting wetter and wetter – can hear yourself with each twist of his fingers inside you, bearing down on him. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he grunts, and your eyes flutter open just for a second, just to see his forehead, dark eyes staring back at you, and his hips dipping, rutting against the mattress. God he’s getting himself off to this. As hot as it is, the thought of not getting to feel him inside you causes a rush of anger. 

“F-feels so good,” you’re right there, already, and it’s pitiful.

“I know, baby, I know,” he says. “You’re already so close, aren’t you?”

Instead of answering, you just nod, gasping. Joel works you right up to the precipice, hands tightening in his hair, hips lifting off the bed – and then he slows a little –  just enough – to pull you back off the edge, and you let out a humiliating sob.

“Shhh!” he hisses with his mouth still on you, resuming the steady pace he had going. A little sigh of relief when you feel your release approaching again. He just lost his rhythm for a moment, it was nothing.

Again, he’s got you right there, you’re so close, hips jerking, breathing in short, sharp pants, something molten working its way up your spine. “Joel, that’s it, please I-”

He falters again – just enough. And it’s gone again.

You realize, with dismay, that he knows exactly what he’s doing. He hadn’t lost his rhythm. He’s doing this on purpose. 

If someone asked – not that anyone would – you wouldn’t be able to recall how long he keeps you in that state, being dragged and dangled, but denied the privilege of falling. It’s torture. 

And at first, you try to be patient. You figure he’ll grow tired, desperate, and eventually want to move on. But apparently, he doesn’t want to move on. He’s content to keep you this way for as long as he sees fit, and you can’t handle it any longer. It’s starting to hurt.

“Please, Joel, let me-” you gasp.

“Let you what?” he pulls back from you, frustratingly too soon, once again.

“Let me come, please, I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please, please-”

“Just a little longer,” he dismisses you.

All you can do is pant and writhe, completely at his mercy. He keeps going like that, and you’ve stopped trying to filter yourself, the sounds he makes as he laves at you are obscene, you can see yourself glistening on his chin, and can feel the sheets damp beneath you. At this point, he’s enjoying this more than you are.

“Joel,” you plead with him again. “It’s too much, I c-can’t. Just, please I really need-”

“You wanna come for me, baby?” he asks. You nod ferociously. 

“Yes, please, please,” 

“You’re so fucking sweet when you beg, you know that? ” he murmurs. “Wish you were like this all the time.”

“Fuck off,” you manage, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You should do this to me more often. 

Joel chuckles, and it vibrates just right, his fingers curling again and you moan, hands tightening in his hair. He’s focused now, you can tell because the constant stream of filth he’s been whispering has finally stopped. He’s persistent.

You’re unable to stay quiet, continuing to whimper just like that and please don’t stop over and over. And then all at once, every muscle in your body grows tense and you cry out, cunt pulsing around him so tightly that his fingers slow. “There you go, pretty girl, that’s it.” 

You whisper his name as he continues to fuck his fingers into you, riding you through your orgasm and licking up the mess you’ve made. 

At some point in the aftermath, Joel withdraws from you, and you hear the sting of his zipper. It takes a moment, but you’re able to see him through heavily lidded eyes, kneeling in front of you with his shirt unbuttoned all the way, pants around his ankles, jerking himself slowly in his hand. God he’s fucking huge, how had you forgotten about that? He’s a vision, beard still wet with you, looking down, watching your chest rise and fall. In that moment you realize two things. One, even though you’ve already come, you somehow want him even more than you had before, and two, you’ve never wanted to suck a dick so bad in your life. 

So you sit up, crawl towards him, and reach out with one hand to take him in your palm. He lets you, sighing, closing down his eyes. First, you have to kiss him, so you rise to your knees, and he pulls you into his arms, one of them winding around your waist, the other coming to rest at the small of your back. “You take such good care of me,” you whisper. 

He grimaces at the words like they’re an insult. You expect him to retaliate, to tell you that you shouldn’t say that sort of thing, but he never does. So you kiss him, gently, bringing your free hand to the side of his face. Once again, he lets you, and you taste yourself when his tongue presses into you mouth. You run your thumb over the head of his cock, and he hums against your touch, almost contentedly.

You’re doing whatever you want to him, and you’re shocked he hasn’t put a stop to it. It could be satisfying enough, you think, just to keep kissing him like this. Still, you sink back towards the bed to test things further. You’re about to wrap your mouth around him, but he pulls you off by your hair, so quickly, so hard that you yelp.

“No.” he says firmly. “Lie back.”

“But I just wanted to-”  

“No.” 

You consider trying to reason with him, but decide it won’t be worth whatever he’d do if you continue to argue.

Joel braces himself with one hand above your shoulder, the other wrapped around his cock, slowly teasing you by rubbing himself up and down a few times, before he gives in, finally pushing into you.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp at the stretch, reaching out grasp at his bicep, arching your back. He’d prepped you, and it was still too much. 

“You can take it,” he says, pressing deeper into you. His hips are all the way flush with yours, he’s to the hilt, and he still snaps them even further, once, holding you there, so deep, you feel like you’re choking on him. “See? There you go.”

It seems like you can’t quite catch your breath, and you squirm underneath him for some kind of friction, some kind of relief from how intense it all is. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel how badly his own body is begging him to move, but he doesn’t. 

“Joel,” you cradle the back of his head, look him in the eyes. “Move, please.”

He doesn’t answer, he just brings his hand to grip your jaw, his thumb and forefinger pressing into the soft flesh of your cheeks. 

“Please?” you murmur again, and his thumb slips into your mouth, silencing you. You suck on it obediently, and after you do, he finally gives you what you want.

──────

Joel told you he wouldn’t be gentle, and he isn’t. 

He hadn’t been able to do this last time. Taste you, spread you open, fuck you properly. His hips snap against yours – ferociously, unrelenting, over and over. You’ve been going at it for awhile now, and he actually wants you to break. He wants you to tell him to slow down, to be a little more tender, not press into you so deep, so hard, so that if he listens, it wouldn’t mean he’s breaking his own promise. He’s got to be rough with you, because he’s afraid of what could happen if he’s not.

But you don’t break. You fucking take it, take him, each time, again and again, your nails digging into arms, your legs locked around his hips. Each time he delves into you, you’re getting wetter and wetter, and yet, you’re still so fucking tight. He doesn’t understand it. It’s been a long fucking time since he’s been with a woman like you – and you might be the best he’s ever had. 

You’re not even making any noise – you’re just panting, gasping in Joel’s ear as you cling to him, and that’s all. He can’t even look you in the eyes. If he does, he knows you’ll see everything that’s wrong with him, and still beg for him to give you more. 

Two hands land on either side of his face, turning his head so you can kiss him. Despite how he’s treating you, you keep trying to connect, to ground yourself. For as much as he wants to refuse, it feels too cruel to deny you. He lets you lock your lips with his own, feels your cunt clutch him even tighter. It’s impossible for you to kiss for more than a few seconds at a time without it getting broken up by a whimper here and there. You’re getting close again, he’s started to get better at recognizing it.

“You’re fucking so perfect on me, baby, you feel that?” he asks, and you nod, breathless. “Taking me so well, such a good fucking girl-”

A gasp from you cuts him off, your eyes squeezing shut as you are taken over by your climax. Joel groans and does everything he can not to come when you start pulsing around him, holding him closer, since there’s nothing else to do. It’s way too intimate…because it’s missionary, and he should’ve known better than to start off like this. 

Pulling out of you is the hardest thing he’s had to do in a while, and he ignores your noises of protest now that he’s left you empty. Then, he flips you onto your stomach. He takes a moment to admire the curve of your ass, how it dips into your waist….to him, your body is perfect, and you’re young, your skin still supple and smooth. There are still places he hasn’t gotten his mouth on, and it’s a shame, he thinks, but tonight his patience is wearing thin. Joel pulls you back until you’re on your knees, and slides back inside. There’s a little resistance, you whimper, but it’s easier than the first time. He wraps an arm around your waist, the other across your chest, and starts to jerk his hips upwards, into you. 

“Oh fuck, Joel,” you sigh in relief.

“I know, I know.”

You drop your head back until it falls against his shoulder, winding your arm back so you can pull at his hair, which kind of fucking hurts, but he likes it. 

Ultimately, you’re pretty easy to please, and it’s not long before he feels the telltale flutter of your walls as you drip down over him, soaking his lap. 

“You’re making a fucking mess, baby. You gonna come for me again?”

All you can do is plead with him. “I can’t, Joel. I can’t do it again, please just-”

“Yes, you can,” he interjects. “I know you can, baby, don’t worry…I’ll help you.”

“O-okay.’ 

He slows the roll of his hips just a little, focuses on deeper, longer strokes, and lets the hand that’s currently squeezing one of your tits fall to where your bodies are joined, finding your clit immediately.

You whine, arching back against him, the swell of your ass packed against his lower stomach. He sees a single tear leaking from the corner of your eye and feels a little guilty for what he’s doing to you. Only a little, though. 

Without any warning, for the third time, you’re coming around him – easier than the last time, like always – and he uses the feeling of you throbbing around him to chase his own release, his hand clapping over your mouth to muffle your moans as he becomes increasingly frantic. 

He turns his head, rakes his teeth along your exposed neck, and sinks them into your pulse point with a groan. Your breath is hot against him when you whimper in response. 

“Just a little more, honey.” He’s so close. You bob your head, though you’ve nearly gone limp in his arms.

Like last time, Joel knows it’s a bad idea, but he’s not going to pull out. The thought of deliberately coming inside you is actually what sends him over the edge, and he’s cursing and moaning your name. You whine at the feeling of him pulsing inside of you, arching back for more, even though he can tell you’re exhausted. 

It’s fucking freezing in your apartment, and yet, his skin is damp with sweat when he finally regains some awareness of his surroundings. He’s panting, you’re sniffling, a weak smile on your face as you catch your breath. Before he can stop himself, he presses his lips to your cheek. 

Joel tilts you both forward – very tentatively, keeping an arm wrapped around your waist. At some point, your hand settled over top of his, and you threaded your fingers between his own, holding his hand across your stomach. You keep it there, even after you’ve settled onto the bed.  

It takes a few minutes before either of you move, but it’s you who gives in first, wriggling out from where he’s got you trapped partially underneath him. 

You retreat to the bathroom, like you did last time. Somewhere during your coupling the linens have slid down the bed, and Joel settles back against the pillows, throwing an arm behind his head.  Now that he’s stopped sweating, he’s just cold, and he reaches to pull the bedspread over him. He should leave, he thinks, before you come out and ask him to. Beat you to the punch. Maybe while you’re still in the bathroom. 

A few minutes later, and you return from the bathroom, dressed again in sweats. He hears you pour yourself a glass of water, gulping it down. You flick off the lamp on your bedside table, and fall into bed next to him, lying rigidly on your back. He should reach out, pull you against him, let you settle in his arms. Instead, Joel rolls over on his side. 

It’s terrible how beautiful you are, he thinks, watching you stare up at the ceiling, hugging yourself. So beautiful, and fucking smart. You’re strong, too, but not as strong as he wishes you were. Of course, no one could ever be that strong.

He whispers your name. You turn your head, pupils still blown wide with lingering lust.

“You need to learn to defend yourself, to shoot a gun, to fight,” he says. “After today.”

“What?” you roll to face him. 

“You said you didn’t want to die,” Joel continues. “So you need to learn. ‘Case something like that happens again.”

“Oh yeah? Lemme guess, you’re gonna teach me?” your voice is a little hoarse after what he’d done to you, and you smirk at him.

“Yes.” It sobers you up, that he’s not fucking with you, or giving you a hard time. “I owe you, remember?” 

“You do.” 

“So…. I’ll teach you.” 

“....Okay.” 

“Alright.”

Joel rolls over to his opposite side, and you’re left staring at his back. Arms wrapped around 

himself in a tight hug, he waits for you to tell him to go.

You never do. 

Instead, he feels the heat of your body as you curl up against him, slotting one of your legs between his own. Your hand grazes up his ribs, over his bicep – a gentle, quick massage – before you tuck your arm underneath his own, your palm flat against his heart. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, frozen at how tender the embrace is. It’s a foreign feeling, he can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. 

The tip of your nose hits the nape of his neck, and he can feel your shuddery exhale.

“I’m cold,” you say, like it’s obvious, lips brushing featherlight against his skin. “And if you’re staying, you might as well make yourself useful.”

He can’t roll over and wrap his arms around you. He can’t kiss your forehead or play with your hair or murmur into your ear. He can’t offer you anything in return. Joel decides, though, if he’s going to accept comfort from anyone, it’s going to be from you.

──────

taglist (basically if you asked for a pt 2 on the last part i tagged you): @bbyanarchist @dlwrish @imaginewrites24 @captain-yellow-96 @daisyintheskyewithdiamonds @sludgec0r33 @c0wb0ym3nace

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #the last of us #the last of us writing #the last of us fanfiction #tlou #tlou hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #writing

[sepublic]

So I've seen some people criticize lately the deconstruction of the child hero trope, arguing that it originally existed as a way of empowering kids who feel ineffective and powerless. And yeah, kids DO have a notable lack of agency that as an adult, you really begin to understand more and appreciate, at least on my end. These are all fair arguments, the deconstruction of the deconstruction, and I don't think they're necessarily wrong. It's just...

Some stories are meant for other people? The thing about this generation is that it's got a LOT on its shoulders. This generation is the one that's tired and burnt out, it has to deal with the burden of a world that's imploding in on itself, and the expectation that they have to fix it. It feels like corporations and politicians are casually destroying the world, knowing future generations will be the ones to have to clean it up, so why should they care?

There's a lot of anxiety and angst about the sociopolitical sphere. We've got the rise of Linkin Park, we've got people becoming jaded with late-stage capitalism and wondering how they can even survive in this economy. The fantasy has shifted from large and grand stuff to simply being able to survive and make a humble yet satisfying living. Kids are becoming burnt out, and being gifted is more apparently not worth the hype.

So I imagine THAT's the appeal behind the deconstruction of the kid protagonist for modern audiences, the one that's like "Hey isn't this fucked up? Isn't this messed up? The fate of the world is on this kid's shoulders, they're just a child soldier?" Because I think it reflects a lot of people's frustration with the adults around them, that it feels like the adults have become useless and are just forcing them to do things on their own, and often for them.

For a lot of young people, it feels like they're being forced to do all of the emotional labor while parents and guardians who tend to fail them, especially for being queer, ultimately slack on their duties by guilt-tripping them; Saying they've already done so much providing shelter and food, so you should be grateful, how dare you expect emotional support and the like!!!

It's all a way to vent frustration over the ineffectivity, and even abuse, of parents and guardians. It's catharsis for angst, because it feels like there's so much wrong with the world; The internet and modern communication has led to this phenomenon of "infowhelming" where kids are constantly bombarded by news of all the world's ills. It's sensory overload, it's a Greta Thunberg situation where it's inherently ridiculous that a kid has to step up and fix things, and instead of acknowledging how much help they need, the adults have the audacity to congratulate this child and put them on a pedestal as the chosen one who will fix things for them. Instead of just taking responsibility themselves.

The "Kid Protagonist is a Child Soldier" deconstruction is an outlet for kids to explore darker emotions, to admit their angst is valid, that this is a really shitty situation and this is how they can deal with it. Growing up, I already had Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, which DID play into the idea of kids cast into too much responsibility because of useless adults around them. It felt like a way for kids to cope with the fact that the world can be a very unfair place, it was cathartic in its acknowledgement of the frustration and its validity.

Plus, it's not as if all these deconstruction stories are saying that kids CAN'T have fun, that they can't do things, because kids DO want to do things!!! They want agency, they want to feel like they're making a difference! It's just that a lot of them also want the reassurance that the adults are still there for them as a support network, that they have people more experienced to fall back and rely on when it's too much; They can do their part but it's not ALL down to them, is that too much to ask for? The nuance of being able to do things, but not having to be the only one?

Sometimes kids like it both ways where they can be an adventurer but also recognize when some things messed them up, so they can have space to breathe before moving onwards. Sometimes they need a break because it IS taxing, but they’ll still go back to it. Sometimes they'll still do the work knowing how necessary it is, while wanting acknowledgement for how hard it was. People write about the traumatic effects of 'bad things' for a reason; They still want to see those bad things in media, for the catharsis of the coping and emotional fallout afterwards.

These defenses of the Kid Protagonist trope and how it resonated with kids from, say, the early 20th century is fair. It's true. But these deconstruction stories of today also apply, in that they're a power fantasy in a different way for different kids of a different generation, with different struggles. So I find it disingenuous to simply dismiss these deconstruction-type stories as just CinemaSins bathos, even if I understand that a lot of people are understandably tired of the MCU's "That just happened" attempts at self-awareness.

And I don't think kids of today are completely decrying straightforward depictions, it's just nice to have those, AND the deconstruction, to flip back and forth between as their mood needs. These types of stories where the protagonists realize they're child soldiers, like Animorphs -which itself was written for teenagers in all their angst- might simply... not be for some people. And that's okay, that's fine! Different stories resonate, different stories serve different purposes because they're by different people.

#ramblings #meta #stories

[cevansbrat0007]

Hey everyone. I feel like I've been very sporadic with my posts lately. I've got a lot of ideas and stories that I want to share with you, but I honestly just haven't had the time to write the way I want.

A lot of my WIPs are at the halfway mark, which is good. But the monkey wrench in all of this is that I signed myself up for another IOP (Intensive Outpatient Program).

It runs four days a week from 6-9pm and is (thankfully) only 6 minutes away from my job. So basically, these days I go to work and then I go to group therapy. Like almost every day.

It's a lot. But it's also good for me. But then again, so is writing. It's my outlet...argh!

I guess I just wanted to say that I'm doing the best I can right now. So please be patient and hopefully I'll have more content to share with you soon.

Love,

Britt ❤️

#britt's notes

[wispstalk]

20 questions for writers

under the cut. Thanks to @everybodyknows-everybodydies for tagging🖤

Tagging back: @nuwanders @jiubilant @ervona @ehlnofay @druidx @blossom-adventures @sylvienerevarine @throughtrialbyfire @da3drat no pressure

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Five

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

198327

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Just elder scrolls. I have a feeling that's gonna be it for me. I've been tempted to write stardew valley fic lately which would perhaps be classed as "crack" (I know what that is in theory but the way people use it makes no sense to me) but I took a cursory look at the tag and I don't think the stardew valley fandom is ready for a ray fic lmao

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Well. I have five.

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try 🫠 it haunts me how often I've left my beloved mutuals on read..... but if that's u and I did, I am telepathically beaming this: !!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ Making out sloppy style etc etc

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

lol. lmao even

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

.....within AO3 I guess it's "Morning" but also that's set at a refugee camp? I will say the skyrim story will have a more peaceful ending but up until now fic writing has been an outlet for my thwarted rage and covid brain damage soooo

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I mean this is generally a culture of positive feedback. Someone did yell at me once for hitting martin septim with the transgender beam which is a level of no-life-havin loserdom which could be classed as "hate" but came off as pure cope and seethe

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I really bristle at the word smut sorry its too cutesy. I was a prodomme for seven years I don't do euphemisms lol. I wrote a sex scene into IITT to see how I felt about writing sex scenes. I learned that I am only interested in writing them if they serve specific functions. I have absolutely zero judgment toward anyone who wants to write about fuckin and suckin, that's just not why I'm here

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

No but recently my household watched game of thrones together and my bf and his brother were cracking jokes like what if one of these medieval characters had a gundam. Neither of them read fic so I was like don't be too entertained by yourselves. I bet that has been written. looked it up on ao3 and sure as shit

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I'm not gonna lie I did find a fic where someone very obviously ripped me off but I don't wanna call them out. One specific instance where they bit my style was so clumsily applied as to be obvious, but their prose in general was fantastic so like. who care.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not as far as I know but that would make me holler

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Nope. I'm not opposed to the idea but it's hard to imagine how I'd do this given my process. I think I'd be pretty difficult to work with

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

?!? I dunno I don't have one. I put a lot of effort into writing martinhok but I could not say that one, due to how overwhelmingly heterosexual the tag is. I'm sorry but can everyone who's not a faggot please pipe down

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I have my moments with the skyrim wip. I've signed myself up for something pretty complicated and challenging but I also learned that I can finish things so I'm not really worried about it. The fact of the matter is: I do not care if this is good. It matters that it is done so I can move on with my life. If parts of it are boring and overlong that's yalls problem

16. What are your writing strengths?

I get a lot of compliments on my worldbuilding. I do think a lot about the minutiae of material culture and think I have a talent for incorporating detail in engaging ways

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm a cornball. This is a corny activity. I don't really care because I'm doing it for free. Enjoy the unsolicited view into an internet stranger's terrible psyche

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I try to apply with a light hand. I'm a dumbass sheltered American and I can mostly make myself understood in a Spanish-speaking country but that's about it. I like playing around with language and the idea of multilingual societies matters to me so I include it, but I'm not a linguist so I try to work within my limits. Whether I am successful at this is up to others.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Elder scrolls. Never felt compelled until i spent a winter playing oblivion and went wow this game has an incredibly bleak narrative behind a silly aesthetic. Oops now I'm in a lore pit

20. Favorite fic you've written?

The Nature of Fire is my best prose hands down. I'm gonna be real with y'all I am desperate for people to read it. It is genuinely the best I can do at this point and if you like what I've done so far, well, whatever u read sucks compared to this fic.

[harringtonswriting]

the one with the green-eyed spider | s.h.

summary: steve knows you're an absolute catch, and unfortunately, so do others; unfortunately, when that happens this time he's in costume and can't quite sweep you off your feet to show the world that he's lucky enough to be yours (modern!au; spidey!steve universe) pairing: steve harrington x gn!reader warning(s): some jealousy, the use of the name joshua for a throwaway jerk (sorry to any nice joshuas out there) word count: 4k notes: this guy kind of got away from me and ended up being waaaaay longer than intended, but i hope you enjoy! thank you to the lovely anon for requesting this, i hope you enjoy it. i've got some more spidey!steve in the works, including another request, and thank you to everyone who filled out the poll so far! it's still open, so if you'd like to fill it out you're more than welcome. i'm so sorry for how long it took me to get this out; i recently lost a close family member and there's been a lot going on with that. i'll try to post when i can, but it make take some time. i appreciate your patience very much!

...

It seems like whenever you ask the universe for a nice, calm day, some signals must get crossed somewhere because that is never what you end up getting.

Like this morning. After you’d woken up and gotten started for the day, all you’d wanted was to go to your favourite nearby cafe with a book and your laptop and maybe get some reading or some work done. And that would be made better by your favourite drink and maybe a couple yummy pastries or snacks. You weren’t meeting up with Steve until later in the afternoon, so you had some time to kill and this seemed like a good way to do it.

So you pack up your things, bid your apartment goodbye for the time being, and head down to your favourite cafe. There’s a miraculously short line when you get there, and not only do you manage to get your favourite cold weather drink and something to eat, you also get very lucky and manage to snag a very nice corner seat that not only has a great view out the window, but an outlet in case you need to charge anything. That should have been your sign that things were going to go downhill. Which they absolutely do.

You manage to get a full twenty minutes of peaceful reading in before someone hunkers down at the table beside you. You’re feeling a little curious as to who’s choosing to sit there, so you look out of the corner of your eye to see a young man who looks about your age, dressed like he just walked out of an American Eagle ad and dropped down into the seat next to you. Pretty, yes, but he’s just another guy. He must catch you looking at him because you see a grin break out over his face, one full of teeth that are so small, so straight, and so shiny that you wonder what American Girl doll sacrificed her teeth for him before he’s leaning in closer to you.

“Hey, I’ve never seen you around here before,” he says; you’ve never seen him in this cafe before either, though with the amount of time you spend there you’re sure you’d have noticed if he was another regular. You look up from your book completely to smile politely at him and acknowledge what he said before you go back to what you’re reading. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to understand that you’re just being polite because before you know it, he’s leaning over even further to get your attention. “I’d definitely remember a stunning face like yours.”

Oh, he’s flirting with you. That’s what he’s doing over here, sitting next to you. He’s definitely coming on a little strong, and while you’re flattered, you have a boyfriend that you love very much. And you wouldn’t trade Steve and his spandex wearing, pun making, chronically late ways for anything (not that you’ll tell him that, though). So, you try to be nice. You place your bookmark on the page you’re currently reading and hold your book in your hands. Your thumb rubs over its spine.

“Oh, no, I’m–” You start speaking, but this guy waves his hand towards you to get you to be quiet. You drop the polite smile because is this guy really waving at you like you’re a child to get you to shut up? He is, and your grip on your book tightens. If this is his technique for hitting on people, no wonder he’s still single (or you hope he’s single, and that his relationship status doesn’t change any time soon).

“I’m Joshua,” he tells you. One of his hands comes to rest on your table, and you raise your eyebrows. “And I need to know your name so I can know what to whisper in your ear when I take you home tonight.” You almost want to laugh because you really didn’t think people still used lines like that outside of cheesy movies or romance novels. You really needed to remember to tell Robin and Nancy about this, they’d find it both infuriating and hilarious. When you open your mouth to respond, that’s when you hear the bells above the door jingle.

And that’s when your day goes from bad to worse.

You hear a very loud voice shout, “Everybody freeze! This is a robbery!” and when you look up, you can see a group of men wearing ski masks near the bar. Of course this group of wannabe thugs would pick today of all days to come into the cafe you’re sitting in to try and rob the register. You wonder if maybe it’s their first time trying something like this, or maybe Kingpin is hiring any group of idiots who can supply their own guns–it wouldn’t surprise you if he drummed up his protection and extortion rackets by using guys like this to cause problems so he can swoop in and solve them. God, you need to stop listening to Eddie when he goes on about mob politics and conspiracy podcasts late at night.

You can see the guns the thugs are carrying, and how they start to spread out to keep an eye on everyone inside the cafe while one of them gets the barista at the cash register to empty it for them. You completely ignore the guy beside you to try and reach into your bag for your phone without being seen–if Steve’s on patrol, he might be able to get here more quickly than the police.

Unfortunately, Joshua doesn’t seem to realize what you’re trying to do and decides to ask, much too loudly, what you’re doing. Which catches the attention of one of the masked thugs. He moves closer to the two of you, brandishing his gun in your direction. You bite your lip, hoping that the safety is on and immediately stopping your movements.

“Hands where we can see them!” he shouts, and you grudgingly withdraw your hands from your bag to place them on the table where they can be seen. The thug points at you, and then turns his attention back towards the bar where his cohorts are. Well, there goes that plan. You see the poor barista finish emptying the register, and the thug closest to her grabs the cliche duffel bag from her hands when she’s done.

That’s when you hear someone clear their throat from near the entrance to the cafe. You look over and feel a sense of relief flood through your chest at seeing a familiar red and blue figure leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You guys are here for double star day too, huh?” Steve asks the thugs, his voice as light and casual as his posture as if he was asking about the weather. His casual demeanour is hiding how he’s sizing up the threat in front of him; you know that he’s already got at least three different strategies planned out as to how he’s going to get this taken care of with as little damage as he can get away with.

“Shit, boss, it’s Spider-Man!” one of the thugs yells, and then all of them are turning their attention to Steve and where he’s standing. He gives them a small bow, gesturing with his arms as he does so.

“Now, that has got to be the weirdest looking reusable cup I’ve ever seen,” Steve says, gesturing towards the gun that the thug closest to him is holding. “You won’t mind if I borrow that, right? I was in such a rush that I forgot mine at home today!”

That’s when Steve starts having his fun. Almost before you can blink, he’s starting to use his webs to either snatch the guns right out of their hands and stick them to either the walls or the ceiling, or just completely web it up in their hands to stop them from using it. It’s always impressive, seeing how quick Steve’s reflexes are when he’s really trying, the way his body just moves and flows, able to shift and change and adapt to any opponent he fights. It’s really a sight to see, even against some low-level thugs like these guys; you can tell he’s toying with them, though, once the guns are out of the picture. He’s flipping in the air up over their heads, letting them run around and nearly crash into each other as he takes turns webbing each of them up to each other, to the walls, and even hanging some from the ceiling.

When he's finished, Steve grabs the duffel bag of cash that the thug leader dropped and walks it back over to the barista behind the cash register.

“I believe this belongs to you. Don’t spend it all in one place,” he tells her, and you hear her thank him profusely. You see one of Steve’s hands come up to scratch the back of his neck, his shoulders shrugging as he accepts her praise before turning back to face the rest of the people gathered in the cafe. “The police will be here soon, and if anyone is injured please let them know so the first responders can help you as soon as possible. It’s bean great!”

As everyone is cheering for Spider-Man (and some people, including yourself, cringe as you understand the pun he was trying to make), your eyes catch the whites of the eyes on Steve’s suit looking in your direction. His head tilts to the side, and you raise a hand as discreetly as you can to wave at him now that he knows you’re here. You’re going to hear about this later, you’re absolutely sure of it. Steve has made it very clear he’s not a fan of you being in any kind of danger, and you’ve made it clear that you can take care of yourself and have been doing so for longer than you’ve known him, but given that you’ve caught him glaring at sheets of paper that have accidentally given you paper cuts, and smacking the kettle in your apartment when you’d once burned your hand on it, you know he’s not going to give up on protecting you any time soon.

He starts walking through the crowd, talking to everyone and making sure they’re okay on his way over to you. But he’s stopped, though, when Joshua suddenly appears in front of you with a coffee cup in hand. Honestly, you’d kind of forgotten about him once you’d seen Steve, but apparently he hasn’t forgotten about you. He’s standing very close to you, almost uncomfortably so–he seems intent on getting between you and Steve, and one of his hands comes up to touch your shoulder.

“I totally knew everything would be okay. So glad that we can get back to over conversation now,” Joshua says. You furrow your eyebrows, shrugging his hand off your shoulder as you look  behind him to see where Steve has gotten to.

He’s not that far away now; close enough to hear what’s going on, but not close enough to step in right now. He’s Spider-Man right now, after all, and you’re not publicly dating Spider-Man. He can’t step in, not without potentially revealing too much about himself because while you don’t like Joshua flirting with you, it’s not technically a crime. You see one of Steve’s feet start tapping on the linoleum floor, which is one of his tells–he’s not happy right now. After knowing him, and then dating him, for as long as you have, you’ve picked up on how he behaves in the suit, his body language and how he moves, because his very pretty, very expressive face is hidden behind wide white and black eyes on a webbed red mask. You can practically see the pout and the frown lines you know are present on his face right now; while that’s normally adorable, you also know Steve has his own insecurities and you don’t want to give him any reason to doubt himself or your relationship.

“I have a boyfriend.” Your voice is polite but firm, and you stand from your seat with your book in hand. You grab your bag and hook the strap over your shoulder (with what’s left of your snack carefully packed up inside).

“Really? Is he here with you?” Joshua asks, raising an eyebrow. He really does not know when to give up, and you shake your head. You’re not in the mood for this right now.

“He’s, uh… at work right now.” Which he is, less than twenty feet away, though this guy doesn’t need to know that work involves semi-legal vigilantism in red and blue spandex.

“Yeah? What does he do? I’m interning at Carver and Cunningham, which is the biggest financial firm in the city.” Oh, of course he’s a finance guy. That explains so much of the entitlement and attitude you’re seeing right now. You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to think of the best way to describe what Steve does. Sure, you could tell this guy the way that Steve actually pays his bills, but where’s the fun in that? Plus, the idea that pops into your head is one you think your boyfriend will appreciate.

“Uh… web design. Freelance stuff. You’ve probably seen his work, it’s pretty amazing.” You can see Steve’s posture perk up over this guy’s shoulder, his chest puffing up just a bit while you grin. He is more than just pretty amazing, and you’re going to make sure you tell him that later.

“Well, I don’t see him here with you,” Joshua says, and his hand comes up towards your shoulder again. And that is when Steve decides to jump in.

“Hey folks, just coming over to make sure everything is all good before I swing out of here. Are you okay?” he asks, dialling up his overly cheery Spider-Man voice more than normal. You can see his fingers twitching towards his webshooters, and you have to bite your bottom lip to keep from smiling. Oh, he’s really not happy. But Joshua doesn’t seem to notice, turning from looking at you to fully face Spider-Man.

“Spider-Man! That was totally wicked, you are amazing, bro,” Joshua tells him,  “Totally had it under control until you got here, though.” Behind him, you raise your eyebrows and your jaw drops just a bit because this guy had it under control? The one who successfully prevented you from contacting Steve earlier than he showed up? Yeah, that’s not true at all.

Steve’s foot starts tapping again as he nods. “I’m sure you did, bro.” One of Steve’s hands settles on his hip as he looks Joshua up and down. “You sure do have a lot of confidence for a guy wearing boat shoes in the city. I will definitely remember that the next time I need help with a mugging, or if something happens on a boat, Skipper.”

You have to cough to hide your laughter at that, and you can practically see the satisfied smirk that Steve will be wearing under his mask. Thankfully, though, Joshua doesn’t seem to pick up on what Steve is really saying. “Thanks man!” He actually seems enthusiastic about it. “You know, I’m kind of an up and coming big deal at Carver and Cunningham. I’d be more than happy to give you some tips, maybe help you set up your portfolio. Being Spider-Man’s financial advisor would look so sick on my resume!”

You kind of want to hear what Steve’s retort to that would be, but he’s saved from continuing the conversation when the distant sound of sirens starts echoing through the cafe. “Oops, that’s my cue! Gotta head out, but you guys stay safe!” Steve waves at the two of you before he shoots a web towards the ceiling with a thwip! He swings off, ghosting by Joshua closely, almost too closely, and then he’s gone and there’s coffee staining the front of Joshua’s outfit.

“Oh man, my shirt!” he exclaims. You take that opportunity to slip past Joshua and thread your way through the small crowd to leave the cafe before he can say anything else to you.

However, by the time you make it outside, Steve is nowhere to be seen no matter where you look. You check your phone and there are no new messages from him either past his usual good morning text letting you know he loves you and your morning breath is terrible with his signature big smiley face emojis. You sigh, hoping that if he’s off dealing with giant lizard men (that you’d need to see to believe, no matter what Steve says and Eddie sends you articles about) or more dumbass thugs somewhere else in the city that he stays safe, and you head for home to spend the rest of your day there.

…

Steve doesn’t get home until much later—it’s almost dinner time when you hear him swing in through the bedroom window, a muffled thump as he no doubt catches his foot on the window sill or maybe knocks into your dresser. You’ve stopped keeping anything breakable on top of it just in case, partially because you know it’ll make Steve more upset than you would be if he accidentally broke something. Which had happened before.

You’re finishing up dinner when you hear the door to your bedroom opening and Steve comes padding out and into the kitchen. You finish plating the pasta and pull the garlic bread out of the oven, putting it down and closing the oven door before you put a few pieces on each plate. You turn to look at him, a smile on your face. He’s wearing his glasses, which he does more out of habit than anything else these days, and a comfy looking pair of joggers and a sweater. He’s also got his backpack in one of his hands, which is a little unusual, but you don’t question it. You smile at him instead, opening your arms for a hug as he stops closer. He lets you wrap your arms around him, squeezing him, and he returns the embrace with his free arm and hand not holding his backpack.

“Welcome home, Steve,” you say, and he echoes the sentiment before the hug ends. You move to grab two glasses and start filling them with water before you move to put them down on the small table you have in the corner of your kitchen. “How was your day? Anything exciting happen?”

“Oh, y’know, the usual. Got some cats out of trees, stopped a jolly green elf from blowing up a bridge, and managed to get in my daily cup of coffee,” he tells you. “Sorry I couldn’t stick around, babe.”

When Steve is Spider-Man, when he’s wearing the suit, you know he’s extra careful about anyone being linked back to him; not just to protect himself and his identity, but to protect the people he loves. You’ve had enough late night talks and comforted him after enough fights and enough nightmares to know that he’s terrified of anything ever happening to you, or Robin, Eddie, Dustin, or anyone else he loves because of him. So you know that in the suit, there’s really nothing he can do in public when he sees you (though in private, you do enjoy showering your personal hero in as much love and affection as you can in and out of the suit), much to Steve’s frustration. Which was extremely apparent today, and brings a small smile to your face.

“I did get you something to make up for it, though,” he tells you, which is when he starts digging through his bag. It takes him a minute, but he finds what he’s looking for and holds it out for you. “Ta da!” It’s one of those square plastic containers you see at the grocery store, ones that have a single serving of cake inside them. You’ve bought them before as treats, or when you and Steve can’t agree on what kind of dessert you want so you each get something different. This cake, however, has obviously gone through a bit of turbulence in Steve’s backpack; he’d probably been swinging around with it, which unfortunately usually causes things to bounce around. A bunch of icing is smushed up against the side of the container, and Steve visibly deflates, with his shoulders lowering and forehead furrowing, when he notices.

“Aw, no,” he says quietly, holding the cake up to inspect through the non-squished side of the container. He squints, one eye closing, before he sighs and drops his bag on the floor. “Okay, well, it was a nice piece of cake when I bought it.”

“No, Steve, it’s still a nice piece of cake,” you try to reassure him, coming back over to stand in front of him and inspect the cake yourself. It looks a little banged up, sure, but it’s still in mostly one piece. It’s your favourite flavour, too, one that Steve isn’t a huge fan of himself. But he still went out of his way to get that for you, and it brings a wonderful warmth to your chest.

“Man, I bet Skipper would have bought you a whole bakery with no smushed cakes.” He’s still a bit sour, though, with a line appearing between his pinched brows. You wrap one arm around his waist, and use the other to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch before his warm, shining brown eyes meet yours.

“Stevie, he could use his trust fund to buy every bakery in the city and I’d still choose you and this wonderful smushed cake every single time.” And, for good measure, you add in that, “His jokes weren’t even funny.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, mumbling something about boat shoes and comedic timing before he looks between you and the plastic container that’s still in his hand. “You sure you’re happy settling for smushed cake?” He’s not asking about the cake this time, though, and you know he needs a little more reassurance than normal right now so you nod and press your own kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Steve, baby, I will always love your cake the most. And it’ll taste exactly the same, I promise. I appreciate that you got it for me.” Because you do. You’ll always choose Steve, you know you will, and you want him to know it too. The smile that blooms across his face tells you as much, and he stands just a little bit taller beside you. “C’mon, I think we’ve got some leftover icing in the fridge from when Robin wanted cupcakes. We can put that on the cake when we finish dinner.”

“Or, hear me out, we could have dessert first?” He looks so happy that you can’t say no to him. You really can’t, and so you let go of him to cover your dinners while he cheers. You grab a knife and two forks, and then you grab the tub of icing from the fridge, and sit down at the table to start eating the cake.

You were right; it does still taste good, even though it’s been through a lot on its journey home, and you scoop up a bit on your fork before you hold it out towards Steve’s mouth. His cheeks flush a bright pink and the corners of his eyes crinkle with crow’s feet as he opens his mouth and allows you to feed him. He then does the same for you, moving his fork around before you open your mouth and allow him to put the small piece of cake in there. “One day we’ll do this at our wedding. But the cake won’t be smushed then, I promise,” he says, and god, do you believe him. It’d be just your luck that the cake would be smushed, even at your wedding, but as long as Steve is still sitting across from you and making airplane noises as he feeds you, you know it’ll be just as perfect then as it is now.

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #stranger things reader insert #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington #stranger things #spidey!steve

[crescencestudio]

“Would you choose me in every lifetime?”

Announcing “intertwine,” a short visual novel coming to otome jam 2023 🪡

Hi my friends 💖 I’m adding some Alaris updates under the cut to reassure you of development in case you’re worried about otome jam + Alaris!

I’ve been going back and forth on whether to post this or just keep it to myself, but I thought for the sake of transparency, communication with fans, and just normalizing the harder parts of game dev, it would be better to talk about this.

This is NOT bad news about Alaris, so please don’t freak out! But as you all may or may not have figured from my devlogs, I've been struggling with working on Alaris for the past... 2 months? I've made progress on it as much as I'm able to, but I've often found myself coming up against a creative wall and/or burnout. And I often feel like I'm disappointing you all because of it. There are a couple of internal deadlines I had set for myself that I just haven't been reaching lately, and while I know no one is actually rushing me, I feel like I'm dropping the ball.

This is common for a lot of indie developers, but I'm a solo developer. While I have a small team who helps me polish Alaris (i.e., editors, BG artist, GUI artist), at the end of the day, I'm the one who is in charge of everything. I don't have a separate person who can handle building out the art assets, or someone who oversees the writing, etc. And so, to feel like I'm making sufficient progress on Alaris, I'm constantly working on it, whether that's reviewing edits, creating CGs, writing the script, approving art assets/creating briefs for those assets, etc. And I do have a day job haha.

For most of Alaris's development, Alaris was my creative hobby, so I didn't really mind putting so much work into it. But lately, I think because I've been revamping the demo, I feel like I've been in this ~game dev thang~ for two years with no complete product to show for it. And having to go back and redo the demo two years into development is like an extra knife to the gut since it feels like... backward progress almost? Even though I know that's not true.

So while an otome jam project might feel inappropriate given I have Alaris to work on, it's something I've wanted to do since becoming a game dev. And after some encouragement from dev friends, I decided to take the leap because having a different creative outlet might resolve some of my struggles with Alaris. Getting to have one complete project would also be a super huge motivation booster for me!

I'm super happy to say that intertwine has been just what I needed. I've felt more motivated to work on both intertwine and Alaris and my dissertation lmao. As I've mentioned, Druk's route has been giving me a hard time, but I recently made a lot of progress on it. Overall, the creative process has just been coming to me more smoothly. So I'm excited to bring you all a complete game by the end of June as well as, what I hope to be, a lot of really nice progress on Alaris <3

#intertwine #wow a new game tag #otome jam my fated love we will be united this year!!!

[vesemirsexual]

Is there a biological reason for the cats being crazy? Like from mutations? Or is it just a group thing?

I feel like the average Witcher has potential for a breakdown, not only because of mutations but because they're an outcast group who experience significant childhood trauma, repeated physical, emotional and social trauma as adults, and then don't...really have any good outlets? Varies between individuals clearly but it's not as if they have therapists up in the Worlds Worst Boarding Schools (who also both directly and indirectly reinforce a lot of negative self-belief).

I've said before: I personally headcanon that the Cat mages sucked at what they did. Changing mutations between each group is an odd choice, because if you had a solid base plan you really would want to stick with that (because you'd have to be mutating genes, and they're absolutely bastards who like to surprise you with downstream changes/links to other functions). I'm thinking that either a) when the Cats split from the original Witcher Order, someone did not take the full instructions or anyone senior enough to know them in-depth with them or b) they really are just taking the bottom of the barrel magic practitioners to do this.

Biologically? Well, you're mutating children (violent medical trauma) who are going into puberty (important developmental stage not just physically, but also mentally) so yeah, conceivably you could be seriously causing damage beyond what we already know the Trials cause. In terms of the Cats, it seems to be emphasized they suffer from psychosis - I've read papers before that suggest massive hormonal upheavals and changes can induce it (off the top of my head, I can think of a case where a man suffered from an acute sudden onset, late stage for presentation, no prior history, no drug catalyst, turned out he had an adrenal tumor which was massively altering his cortisol axis).

So technically, yes. We know that mutations alter neuroendocrinological systems, and if the Cats were deviating from what everyone else was doing, it could lead to a pre-disposition. Paired with childhood trauma, medical trauma, frequent physical injury, use of stimulants (i.e potions) and on-going traumatic events could then act as a trigger.

(Note: @t4tlambert has a very good post I'll need to rediscover, but I also think we should be careful because a lot of the time when people discuss Cat Witchers and in-canon associations with 1) psychotic episodes and 2) violent events, it's done in a way that while be completely unintentional, is still perpetuating ableism).

#katie txt #meta #analysis #school of the cat

[swervdcity-arc]

hi hii i love you all. just wanted to drop an activity/life update on the dash since ive been almost radio silent. by no means do you have to read all of it, but just know i might not be online for a bit until i get my shit together! if inactivity bothers u at all, feel free to hardblock me if you so desire. tw for drug abuse, substance abuse, self harm.

ive struggled with substance abuse problems for a big part of my life, almost ALWAYS exacerbated by anxiety and my chronic stomach problems. i was clean from painkillers for almost 8 months (give or take) and i relapsed this week. i talked with my partner about it and weve already discussed plans of action, but so far, ive been good for the past 4 days so thats a winnnn.

i can already feel a MASSIVE difference in my body since. i've been trying my best to keep myself healthy these past couple of days, and at the least feel like a living person, and its really fucking difficult. i dont have a lot going on for me rn, so theres not much i can do to distract myself. i did hang out with one of my long time besties last night and had a blast, so that was really really awesome.

i have a support system, i'm safe, and i know from here its back to the uphill battle. it can feel really really bleak, and its honestly been incredibly embarrassing to even acknowledge a relapse or that i had a problem in the first place. but im really grateful that i'm truly in a place and surrounded by people who care for me and want to see me get better.

if ive been super silent lately, this is why. i try to tend to me relationships the best i can, because i do care for them truly, and i love chatting with my tumblr besties. ive just been exhausted and havent had the capacity to even say "heyyy im going thru it im going dark for a bit." but please know im not ghosting you or anything, i just havent had the brain power to say whats going on.

i will be here though! soon! when i feel better and capable of doing so! i wont lie, i LOVE writing here even though it kicks my ass sometimes. its become such an important creative outlet for me, and despite the Problems, i feel safe and happy in my community. i love writing with yall, i love the people with make up and making them kiss, i love reading and writing lore. its really important to be as a hobby, so you definitely will see me back.

i might pop on the dash every now and then to say hi and yell about stuff, i might draft sum shit up soon, but im going to be prioritizing getting my shit together for the time being.

xoxo godsip girl

#tw: drug abuse #tw: drug mention #tw: substance abuse #if theres anything else i need to tag please let me know #ooc

[stevengrant-enthusiast]

Drunken Confessions

note: Hello!1 I'm having brain rot and currently procrastinating on my research paper. and instead, I wrote this. This is the first fic I've ever written, so please be kind! Please excuse any grammatical mistakes (I wrote this at 2 am). I don't know if anyone will actually read the shit that I post here, but I'm just gonna use this blog as a creative outlet. Love ya'll and enjoy

SUMMARY: You are sad because of Jake Lockley. You are drunk. You tell him that you are sad in your drunk state. That's it.

Pairing: Jake Lockley x gn!Reader (Marc and Steven mentioned)

Rating: fluff! and angst?? Kissing. idk

Warnings: ***I DO NOT HAVE DID** Unrealistic depiction of DID. If I wrote something that is offense, please let me know and I'll fix it ASAP. mentions of alcohol. Established relationship. No use of y/n.

Word Count:900

♥ ♥ ♥

Drinking when sad is never a good idea. But when your friends drag you along their bar hopping adventures on a Saturday in London, you already knew that getting pissed drunk was inevitable even before the night began. 

Your shit attitude tonight didn’t arise from the fact that you were late to your work today or because your boss chewed you out for a mistake your co-worker made on a report, but rather something- or someone- else. Jake Lockley. 

It’s so stupid. You know Jake. He’s a night owl and your schedules don’t really match up. He didn’t mean for it to happen but you guys have just been out of sync lately. And before he knew it, it had almost been 2 weeks since you last saw each other. But as the days went on, you couldn’t help but feel that a piece of you was missing- like a black and empty void growing bigger and bigger everyday. 

You guessed that tonight (plus the alcohol) was the final straw, the tipping moment that sent you into a dizzy nightmare of paranoia. Or more realistically, your sobriety had left you along with your rationale and critical thinking skills, because by the end of the night, you had fallen into the deep conspiracy that Jake was avoiding you. He didn’t love you anymore and never wanted to see you again. 

And before you could clear your head of this catastrophe of a thought, you were at their doorstep. Still drunk and wobbly. 

Slowly, you give three knocks on the door and it opens almost immediately- it’s Jake. You figure (even in your drunken state) from his hat and tie that he is on his way out for the night shift as a cab driver. It’s Saturday night, so yeah. A lot of drunk strangers are probably looking for a ride back home at this hour. 

But right now, you see him. In his white shirt. A little scruff of a beard. You didn’t mean to cry, but you couldn’t help the tears that fell fervently at the beautiful sight of him. 

“Mi vida?! What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”

Of course his mind would go to that. But instead of answering, you just look at him with glassy eyes and a slight frown. His eyes are blown open with concern and his brows in a furrow. His hands are readily reaching out in a desperate attempt to comfort you.

You subside the tears for a moment to gather the courage to ask him the impending question that has been bothering you for the past couple hours.

“Jake.. Where have you been? I missed you..”

His face relaxes and tilts slightly up in realization. He pulls you inside the flat by the waist and holds you close. 

“Lo siento mi alma… I’ve been so busy lately. I’ve neglected you.”

Your heart breaks silently at his words. Here’s Jake, busting his ass on his job. Dealing with annoying drunks every night and coming home at the crack of dawn. And you’re selfishly centering yourself in his problems. You look up at him with a face somehow sadder than before.

“No, no. Don’t be sorry. you didn’t do anything wrong. I- I just thought you didn’t want to see me anymore. I’m sorry.”

“That's insane mi corazón, you know that. But I'm so sorry for making you feel that way. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“It's just.. just sometimes I'm too sensitive I guess. And.. I feel like I'm not there for you when you need my support or anything else.”

You choke on your words as they come up. In an attempt to fight the tears that are on the verge of spilling, you bite your lower lip and bury your face into his chest, soaking up his white shirt.

Jake gently cups your face in his big hands and tilts it to meet your gaze. He looks at you with his puppy dog eyes that kind of remind you of Steven. But unlike Steven, his look carries a sternness behind them. It's a bittersweet look, but it tells you that he's here for you. And he is serious about you.

“No. You’re perfect for me. You don't owe me anything. And I’ve missed you too, angel. so much.”

“I care about you Jake. I wanna know what you’re up to, y’know? I wanna hear about your day..”

“I know love. I’ll come out more often I swear. I guess I didn’t want to bother when you spend time with Steven or Marc.” 

Your heart swoons at him concerning over your relationship with the other moonboys. You love them all equally so so much. 

And the truth is, of course Jake missed you. Everything about you. But for him, just seeing you through the eyes of Marc and Steven was enough. The mere sight of you gave him all the strength he needed to go on about his day. He just forgot for a second that you also need him as well. The thought makes his heart warm and he smiles. 

“I wanna spend time with you too, dumbass!” you reply.

You both start laughing and before you know it, you’re kissing him. It's a little sloppy, given your state, but it's with earnest conviction. You kiss him like he’s water and you’re dying of dehydration on a blazing desert. It’s a kiss that’s gentle yet powerful, both parties so needy but cautious. It’s crazy. You didn’t know you were capable of giving and receiving so much love before meeting these three. And you thank the stars for letting their paths cross with yours. 

To your disliking, you part from his lips. 

“When do you have to leave?” you ask.

He checks his phone for the time.

“In thirty or forty minutes? Why?”

At his response, you crash your lips back onto his face and push him to the bedroom. 

♥ ♥ ♥

THANK YOU FOR READING. Maybe ill write a part two if I can gather the courage to write smut.. As of now, I can't do it without getting into a laughing fit all alone in my dorm, making me look like the JokerTM. (I think my roommates are worried).

#moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #jake lockley x gender neutral reader #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fic #oscar issac #marvel #mcu #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you

[pebblysand]

Heyyyy im dying for an update on castles!! Any hope of getting one soon?😭💗

hi anon! thanks for your message! the tl;dr answer to this is: no.

or, i don't know. maybe? sigh. it's just been a lot lately.

it's a funny one, you know? most of you will not remember this, but there used to be a time when i would share (maybe overshare - is that a word? i've always wondered why that is a word when it's your platform and your rules and people can just choose to ignore you) on tumblr. not just about fics and writing and peaky blinders, but also about me. the stuff i felt. the stuff that was going on in my life. lots of things.

i grew up in an era of blogging and livejournal (seeing dreamwidth make a comeback lately is oh-so-bizarre, btw) where people opened up online - sometimes too much. this was before doxxing, before cancel culture, before it became dangerous to do so. people would complain about their jobs, their mates - the internet was an outlet. and, i don't know if it was better or worse, i'm not here to make value judgements and i've always thought people who say "things were better in my day" sound like absolute twats, but it was undoubtedly different. i've had this conversation with someone on discord lately, about the dreamwidth comeback actually, when this person said: 'people get real personal on there, though' and i was like: 'yeah, i suppose it's just the culture of the place.' a place where, unlike tumblr and everything that came after it, most of the content produced was through words, rather than images. when the internet was still made for writers and you weren't afraid of "clogging" someone's dash with posts that were too long to be digested in less than ten seconds.

the thing is: i like writing. it makes it easier to organise thoughts. and, up to 2020 (2021, even) i used to post monthly updates on my writing, but also about my life, for you. remember how i told you when i passed my bar exam? how i quit my job, found another job, and then another one. i told you about the boy and hinted at my break-up. i told you about how one of my best friends sank into a very toxic relationship, from which i couldn't save her. i told you when my dad died. it wasn't even that long ago. and, i explained to you that for these reasons, and maybe others, i didn't have a chapter out as early as i would have liked. and, you understood. you were kept up with what was going on. it was the pandemic and a different time.

but then, gradually (oh-so-quickly and oh-so-slowly), "you" became "many." i like that word - "many" - it's what my hairdresser said the first time she cut my hair: "they are very fine, but there are very, very, many of them." i suppose that between the first chapter of castles and the latest, my follower count grew into the hundreds and i got - well, scared. scared to share: what i thought, why i wasn't posting, how much or how little i was writing, how i was feeling. because there were too many of you. because i started to hold myself up to higher standards, too.

the truth is that no one wants to listen to anyone on the internet complain. it's not fun. and, specifically, no one wants to listen to fanfiction writers complain. why would they? why would they moan about how busy they are? about how creatively drained they might be? about how maintaining a healthy balance between real life, a job, and writing, is hard, if you do it seriously. because it's a hobby. because it's not "real" writing. because it doesn't matter.

well, anon, i'll tell you something. the voice in my head, it goes like this: why are you tired? it's just fanfiction. stop taking yourself and your little stupid story so seriously. stop thinking this is Important because you're writing about something you feel is important. no one cares. and: you only wrote 80,000 words last year, people write full-blown nanos in a month, calm down. it's not that bad, you don't have children. it's not that bad, you don't have dying parents. it's not that bad, you have money. you're a white cis privileged girl who can afford to spend her free time on writing because you don't have to work multiple paying jobs to foot the bills. so many people do. people who are much busier than you write a lot more than you do. shut up, what are you crying about? why are you responding to this poor anon with anything other than "soon, i hope." they weren't even mean about it.

and, i like the word "many" because it encompasses the realness of it, the repetition of it. many, many, many. it's less theoretical than "a lot". you can't say: a lot, a lot, a lot. it's morning as i write this, irish drizzle blown in by the wind against my window, thin droplets like static and i wonder: could i isolate thirty thousand? count up to thirty thousand little drops of rain against glass and imagine what that would look like as people. that's a small stadium, isn't it? and, it's also almost how many people have clicked on castles, in the past three years. it's also how many people, in my head, are telling me to just suck it up and write the next chapter. it's been a month already, hasn't it?

to tell you the truth, i still overshare with some people. there's a very small discord i'm on which is more like a group chat with my best internet friends. it's a lot of fun. and, i'm not going to tag them here for fear that you might come at them with pitchforks, but after i was explaining this to them, how exhausted and drained and lost i've been feeling lately, i had some, last week, tell me i should just give up castles. just stop, recharge, take care of myself. it's just a fic, it doesn't matter. let it go, you know?

so, yeah. you read that right, anon dearest. people who i really love, and trust, told me i should put your beloved on an indefinite hiatus and move on with my life. how's that for an update? and, they didn't say it in a "this is a bad fic and it's not worth continuing" kind of way, but in a "it's not worth working yourself into the ground" kind of way. in a "fanfiction is a hobby" kind of way.

i typically count years from september to august (i'm still in school, in my head, sue me) and this past one has been long and hard. for reasons that i won't explain because of the "very many" issue i mentioned above. for reasons that i also won't explain because as i also mentioned above, i can't help but always compare myself to people who have it worse. but, the fact of the matter is that whilst i'm not really asking for sympathy, i do want to say this, as i hope it will help provide a bit of context to how i'm feeling right now, in terms of writing.

anon dearest, i'm exhausted. i'm bored. i'm turning thirty in 24 days. i'm sick and tired of putting everything in my life on hold "until i finish castles". i would estimate that right now (and for the past three years) castles has eaten up about 75% of my free time. i think the first couple years, i didn't really mind. because it was the pandemic. because there wasn't much else i wanted to do. but now, when i see my friends, i try to schedule it on weekday evenings because i want to keep my weekends for writing. when i travel at the weekends, take holidays, do anything that will take me more than a couple hours, it's a compromise made against writing time. a compromise i often feel guilty about because it delays the next update and because ultimately, it delays the moment when i do finish castles. when i am able to move on to something else. move on with my life and also maybe another story of my own.

these past few months, i wrote almost every day from late march until last week because i knew i'd be going home to france in august and wouldn't be able to write there, so i needed to get ahead. everything in my life is planned around writing and updating and i'm a little bit burnt out, anon. it's typical summer me, nothing to really worry about, i felt the same last year (those who were already here will remember) but it doesn't make it suck less. and, that's why people are telling me to give up. because i keep getting stuck in this cycle of overworking myself, getting burnt out, taking a month off and diving back in again. it's fanfiction and it's a hobby and it's meant to be fun and it's just not fun anymore. it feels endless and draining and like a vampire eating my "good" years. time my mates are spending getting married and having children. and, even if i don't think that's what i want for myself, precisely, i still don't feel like the life i'm currently living is one i want to be living in five years' time.

i don't want to be exhausted. i don't want to be working all the time. this groundhog day of getting up, opening up my (work, or personal) laptop, deliveroo-ing my meals, working until 9:30 pm, and repeat. i have seven chapters left to go to the end, which will take 12 to 18 months, and i don't think i can go on like this for another year. i don't want to. something's gotta give: my IRL life, my job, or this "hobby", and it is logical (oh-so-logical) that it should be the latter.

and, yet. when my pocket friends suggested this, i came at them with pitchforks. i said: no. no, no, no, no. i can't give up. i don't want to give up. i love this story. it's unnerving and draining and exhausting, but haven't touched it for a week and i already miss it - it's crazy. and, it's true: it's not fun, but writing, to me, has never been "fun". it's: fulfilling, exhilarating, meaningful, it gives me the chills and a sense of peace but it's not "fun". i don't know who the fuck writes for "fun". you can enjoy things that aren't "fun", you know? i definitely do.

and, if i had to pick one thing to give up on that list, honestly, it would be my job - 100%. i'd finish castles in six months, if i could give that up. but, i can't, lovely anon. because fanfic doesn't pay. because writing doesn't pay. and whilst i do have a savings account that i intend to use someday to take time off to write, i don't think i could justify using it for anything other than original fiction. because at least, there would be a tiny bit of hope that the book might get picked up and i could make my money back. i can't, like, quit my job to write fanfiction, can i? even if i did set up a patreon, i doubt you all would want to fund me, lol.

so, i don't know. i don't know what to do, anon. i don't want to give up castles. realistically, i probably won't. realistically, i'm probably going to keep ploughing through and overworking myself and feeling like i'm throwing my youth and my free time away into this project that everyone will most likely forget the moment it is finished. right now, to answer your question, i have about 6,000 words on the new chapter. right now, i'm also taking august off writing. to recharge, to sleep, and only write if i feel like it. later? i don't know. i think i'm in a place where i've just got 30,000 words out in three months and i'm too brain-dead to think clearly. i am acutely aware that this issue doesn't have a solution (or at least one that i like) but i might be more willing to compromise my life again after a bit of rest and holidays.

anyway, sorry for being a debbie downer, anon. and sorry i don't have an update for you. i'm dying for one, too.

#asked and answered #castles #i might delete this later cause it's so depressing and it's not *me* but it's also how i feel right now #i just don't know what to do lads

[nicksbestie]

hi lovie <3 you know i've been feeling really meh lately so maybe something with luke where he takes the day off to spend time in bed with the reader and make her feel loved and wanted? just really soft and cozy and warm vibes please. i can be more specific too if you want!

ily<33

word count : 1055

warnings : descriptions of depression and medication

<3

enjoy!

Depression sucks.

There’s no other way to describe it. It’s a debilitating illness that causes so much pain over the course of your life, and for a lot of people, it’s incredibly difficult to handle, even with medication, therapy, and other forms of help. You knew first hand just how difficult it was, having been attempting to continue with life as normal as possible whilst managing it for years now. The only thing that kept you going during a lot of your bad days was the fact that you had a loving partner who always put his best effort into helping you feel better. Of course, with Luke’s job, he was normally very busy. But despite this, he always made sure that you didn’t feel alone, that he loved you, and that there wasn’t a place he’d rather be than with you. 

Unfortunately, you had been having a bad night, and were not looking forward to when he inevitably had to leave for a writing session with the band in the morning. He wouldn’t be gone terribly long, but you just didn’t feel like you could function by yourself. However, even knowing that Luke cared so deeply about your well-being, you didn’t mention this to him, knowing how taxing his job could be, and how much he loved writing and creating music, especially with the band. It was his outlet, his do-it-yourself version of therapy, what kept him happy most days, and you didn’t want to take that away from him. The reasonable part of you knew that he would be happy to spend time with you and soothe your hurt, but the irrational part of you that told you that you would be bothering him won out, and you kept your mouth shut.

However, what you didn’t know was that Luke could read you like a book. He knew as soon as you comfortably laid down in his arms the previous night that you were struggling, and the second that you fell asleep, he sent off a text to the band’s group chat informing them that he wouldn’t be there the next day. He managed to slip out of bed an hour or two later, seeing as you had gotten too hot in his arms and adjusted a little bit away from him. He wasn’t intending to be nosy, but as he walked into the kitchen, seeing your medicine bottles on the counter, he noticed there were way too many in there to be halfway through a ninety-day supply. He decided to place it on the backburner for right now, knowing that taking them might definitely benefit you, but he also knew firsthand that once you got into a slump of not taking them, it was difficult to get back on track. 

He personally had never liked being on medication, even for the smallest of things, because it made him feel like his happiness revolved around a drug. But even with this being said, he still dealt with it when he was prescribed them, knowing that they made his lifestyle easier on his mind. Getting something to drink before heading back to bed, he felt incredibly sad at the notion that because of his lfiestyle, you were probably feeling worse than you may have been normally, because he was gone so much more. He made a silent vow to himself that he would make as many changes as he could to be home more, and luckily his job was flexible even though it was so busy. There wasn’t much that he could do about tour, but he could try and reschedule writing sessions or do it over the phone from home as much as he could. Obviously there would be times he couldn’t, but he would still do everything he could to make it easier on the both of you and give you more quality time with him. He got back into bed with you, you still being absolutely knocked out, and fell asleep curled up next to you.

When you woke up the next morning, you were incredibly shocked to see Luke still there, as it was nearing 10:30, and he had told you that the writing session was due to start at ten. He was still comfortably asleep next to you, always a late sleeper, especially when he wasn’t on tour. He always used as much of that time as he could to catch up on sleep, attempting to get his schedule back on track. But, because you were under the impression he was late, you roughly  shook him awake, feeling bad when he reached up to rub one eye. It took him a second or two to form a coherent sentence, yawning halfway through it. 

“What’s- what is it?” 

“You’re late! You were supposed to be at the studio nearly thirty minutes ago!”

He yawned again, checking the time before rolling back over and pulling you into his arms. Now it was your turn to be utterly confused, wondering why he wasn’t rushing considering Luke hated being late. 

“You have to go! Why aren’t you getting up?” 

He cracked a small smile at your concern, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. 

“Relax, love. I told them I wasn’t coming today. I know you need me here.” 

You were always anxious about being a burden, and because of this, attempted to squirm out of his grasp. 

“No, you need to go. I’m fine, I’ll be fine-” 

He cut you off with another gentle kiss, this time to your lips. 

“No, you’re not. I’m staying, end of story. We don’t have to talk about it, but I’m not leaving you when I know you’ve been struggling. You haven’t been taking your meds, which hasn’t been helping, and I know you need someone with you today. I’d rather be here, with you, than be at the studio, and I hope you believe me when I say that, because I have never meant anything more.” 

It didn’t take long for you to break down in tears, some happy that he was staying, mostly sad because you were feeling badly. However, he stayed there with you the whole day, helping with every small task you didn’t feel strong enough to accomplish on your own, and you had never felt more loved.

#5sos fic #5sos fluff #5sos angst #5sos #5sos x reader #5sosfam #luke hemmings x reader #luke hemmings fluff #luke hemmings angst #boyfriend luke hemmings

[bearsbeetsbeskar]

personal updates (and where tf I've been basically the last month and a half - nothing crazy)

hello beauties

i feel like it's been a hot MINUTE since I've consistently posted on my blog here and that's due to many reasons, the main one being school. I'm in the final two weeks of my masters program and everything is due at once, and shit is hitting the fan basically as I hunker down to get these assignments done over the next two days (pray for me y'all)

also I started a little nsfw side blog for the horny thoughts (and maybe some pictures🌚) that kind of took off and went rampant (which I was not anticipating whatsoever), and I've found myself spending more time on there, than here. I won't lie, the stress of school and other shit going on in my life, made it a nice fun outlet for the time being, but's a lot more lonely than the fandom side of tumblr.

if i am being honest though, it's been hard to still be engaged with fandom stuff, be excited about new content, and I honestly can't remember for the life of me the last time I read any sort of pedro fic. I haven't had the desire to read anything or even write anything as of late cause I just don't feel as connected to this blog lately, compared to how often I was posting in the beginning of the new year. I feel like the lack of new pedro content has also contributed to that, and I also wonder if maybe taking a small break from it in the last month or so (and touching grass) kind of made me hyper aware of how much time I was spending online.

I'm not taking a break, but i think it will be better for me to return to posting consistently once I am finally fucking done school after April 5th. and that goes for the fics and WIPs I had on the go, they are definitely not abandoned and I will return to finish them, once I'm wrapped up with this program.

anyways, I love you all so freaking much and I am still so grateful for this lil corner of the internet where we can be feral and hyperfixate over a middle aged man ❤️

#life updates #ramblings #nothing crazy #in the final stretch of grad school but I'm sure everything will calm back down after that!! #i miss you all and I miss pedro so much ugh #personal

[helshades]

Could you please explain why people are so opposed to the pension reform? I'm trying to understand, but living in a country where you can retire at 67 but keep working until 70 if you wish, and everyone is fine with that, I feel I must have missed something.

(Happy to be sent resources if you don't want to make a writeup!)

Same anon as before, forgot to mention I read french so no trouble if you send me french articles or posts. (That is, if you answer the ask, if so thanks in advance!)

It's really not on you, but your Ask did depress me a tad. It aligned with many comments I've spotted across the media coverage of the current French crisis in foreign countries, and most public reactions to it. The worst ones are definitely racist, along the lines of mocking them French that never want to work, but I know the most benign to be genuine: how come the French get to retire so early in life still, and why are they protesting an apparently necessary, surely inevitable, evidently inexorable raise of the legal age for a full pension, when everybody else must retire later in life, which they deem to be entirely natural and normal?

I was about to ask you how did you think the French got to retire as early as 55–60 years of age not that long ago (62 today) if not because of their infamous propensity to go on strike and protest a lot in the first place—in truth I was debating with myself on the tone I should adopt to say it—when it struck me suddenly: the crucial part of your comment was not the age for legal retirement in your country... Rather, it was whether or not the people in your country really happen to be ‘fine with that’.

In late January, the man who modified the Swedish pension system twenty years ago, raising the retirement age to 65, was interviewed by French news outlet. Karl Gustaf-Scherman, who used to administer the Swedish social securty, had a recommendation for President Macron: ‘Don't you imitate us and apply our model.’ In reality, most Swedish people can't physically afford to wait till 65 to retire, and have to leave their careers without a full pension: according to a 2019 study ordered by the national retirement fund, 92% of female and 72% of male retirees saw their pensions diminish (and, consequently, their purchasing power) after Sweden opted for this new pension system based on capitalisation and an increase of the retirement age. ‘Mr. President, the only reform you should pass would be a reform à la française’, Gustaf-Scherman concluded.

Again: are you completely certain that in your country, everyone is fine with working till 67, even 70 years of age? How many factory workers do you know, in your entourage, people who spend all day on an assembly line? How many sewage workers do you know? How many nurses and orderlies still lifting patients at 65, how many masons and tilers dreaming of working past their 70th birthday? Do you think it fair to ask a person to retire five years after everyone else because they've known several periods of unemployment in their career, because of some economic recession or because they've had to give birth to the next generation of humans? Do you find it fine to die before you've reached the legal age of retirement with a full pension, never getting to spend quality time with your grandchildren or your friends or helping out at local associations?

Do you find it normal never to get a rest from work before you die?

It's not only that everyone ought to be allowed some respite after serving their country well by participating in producing the national wealth for forty odd years; it is also that all those neoliberal reforms aim to destroy the remnants of old socialised systems across Europe to replace them with a fully capitalised economy. In other words, the point is for the tenants of a globalised market economy to take control of the gross domestic products of each country, open them to speculative funds and get to play with all that wealth—with the systematic privatisation of national markets allowing for unlimited concurrence and speculation.

France's pension system is still partly based on non-wage labour costs that have allowed its nationalised portion to remain afloat and stable since the creation of the Social Security in 1946. Back then, la Sécurité sociale was actually intended to cover all risks of life, but even then the class war was raging on. The entire history of the Social Security centres on the boss class' attempt to snatch the fund's control from the hands of the workers themselves. The move has definitely accelerated within the last four decades (the Eighties have seen the rise of Neoliberalism, as per the Chicago School's teachings, for further illustration, look up Augusto Pinochet's Chile), somewhat exponentially since 2016's Labour Law, implemented when Emmanuel Macron was a youthful minister of Economy who really began tearing the country apart proper, notably to finance his upcoming presidential campaign. The merciless destruction of our once-protective Labour code truly was the point of entry of his Thatchering enterprise...

I reckon no president of the Republic has been as universally detested as most of the French people have come to loathe Emmanuel Macron. The basis of his electorate is a contingent of very wealthy people, most of whom elderly, who share economic interests in the destruction of national sovereignty in favour of privatisation, since they've got, precisely, shares in the big companies that are to profit from the change; and people who simply don't care about the future generations of pensioners.

Trouble is, if Macron got re-elected a year ago, it was only because votes were extremely divided between many parties and because of a successful campaign to hold far-right candidate Marine Le Pen as a compliant scarecrow , presented in all media as the only one opposition to Macron—which meant that all people had to do to oppose Macron would be to vote for her, as it was sure to scandalise the rich and the Woke... Then, all Macron would have to do, which he did, was to present himself as the only one true credible defence in front of the Fascist Menace. The recipe, which was actually brought to perfection in the early 1980s by to-be-president François Mitterrand (using Marine Le Pen's more sinister father, and founder of the National Front, Jean-Marie Le Pen), is well and truly tried. Still, one of these days, she's going to get to presidency, and Macron will have been her best supporter.

#answers #to be continued i suppose #nonnies #riots in france #emmanuel macron #in conclusion #capitalism bad #reforming our pension system was never necessary #it is an entirely political decision #macron cannot do more than two (five-year) mandates but he's securing a long career in the private sector for himself

[luminous-letters]

Hello! I had found your blog not too long ago and absolutely fell in LOVE with your writing! As soon as I saw requests were open, I hoped right on in! Could I possibly request the first year group with an S/O who is like the violinist, Lindsey Stirling? Like, beautiful and complex musical creations on the violin and the beautiful outfits designed to represent the songs? Thank you so much!!❤😊❤😊

omg ur compliments are making me blush 🥺. i'm so so sorry that i answered this so late 😭 i've been finisbing up the msot recent req

as, usual. i hope you enjoy!!

Pristine and dulcet tones were the norm for the freshmen. Everyday breathtaking performances, accompanied by fits of your own design. You carried the violin with the aesthetic that you've decided upon.

You turned colors, fabric, and music into artistic violin concertos. From the whites of a barren winter field, to the oranges and golds of wheat on sunset, to the vivid graffiti of modern-day Picassos.

Ace would deny it if asked, but he absolutely adored your tiny concertos. And he had a new idea pop up in his head once in a while. His only problem was how he could get those ideas to you in the least suspicious manner.

His solution? Anonymous notes that littered every single nook and cranny that you could possibly find.

Casinos... Circuses... Broadway... It frustrates him to no end that ideas like these keep popping up without an outlet to share them with. Soon, the notes weren't enough. He thought of more complex things.

A gothic church performance, or maybe something more regal— with golds and reds and purples all around. Or maybe— or maybe...

Or maybe he should just tell you all of it himself.

"So I've got a few ideas... Hey, stop looking at me like that! I'm a genius, y'know? Anyways, wanna hear them out?"

Deuce was a regular listener to your music. And he enjoyed all of them. But one performance stood out to him more than the rest.

A daring showcase of punk culture— leather jackets, graffiti, motorcycle gangs and all that jazz. It hit home, but that's what made it all the more better.

It took him back to his skull-bashing days, which wasn't too long ago, when he had his hair bleached and smoked with all of his 'friends'. He never realized you could turn that stuff into music.

It felt so uplifting, so liberating, so rebellious. And your outfit really managed to fit the theme you were looking for— leather jackets, belts, chains, and some glow-in-the-dark ink 'tattoos' across your forearms and legs.

You know what, why not drive you around the city with that getup. Just let him grab his jacket for a quick minute.

"Hey, that was pretty good, reminds me a lot of the old days. Speaking of which... How does a drive around the city sound?"

Jack never considered himself as an avid music fan, but even he could tell that you were an expert at your craft.

It was empowering, both your performances and your enthusiasm. Just making him hear the soft-yet-impactful sounds from your instrument was enough to have his blood pumping. He wanted to run, and run, and run.

He wanted to feel the wind against his fur, to cover as much land as he could, to consume every sight and every scenery.

Music so inspiring, a fuel for romance. If he could, he would write you sonnets that complimented your works, or adorn your outfits with flowers that would match.

Thoughts of waltzing with you flashed in his mind. For a brief moment, he thought of twirling you around in an open field, with nothing else but the both of you and the wildflowers.

He felt like an idiot. He sounded like a child. But what he said still holds true.

"Hey...Um, do you want to uh... Go out for a run sometime...? Not that I'm forcing you! Just... Just say yes, c'mon."

Your style and genre were new to Epel. But among your many songs, he found the warm comfort of home in a few— specifically your country-themed works.

In a world of gold-laced luxuries and glamorous fabrics, he found the solace of Harveston in your music. It was like he was magically teleported back to his porch, sitting on a rocking chair, and lazing until the sunset gave way to the cold of dusk.

As much as he'd love to feel like he was home again, Vil would certainly nag his ear off if he finds him slacking about.

He applauded the range of themes you can cover. Name it, you've probably done them before. A few of your ideas were taken from Pomefiore's overall aesthetic and elegance.

He took it as a crude training session. He'd rather be with you than Vil's iron-fisted way of 'training him to perfection'.

"Try as I might, it's impossible to learn through Vil's way. Would you mind if I ask for your help instead?"

Out of all of them, Sebek was the one that vocalized his support the most. Often times he'd be found chanting and cheering at your small performance, he attracted a crowd every time.

Outspoken he was, undeniably. It was entertaining honestly. While most would shake his head at his thunderous enthusiasm, you would just giggle at his antics.

It just so happens that you share a hobby with his Lord and Idol, Malleus Draconia. Lord Malleus' solos always have that damp and somber atmosphere around it.

But you were that and more. Your violin took him to places he could only dream of in postcards and stories. The oriental harmonies that depict the east, you made him imagine. The bustling and sandy expanse of the deserts, he was able to feel.

Keep it a secret, but if he were to choose. As much as it pains him, as much as it agonizingly pulls on his heartstrings... He has to admit that he enjoyed yours more.

He knew every artist comes across a wall. And yours just happened to arrive sooner than he expected. But fear not! Sebek was known for his inspiring and uplifting words of encouragement! Or at least he thought so.

"Your music is something I look forward to everyday. That is why it's a shame to see you like this. If you're up for it, I know a few places that could help clear your mind."

#twst #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #gn!mc #gender neutral reader #twst x reader #twst fanfic #twst fanfiction #twst oneshot #twst imagines #twst scenarios #jack howl #sebek zigvolt #ace trappola #deuce spade #epel felmier #jack howl x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #ace trappola x reader #deuce spade x reader #epel felmier x reader #answered ask #writing #my writing

[literaticat]

Hi, Jenn! I was wondering: I know supply chain issues are still a thing, but how much lead time do publishers usually need for a YA book? I heard you need to finalize everything a YEAR before publication? Is that still true?

This is not a supply chain issue per se, it's always been the case that there needs to be a long lead time. Typically the due date for a (non-illustrated) book is around a year before pub date. Ideally, it's then able to be made into galleys/ARCs around 9 months before pub date, and it's ready to print, absolutely no more changes, around 6 months before pub date. A typical timeline might look something like this:

Book sells in mid-late 2022 with a mid-2024 pub date. Contract comes late 2022, and edits ensue in January 2023. There are a couple back-and-forths, final draft is due June 2023. Book goes into copyediting in June, and there are a couple rounds of pass pages where mistakes can be fixed, etc, in July/August, and it is proofread and absolutely done by October 2023. Then it goes into the long queue for printing. Once it has printed, sometime in early Spring 2024, then the final books get shipped back to this country (literal ship. very slow boats.), sent to warehouses around the country, and then distributed to bookstores and wholesalers, each step of which is a whole weeks-long process, and god help us if something happens to a ship or a truck or whatever along the way.

And then in June 2024 - Happy Book Birthday!

Meanwhile also in January/February 2023, the cover is starting to get talked about, the author gives input, they choose an illustrator (or whatever). By June there are sketches, by the end of summer the cover is final, by September the ARC is being distributed (the ARC is generally made from first pass pages -- ie, there still may be some mistakes -- they can't wait for the final-final. That's why they say "NOT FINAL" all over them).

Why does the ARC need to be done 9 months before the book is out? For two reasons: Bookstores need a lot of lead time. The catalogue for Spring/Summer 2024 probably comes out in August/September 2023, and the publisher's sales team is selling Spring/Summer 2024 titles to bookstores in Fall 2023. So all that marketing material (like ARCs, the catalogue copy, the cover, etc) all needs to be in place BEFORE the sales reps get out there and bookstores start placing their orders. Also, review outlets want at least 6 months lead time as well, and we REALLY want reviews!

It might vary a bit by publisher, but this would be what I'd consider a perfectly normal, average timeline for a novel. It *could* certainly be LONGER — and probably WOULD be longer — for a picture book or anything illustrated, and the supply chain issues and whatnot of last year did mean lots of things got pushed because even with a generous timeline they simply were not ready when expected.

It couldn’t really be a SHORTER timeline and still be a normal book: If it were to go faster than this, it'd be a "crash" book -- this can happen for sure, I've had books come out and be on shelves the same year that they got offered on -- but it adds a layer of expense and drama that publishers are not undertaking unless there's a very good reason.

ETA:

Also bear in mind: Yours is not the only book. So while all this is happening for your book, it's also happening for dozens of other books at the same time -- and still more books are at some other stage in the process while this is happening for you. I think it's easy to think like "ugh, why does everything take so long" -- and this timeline might give you some insight, but it still feels like a very long time! -- but remember, it's not like "oh, we have this one book we are working on, let's take three months getting it from point A to point B because we are slowpokes who like to screw with authors" -- rather, it's "we have dozens (or for a huge publisher across many imprints, HUNDREDS) of books coming out in the same season, and ALL of them need to be ready and to a place at a certain time, and it keeps happening, month after month" -- it's like a whole logistical dance that takes many people to pull off, and frankly it's amazing to me that it works as well as it does as often as it does.