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yandere-romanticaa · 6 months

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trigger warning: abuse, animal death, malnutrition, my horrible writing. not proofread, we die like men!

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍 - part 1. (you are here!)

masterlist.

The bitter scent of nicotine clings to him wherever he goes, his cold, brown eyes devoid of life as he wakes up and gets ready for another day. Every day is the same - wake up, get ready for work, work, head back home, rinse and repeat. He was living. But, he was not alive.

As long as he could remember, this was the life which Viktor Martinović (read as Martinovich) was leading.

Growing up his family was always distant. Cold. Even scattered at times. He had some siblings, some alive, others long gone from the Earth. To him they were all like air, non-existent and invisible but yet oh so relevant. His father hailed from Croatia while his mother was an American. Viktor could recall some more peaceful times as he would sit on the front porch of his house, his grandmother serving him tea while his grandfather told him many stories. Be it folklore, urban legends, random stories he made up, Viktor loved them all. Unfortunately, he could not see his grandparents very often as they lived in the US and the cost of travel was a rare luxury to him.

The time he spent with his grandparents was precious. He was positive that it was the only time he felt true joy and tranquility. With them he could be a little boy and do what all the little boys did - run around the streets with his feet bare, fall hard onto the ground and skin his knees, find dead animals on the ground and poke at their remains.

That last thing became a favorite past time of his.

Be it birds, dogs, cats, hedgehogs, no tiny critter was safe from his clutches. At first he did nothing but poke the dead critter with some random stick. Its lifeless eyes would stare back at Viktor, taunting him to take more action. However, one day his father caught him poking a mangled little bird which Viktor did not understand was wrong. The anatomy of the animal had caught his interest and he had no other children to play with. What was so wrong with having a hobby? His horrified father dragged Viktor by the ear back home that day, his grip so tight that crescent shaped marks were left behind on the soft skin due to his fingernails.

His father was an awfully conservative man. Everything and everyone had their place in the home and that included Viktor, who just happened to be at the bottom of the food chain because he was the youngest. Viktor does not remember his fathers face very well.

He never liked him.

All meals would start with prayer and would end with his mother and sisters putting away the plates, sometimes with Viktor's aid. He wanted to be good. He wanted to be useful. His father always taught him that he was a man and that men needed to be strong. This is not something you should concern yourself with, his father told him one chilly autumn morning.

This is a woman's duty, said his stone-faced father.

He was around 8 years old when his beatings started.

Despite his young age, Viktor was a very gifted child. He understood that something was off about his family. The way in which his siblings would flinch away once father entered the room, the way mother was always in a hurry to serve him coffee and a hot meal the moment he got back home despite being on her feet all day set him on edge.

He was very sensitive when it came to his mother.

She was his first and only real friend. She was his rock, his hero. Viktor was often sick which caused him to be physically frail and weak. His complexion was always pale as a ghost, his lips always thin and bloody from him gnawing on them and his tiny hands were always covered in cuts and bruises. The eldest brother in particular always just loved to make fun of Viktor when it came to his lack of strength. You can't even break into a sprint!, the cruel boy would taunt him as he held Viktor's book high up in the air, tearing pieces of the pages in the process.

Viktor hated his brother. He loathed him. Religion was not something he was 100% sure he believed in but during evening prayers, Viktor would always put his concentration on the fact that he wished his brother was dead. A grizzly thought indeed.

He wished for him to die the cruelest, most painful death imaginable.

The older he got, his dream only seemed to grow further and further away.

His two sisters never paid any attention to Viktor unless it was absolutely necessary, such as clothing or bathing him. Viktor was not capable of doing many things on his own because he was like a little doll. Frail and easy to break. He lived in a big house in coastal Croatia, an old city known as Dubrovnik, where the summer was long and the sun shined so bright that Viktor never wanted to go outside because his pale skin would turn a disgusting red even with the tiniest of exposure. He would spend his days locked away in his room, reading, studying or maybe playing a game which he had stolen from his brother.

He always took a little pride in the fact that his brother never caught him being so sly.

His sisters would usually be in school in the afternoon or somewhere out and about while his mother took care of the chores. Despite his fathers words, Viktor wanted to help her in any way he could. His heart would melt at the sight of his mother as she would lean down to give him a kiss on his forehead, her tired eyes shining with love. She would never give him tasks which could tire him too much which the young boy silently was thankful for. His favorite chore was chopping up vegetables and meat and in no time, he became quite skilled with using the blade. If it was possible Viktor even started to carve intricate shapes from fruits and vegetables, usually roses because his mother was very keen on them.

She never had the heart to eat any of them.

The outside world was filled with squeals of laughing children, frustrated fishermen and the bustling tides but Viktor did not need that world.

He had his own little bubble which he was more than content with. It was also convenient for him that he was homeschooled, which allowed him to spend even more time with his beloved mother. She was a doctor and a really good one too. Other than teaching him the basics such as reading, writing and mathematics, she would often throw in some more obscure things such as philosophy and anatomy. She taught him about the human body, where each organ was and their purposes.

Viktor was always enamored with this vast sea of knowledge.

The human body is like a machine, his mother would say. Treat it well and it will operate well.

Time passed. Viktor had started to grow and was 11 years old now. He was still sick, still useless according to his father. The man was a renowned fisherman and would always bring home the biggest and best kills. He would take his eldest boy with him and teach him everything he knew, hoping that one day his son would become a master at this craft as well.

Viktor hardly ever went on these trips. The sea was a cruel mistress and weak men could not be near it. His father had barely managed to teach him the basics but the scorching sun and the bustling activity was too much for him. Viktor's skinny little fingers would always be injured from carrying the heavy cargo, which his brother always made sure to make even more difficult for him by giving him even more to carry.

He was a lost cause when it came to fishing, which was his family's main source of income.

No matter, Viktor would think.

He had his own skill sets which those baboons could never understand.

Viktor would hone his skills with the blade in secret, his usual victim for practice being the very fish which were caught earlier that day. Sometimes he would stay up all night and sneak up back into his room at the crack of dawn, his hands smelling horribly which caused his sisters to gag a little if they caught a whiff of the air. Viktor studied the insides of the fishes, taking dutiful notes and hiding them all in the wooden floorboards where nobody could find them. Scattered carcasses of other animals become precious to him as he always had to be swift lest he wished to be caught by someone. Hiding them was always a pain and concealing the smell was the hardest task he could just barely pull off.

Not all secrets can be kept hidden though. Viktor found out that the hard way when his brother caught him dissecting a dead poodle. Viktor fell to his knees and begged his brother to not spill the beans, fat tears caking his face as he hiccuped horribly, his whole body shaking like a leaf. His brother merely looked down at him with a sneer as he shouted for their father to come to the garage. As Viktor heard the approaching footsteps his heart was beating so hard that he was positive that he was going to die of a heart attack right then and there.

His brother was the devil. The exact replica of his father. He was in every way, his son.

Viktor could not walk or talk properly for three months after that incident. He became something akin to a dying houseplant, unmovable and withering away in the darkness. He stopped eating completely and became skinnier than ever. His father locked him in his room but took his books away just to add more salt to the wound. Countless days passed and Viktor was rotting in bed, slowly dying from the lack of sustenance and the massive sorrow which took over his very being. Spring had been long gone and summer was over as well. He didn't even realize that it was October.

It was his birthday.

On October 31st, Viktor was woken up with a soft knock on his wooden door. It was his mother, who was holding a tray filled with food. There was even a little chocolate flavored cupcake with a single candle sticking on top, the whick not quite lit yet. His mother wished him a happy birthday and shared the meal with him. Viktor ate the food quietly, his appetite not quite out there but was still grateful for the miniature feast. His mother took out a small lighter and lit the candle.

Make a wish dear, she said softly.

Viktor gripped his sheets with all of his remaining strength, his knuckles so tight that he almost injured himself. He could feel the delicate touch of his mother who sat next to him, her presence like the calm evening breeze. With a sigh, Viktor closed his eyes but before he could blow out the candle a thought popped into his mind -

Just what was he going to wish for?

He did not see himself making it far in life despite his top notch grades. His family, father in particular, would always drag him down back to the ground. All of the money they had would most likely go to his siblings with just a tiny inheritance left to his name and when his parents both eventually passed the entire estate would go to his brother.

A lump formed in his throat as Viktor came to the realization that he had nothing to live for. He had no one on this Earth other than his mother.

He was no better than a ghost.

However, ghosts could not rest until they fulfilled some sort of quota in their lives, that one last thing for them to do so that they can finally take their final breath and bid their old life goodbye.

That goodbye came in the form of a cough.

It was his father.

His dark eyes stared down at Viktor, a strange glint of determination shining brightly inside them. With his arms crossed and mind set, he spoke:

"The weather may not be ideal but it is advantageous for your.... condition. You will not rot away in the sun, nor in this room like some coward."

His father took a few strides closer towards him, his footsteps so heavy that he could feel the floor creak beneath the heavy pressure. Viktor felt his whole body tense up as he was forced to look his father in the eye, his teeth clenching so tightly that it felt as though his jaw was going to break from the pressure. The only thing that gave him an iota of comfort was the fluffy blanket across his body, its softness a weak shield in stark contrast to the rough man before him. Viktor felt his fathers hand land on his shoulder, his touch disturbingly friendlier than usual.

"You will head out with your brother soon, to the sea. It is time you start pulling your own weight properly. I won't ever allow any son of mine to be weak."

Viktor's eyes widened - Christ, how could this be happening? Why was this happening? Cold terror came over him as he felt his lunch threatening to be spilt all over his parents.

It was soon prevented by a thought. A very devious thought.

On this little excursion it was just going to be him and his brother. All alone, at sea. The only thing keeping watch over them would be the grey stormy clouds high above them.

And just like that, Viktor had hatched a plan.

There was no going back from this moment.

🔪 TAGS: @shamelessdarkprince, @latolover, @yandere-wishes, @moyazami, @sunhareskies, @connorsui

Ahaha, here it is, the long awaited backstory for my OC, who finally has a full name! I decided to split it into several parts because it was getting kind of long and I really just wanted to post something about this guy. The demand for him is honestly kind of silly... Dare I say overwhelming even.

If you have any criticisms, ideas, complaints, literally anything - I'm all ears! My askbox is always open for a chit chat!

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yancore #yandere x you #yanderecore #yandere aesthetic #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x y/n #yandere mortician #yandere mortician x reader

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overnowsfcb · 5 months

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valentine; pablo gavi

summary: experimenting love for the first time feels kind of weird, in the best way of the word.

warnings: none, just fluff.

word count: 1,8k

it was the first time you felt like you were inside a love story, the first time you empathized with the protagonists who felt butterflies in their stomachs every time they saw their beloved or smiled at the mere thought of them.

throughout your high school, you were that girl who had to witness your friends telling stories about holding hands, kissing and having sex with the right person, and helping them write and decorate letters for their partners on valentine’s day.

the only solution you found to dive into that world was in the books and movies. all you read was romance, hoping for one in real life. a kiss underneath the rain, a jacket around your shoulders when the air got cold, someone to accompany and hear you.

fortunately, your friends never made you feel left out. but you couldn't help but feel that way every time you saw them smile with their significant others. the epitome of that feeling was when you blew out the eighteen candles in your birthday cake, it felt like sealing your fate.

everyone applauding and cheering that you reached the majority of age. the only thing you did when everyone left wasn't opening the amount of presents they had given you.

you sat on the couch with the lights off and put your favorite rom-com on the tv, searching for ice cream on the fridge and a blanket. you knew every word of the movie, every scene, every detail.

you had the same reaction as the first time you saw it. in a slumber party, when you were twelve. and that contrast is what gave you distress and shame, it had been six years and you still haven't had a romance. tears began to fall from your eyes, thinking that that person who would make you feel unique would never come.

it was almost funny how you manifested it in your life after watching it over and over again. after holidays, you applied for the first job that had vacancies to help your mother with your two younger siblings; she was having trouble covering everything with a single income.

your job at a small bookstore hidden in a secluded corner of barcelona didn't pay much, but it was your favorite place. you enjoyed organizing books, recommending them, and having conversations about them with interested customers.

you never would have imagined seeing one of your brother's favorite football players enter that store. the little bell above the door chimed, and you quickly looked up from the book you were finishing, right at the best part.

"buenas," (hi.) he said, approaching the counter. you tucked the book beneath it and stood up from the stool.

"buenas tardes, ¿cómo puedo ayudarte?” (good afternoon, how can I help you?) you smiled formally, just as you did with all customers. you were amazed at how pretty he was; your brother always watched his interviews, and you knew quite a bit about his life. however, you couldn't understand why it felt like a breeze of air had reached your face when he stood up in front of you.

"i was looking for a book for my sister. a birthday gift." you nodded and asked him to specify a bit more about her interests, and what genre she liked.

"ah, she's into mystery novels," he replied, his eyes scanning the shelves as if trying to find the perfect gift.

you led him to the mystery section, explaining the different authors and their styles. as you chatted, you couldn't help but notice how down-to-earth and friendly he was. you were an expert talking to new people, but this felt different, it was the perfect cadence.

he eventually settled on a classic detective novel, expressing gratitude for your assistance. as he paid for the book, he asked, "would it be too much trouble to have it gift-wrapped? it's a surprise for her, you see."

you gladly agreed, and as you carefully wrapped the book, he continued the conversation. he shared anecdotes about his sister's love for mystery stories and how he hoped this gift would bring her joy.

little did you know that after that interaction that brightened the rest of your day, it would turn into something much more significant.

you pondered whether you would see him again. had he felt the same as you? or maybe it was just your desperation, and how notting hill was engraved in your subconscious.

but sometimes, movie scripts weren't entirely wrong, like when you heard the little bell of the store ringing again a week later, this time while you were arranging some new books that had arrived, perched on the ladder.

"hi," he greeted excitedly. you directed your gaze to where the sound came from, and a smile appeared on your face. you were almost overcome with excitement, but you held on tightly to the ladder to not fall.

"good morning," you said, finishing arranging a book and descending from the ladder.

"my sister loved the book! she said it was the best gift ever," he beamed, making you feel great. he extended an invitation for coffee as a token of appreciation.

you didn't even know if it was professional to accept it while you were working, but you weren't hurting anyone. and that was the best decision you could ever make in your life.

every hope that you had murdered with resentment now resurrected with a new shine. what you thought was your destiny was just a moment in time.

it had been a challenge for pablo to make you believe that he truly wanted to be with you. countless times, he felt the need to explain how wonderful and precious you were.

you didn't know how to react to his compliments or sudden kisses. he was so spontaneous and impulsive, and you were so calculated and cold because he was everything you had ever dreamed of. but what if it was just a dream that could crumble at any moment?

yet, he took it upon himself day and night to make you feel like the most cherished woman. and how could you not feel that way with those crystal-clear eyes looking at you as if you were a sunset over the ocean?

he loved your laughter so much that he couldn't help but make jokes or clown around at every opportunity that presented itself.

he showed you a new way to see life, to explore a new spectrum of colors that had been withheld from you for so long, and dispelled certain beliefs that were imposed on your mind.

even your mother and your own friends adored him; they couldn't ask for more than your first love to be with such a dedicated and understanding guy, dispelling any lingering doubts.

he was the person who listened to you talk about your favorite books but also, had no problem listening when you complained about something going wrong.

the smallest and most imperceptible details were what made you fall a little more in love with him every day, confirming that you wanted to be by his side for eternity.

his angelic voice was engraved in the back of your mind, the first “i love you”, the sweet nothings he whispered in your ears the first time you decided to make love, assuring you that he would take care of you at every moment. and, of course, he protected his word, a man who never failed you.

sometimes, just sometimes, when you understood the great person the universe put in your path and remembered that you haven’t lose your mind trying to find a man like him. when you remembered his touch was completely real —something that took quite a while to accept— you flaunted him in front of everyone.

his eskimo kisses every time you felt down had become so essential and pure that they automatically reset your mind.

and you couldn’t forget how he had the gift of turning the simplest things into memories that you would fantasize to tell your grandchildren, sitting side by side, full of gray hair and wrinkles. the beauty of simplicity.

it was truly a movie-like love. a movie that your 16-year-old self would love with all her heart, and now you were living it firsthand, and it was true. it existed, and no one could take it away from you.

“i don't ever wanna let go of you. i want us to stay like this, like sloths, for the rest of our lives.” you giggled, amused by his antics and nose nuzzling affectionately against your neck. he squeezed your waist with his hand and got you trapped with his leg over your body.

“i would love to do that too, baby. but unfortunately, we're only human, and i still can't be late for work.” you moved his leg and replacing the pout of his lips with a sweet kiss. you could spend hours listening to him talk.

he grabbed your cheeks and showered your face with kisses while you laughed. “seriously!”

“i hate that you have to work.”

“you should be grateful, because if i didn't have this job, you would've never meet me.” his eyes sparkled with affection as you headed off, leaving behind the warmth of his presence but carrying the glow of his love within you.

he often wondered if you knew you were his first true love. none of the women who came before you stood up to the way he couldn't help but think and speak of you, of your remarkable essence as a person.

it was as if meeting you had illuminated a part of his soul he didn't know existed—a feeling so profound, it reshaped his understanding of love. your presence felt like the missing piece he'd been searching for, and with every passing day, he found himself falling deeper.

once, he couldn't fathom the allure of romantic movies, convinced they portrayed an unrealistic, overly idealized version of love. how could it possibly measure up to reality? it felt like a sudden twist in the game when he discovered the depth of love in the embrace of a girl who adored those movies. it was through this realization that he understood—love was far more beautiful than any screenwriter could ever capture.

the movies could never capture the immensity of his emotions during those fleeting moments when he danced with you, be it in the disco or under the soft kitchen light because it held the same intimacy. it was in the way your voice still trembled ever so slightly when you praised him and the way your cheeks flushed with color when he returned the compliment.

for both of you, it was a fairytale woven into reality. you, always yearning for it, and him, a skeptic who never believed in such tales.

the enchantment and genuineness were evident in every shared glance and each entwined finger. it was etched in the lines of your palms, you were meant to be timeless.

#pablo gavi x you #pablo gavi x reader #gavi x reader #gavi imagine #football imagine #football x reader #football fluff #gavi fluff #pablo gavi fluff

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moonlit-midnight · 6 months

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Your heart got a story with mine

Characters: Jade Leech.

Genre/Trope: Romantic Fluff, Best friends to lovers.

Summary: What the heart loves, the heart will always truly love.

Warnings: GN!Reader. Kinda cliche? Excessive fluff and self indulgent.

—

It was one Sunday, late afternoon when Jade found you sound asleep beneath the tree in the backyard of your shared home, curled up with a sci-fi book and hugging it close to your chest.

The mellow sunlight spilled dazzlingly through the thick branches of the evergreen tree, casting a pleasant glow on your serene face.

Walking up to your spot, Jade quietly sat in front of you, careful enough not to make a noise.

His heart stirred at the sight of you, a beautiful soul bathed in the warmth of the glimmering spring sunshine.

Cautiously, his right hand reached for your face, tracing your eyelids and down to your cheeks with his gentle fingertips.

“In my eyes, you’re not just my best friend. You’re my precious pearl and so much more than that.” He leaned in close hesitantly, only to quickly pull back.

Letting out a shaky breath, Jade glanced at you shortly before he stood up and went inside the house to calm his racing heart.

A few minutes later, your eyes slowly fluttered open.

Once your vision adjusted to the afternoon light, you sat up and leaned back against the sturdy tree.

“What just happened?” you whispered to no one in particular, heart pounding and hands covering your slightly warm face.

★ —

“How long have you been harboring romantic feelings for me?” you stirred your strawberry latte before taking a sip.

Jade’s eyes widened at the slightest, your question catching him off guard.

You chuckled at his expression, a big smile hidden behind the glass of your cold drink.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time.” His bashful gaze met your soft stare. “My mind can’t recall what not loving you feels like.”

Jade Leech didn’t have a particular reason to fall for you. He just did, and so did you.

He simply wanted someone to be truly happy because of him, and you were that person.

You had always been happy to see him, happy to hear him, happy to know him and happy to have his existence in your life, and that alone was more than enough for him.

“With a heart like yours, you’re worthy of the best kind of love.” Jade smiled fondly. “You’re an amazing person, so you ought to be genuinely loved, adored and respected above all else. You deserve to have someone’s entire heart, but I don’t have a whole heart to give you.”

“Oh my, who on earth said that you don’t have a whole heart?” you tenderly held his face in your hands, and your kind eyes looked at him with so much love. “You definitely have one, Jade Leech.”

“Am I worthy to be your loved one?” He tilted his head and rested his hands atop yours.

“There was never a time where I didn’t love you, my dear Jade.” you declared and gave him a heartfelt smile. “You’re worthy of everything.”

#🌸hannah’s musings #twst #twisted wonderland #twst fluff #twst imagines #jade leech fluff #jade leech #jade leech x reader #twst jade #twst jade leech #twst fanfic #twst fanfiction #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst scenarios #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #octavinelle x reader

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

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i know you only uploaded it a few hours ago, but please carry on the reader accidentally summoning morpheus, im dying to know their history, and his feelings on how much time has passed <3 big fan!!

A/N: By popular demand, I'm writing a 2nd part. The quoted poem is something I was obsessed with as a kid. My mom still quotes it.

[Imagine accidentally summoning Morpheus] || [Sandman-inspired playlist]

All of it sounded like a madman's bad joke.

"Wait, hold on." You waved your hand. Hunching over the dusty box filled with remnants of your childhood, you began looking for another trinket that surely must have been there. "You mean that you are... goddamn where is it... I saw it somewhere here... Got it!" you exclaimed when you stood up with a thin, red book in your hand. "You mean that you are this funny fella?"

Your finger was tapping against the cover of a children's book. There was an illustration of a Santa Claus-like man carrying a big sack thrown over his shoulder. He was climbing a ladder to an open bedroom window. Above the picture, in fancy curvy letters, was written Grandfather Sand.

A small smile crept unto Morpheus's face. His eyes lit up vividly and you suspected that if he was any less reserved in his emotional expression, he would have laughed in your face. "Did you think he is the Sandman?"

"I didn't think the Sandman was at all," you retorted as you carelessly tossed the book on your bed. Looking once more at the pleasantly familiar illustration, the nostalgia made you recall something Morpheus had said to you a few minutes ago. "You said you know my face."

"I have visited you many times before," he stated. After a moment, he added in a quieter, defeated tone: "But you don't seem to remember."

You only shrugged your shoulders. "If I was a toddler, then no wonder. It was lifetimes ago."

Morpheus gave the room an absent once-over before staring at the box next to the two of you. Something brown and fur-like was peeking from behind dolls and plastic horses. His pale, skeletal hand reached for the mysterious object only for it to turn out to be an old, worn-out teddy bear. It still smelled of your grandmother's perfume. Sometimes you wondered what happened to him... Apparently, Terry had been safe and sound in your grandmother's basement throughout all those years.

Dream was examining the bear when he suddenly decided to make you recall something you had already forgotten you once remembered: "Maybe Spot tugged at him, tore the ear off, didn't say he's sorry?"

It was a quote - one that you had grown to know all too well. You felt as though that single line from a rhymed story allowed you to rediscover the oldest memories your brain could possibly store like you suddenly became privy to a life you had once led but not anymore. "A needle, a thread, a pair of hands, we'll mend the hurt right away," you quietly continued." You fixed Terry..." Yes, that plushy friend from your childhood did need an 'emergency surgery' once, although you could never quite recall who sew his ear back on. At some point, you even began questioning whether his little accident was even real as there was no sign of a tear whatsoever.

The memory came to you in waves like afterimages of a dream one tries to recall after waking up. It was all blurry, voices heard from miles away and sights as if seen through a dirty lens. "Yeah, I remember I used to ask to be told the same three stories over and over again and you were never frustrated with me."

"You were a great listener."

"So, how does this work? The melody plays and you just, puff, appear wherever?"

Morpheus sat Terry at the top of the dolls, plastic horses and fairytale books about fairies still residing inside the box. His bony hand lingered on the brown, matted fur of the plushie. "It was a gift." His gaze returned to you. "To a girl who just like you could not fall asleep. For decades it remained silent until that one night when I met you for the first time."

Your hand brushed against the ceramic raven inside the music box. It was quite an interesting choice of design for an item meant for children. "A magical heirloom. Sounds cool." The ghosting touch of your fingers was withheld only for you to close the enamelled lid for an unspecified amount of time. "Don't worry, I won't abuse that... privilege. I'm sure you have a lot going on anyway."

Without letting his gaze leave you, Morpheus was a little too quick to answer you. "Play it anytime you want."

His expression remained generally ambiguous but you figured it was just the way he looked. There was, however, one detail of his face that caught your attention: his eyebrows slightly raised making him appear somewhat surprised or nervous. "Is that permission or a suggestion?" you asked.

"Both."

Tagging people who were interested in a follow-up: @secretdreamlandmentality @kbrownie @lolitaisreal @thegraywitch @aralezinspace @boofy1998

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still-a-morosexual-help · 4 months

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New rec: Choices book I actively avoided for years because the cover art gives "supernatural love triangle between the 'nice guy' & the 'bad boy'" and it's a trope I despise except turns out I'm an idiot because holy shit this was one of my favourite books

For one, the vampire lore is unique? Or at least uncommon enough that it feels like something new. It's even different from Choices' other vampire series

Second? Both LIs are wrong about their view on vampires and actually have to come to terms with this and learn to change and grow throughout the series. If anything, MC's the only one who's got it right. Both LIs have their own flaws & trauma while still being interesting and likeable characters and neither one is pushed above the other as being "the correct choice".

It also doesn't make the "bad boy" so antagonistic towards MC and the "nice guy" so sweet that it makes no sense for MC to pick the bad boy (*cough*choices' save the date*cough* my favourite is the antagonistic LI but also he's so hot & cold towards MC and a jerk to her for no real reason???). MC clicks with both of them in a different way and there's enough reason for MC to choose either one of them. It actually shows why MC needs both of them

Also, MC is initially built up in a way before they interact with the LIs so that all of their decisions throughout the story actually make sense. They're responsible but also insanely competitive. Despite staying in line presumably throughout their life, they're drawn towards anything that'll give them a shot of adrenaline

Plus all three characters get their time to shine and MC's a fucking badass, honestly they're up there with om's MC as being one of the more interesting & fun to play MCs

And MY favourite, absolute favorite thing about this, the main thing that shot this up to one of my favourite choices stories:

MC makes a Buffy reference in this. That means at one point they watched and/or read Buffy and/or Angel, saw her get together with first the tortured ""good guy"" and then later the rebellious ""bad boy"", saw all the love triangle discourse in the fandom and said well that's fucking stupid, watch me introduce them both to the concept of polyamory that's right it's NOT a fucking love triangle

or it can be if you want it to, like you can choose one of the two LIs but the "true" route, the one where you get a charm each from both LIs and complete MC's charm bracelet (usually the indicator of a fully completed story in any choices book is to complete a set of something) is the one where MC picks both of them

There are also frequent instances where the choices are [no romantic option at all] and [romantic option for both LIs eg: holding both their hands]

And yeah the LIs aren't in love with each other and spend a lot of time competing for MC, something they do right until the very end of the book BUT at about the midway point they become a proper team and start talking about the three of them as an inseparable team making it very clear that if this doesn't end with MC choosing both of them it's gonna turn into a me and you and your friend steve situation.

And then when either one of them talks about how much they care about MC they start using "we" and "our" [eg: "that's our girl/boy" when the two LIs are alone together]

And then they start being as protective of each other as they are of MC

Cas screaming "don't touch him" when Gabriel gets attacked + Gabriel throwing himself over and shielding both MC & Cas when they get attacked

I'm not saying they're in love or that they'll ever fall in love but they are much much more okay with sharing a partner with each other than either one is willing to admit

anyway, this is them:

#choices #choices immortal desires #immortal desires

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mathiwrites · 2 months

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the justice league's moms' book club's guide to vampire slaying, a martha kent, alfred pennyworth, atlanna & hippolyta fanfic

Chapter 6 - Love, Love, Laugh

“You are telling me,” Hippolyta measures her words carefully. “That this book was selected specifically to appeal to me.” Judging by the cover, there is nothing that stands out to her. It is a woman in a green dress. Good for her. And yet, in her attempt to dismiss the culture of man’s world while remaining included, she has managed to miss the point entirely.

They are here, a part of this ‘club’ to bond with one another that transcends the invisible tether created by their children’s friendships. She may claim not to care about this world, but she has been paying attention. The people have raised good children and excellent allies for her daughter, regardless of gender. It is why she gave this any thought at all.

“And you all thought that a book with a female protagonist, polyamory and a female love interest are what my tastes consist of?”

“Oh, I didn’t think. I know.” Alfred smiles.

The man spends too much smiling beneath that coiffed moustache of his. Hippolyta glares at him, loathing how he has been one step ahead of her this entire evening. From what they have told her, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo sounds wonderful. Though her disposition is tough, Hippolyta’s heart is as soft as her daughter’s. It was her who pleaded with the gods for a child, so that she could be a mother and impart boundless love on a precious little being.

She blames her daughter for Alfred’s cleverness; she must have prepared him for this day, somehow.

“One day, I will wipe that smile off your face, but for now… Grin all you like.” She sighs. “This sounds like the exact story that I would enjoy, and perhaps encourage my sisters to reenact as a play.” Hippolyta folds her arms and steals Atlanna’s copy for safekeeping. She turns to Atlanna, resting her chin against her palm. “And will it take you seven husbands before you realize that I am the one for you?”

For all the velvet in Hippolyta’s tone, Atlanna remains unmoved. She laughs and waves her friend off.

“So, wait, did you two… really?” Martha motions between them. It’s unlike her to ask too many personal questions, but she’s genuinely curious about the lives her friends have led before they became parents to the world’s heroes. She has known Alfred for decades and he never said anything about his life before the Waynes.

“Yes and no,” Hippolyta hums. “Themyscira has always had a political alliance with Atlantis, even before its fall. I have seen many Kings, but only one Queen.” She looks at her affectionately. “I have known the pleasure of her lips, and the softness of her gaze, but she will never be mine.” Her fingers reach out and caress her cheek. Atlanna catches her hand and kisses her palm.

“It is a different kind of love. Hippolyta has my mind, but Tom is my one and my only. I will never love another the same way I love him,” Atlanna holds Hippolyta’s gaze, then turns to smile softly at Martha. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. He brings you balance and peace,” Martha nods.

“And I would only elevate you to the height of goddesses,” Hippolyta laments dramatically.

“But what about… multiple partners,” Martha asks softly and awkwardly. She’s not unfamiliar with the concept, but she worries about overstepping and misspeaking.

The last time she had dallied was before Jonathan, her sweet traditional farm boy, and never with more than one person. Leaving the social circles her mother had practically worshipped for a small town shifted her entire world. It simplified it, and she focused all her love towards her husband, her son and what she can make with her two hands.

She glances at Alfred. The two of them come from a time when people simply did not talk about these things. They just happened, and they were either accepted or vilified.

“It’s not that simple,” Atlanna hums.

“It is not that simple here. Your world has many rules and hangups. Multiple partners can be compatible, but the useless baggage and insecurities.” Hippolyta groans, rolling her eyes.

“You speak from experience,” Martha wonders, out loud.

And that comment has Hippolyta closing herself off.

“It requires all participants to let go of everything they have learned in this modern society, and to choose love above all,” Alfred says softly, looking at his tea.

“You speak from experience,” Atlanna says to him instead.

“Mhm,” he hums. “There are certain kinds of love that you do not let go, ever.”

Neither he nor Martha have ever spoken about it, even if he’d never hid it, either. Too long glances when they thought no one was looking, or overly indulgent touches. She had seen right through them, far too observant for her own good, but she never commented on it. She never asked, not until today, and even now, Martha did not direct her question to Alfred.

“Why didn’t you tell me? When they,” she swallows the agonizing thought. To lose not one, but two pieces of your heart at once. Martha cannot imagine the grief; when Jonathan died, his loss suffocated her. Alfred had been there for her, along with Clark and Bruce. “We would have been there for you. We could have helped with…”

“I know, but I didn’t have the words. I still don't.”

Martha reaches out to him and squeezes his hand. She sits there for a long moment, looking at him with empathy.

The conversation is sobering, and it is wonderful. It reminds each of them that they are more than their roles, their stations and their accomplishments. They are individuals whose stories are not told, quietly tucked behind the legends they have raised. They do not need recognition, but this—what they have here—is freeing .

“My deepest condolences, Alfred,” Atlanna hums.

“If it is of any consolation, I know a place where you retrieve their sou—,” Hippolyta starts.

“I appreciate the offer, but no.” It is not in his nature to toy with life and death. He will let others do that, and he will face the consequences as they come. Alfred chippers up, lifting his chin. “Enough of this serious talk. I am on vacation. Let us leave the glowering to the Knights of Gotham. Tea, anyone?”

“Actually, I was thinking we could have dinner.”

Outside, the sun has set. Normally, Martha would have had dinner by now, and readied herself for bed. A buzz settles in her bones as she washes the teacups and the saucers. She doesn’t stay up late often, and it’s exciting to have friends over. They’ve all agreed to stay. She also has no qualms putting the others to work. While she cleans up, Alfred has been tasked with putting the food from tea time away, and both Queens work together to set the table.

Her mind wanders as her hands work. The farm looks different at night; she admires the way her berry bushes have begun to grow on the side. She likes to dream of happy little creatures nibbling on this season’s yield. In the distance, the barn looms over the farmhouse, but she knows it's a place of warmth filled with animals who want nothing more than chin scratches.

The rest of her land is a forest of stalks—corn and sunflowers—but the verdant colours have turned into nothing more than a dark wall surrounding her home. Had she not spent the better part of her life surrounded by these fields, and had she not found the greatest gift in the middle of that field, then maybe she would have found the farm isolating. Intimidating.

Movement snaps her out of her reverie. The stalks don’t move, not normal. They stay still, watching her with the same intensity that she watches them. Martha stops the water, leaning forward on the counter and looking outside the window.

There.

A quiver of leaves, and then it’s gone again. She squints, willing herself to see what’s there.

An animal?

Most animals that roam freely through the farmlands are too small to cause that kind of movement. The neighbours must have lost a goat again. Her own cow, Bessie, has been known to wander.

Your mind is playing tricks on you, she mused, looking down to dry her hands. The moment she looks up, she sees it.

A dark figure standing among the stalks, its head illuminated by the moonlight, but its features darkened by shadow. It stands there, watching her. Chills ripple across her flesh, lighting her up from the inside out with a certain kind of fear.

“Martha?”

She nearly jumps out of her skin. Atlanna looks at her, as if she has grown three heads. Her gaze follows Martha’s out the window, but she sees nothing. Atlanteans eyesight is not made for the surface. Her body may have adapted after all these years, but seeing at night is still difficult.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes. It’s just this new generation of teenagers. They have no respect for others.” The lie is a comfort, but not for Atlanna. “I’ve slow roasted beef. A spin on Alfred’s recipe,” she grins. “I’ll be with you in a quick sec. Have a seat.”

One last glance out the window, and all she sees is the dark row of stalks—corn and sunflower.

That’s what I get up for staying up late.

#my fics #dc comics #dc fanfic #atlanna #alfred pennyworth #martha kent #hippolyta #superfam #batfam #batfamily #aquafam #wonderfam #pennywaynes #alfred pennyworth x martha wayne x thomas wayne #polyamory #superman #batman #wonder woman #aquaman

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watchmorecinema · 6 months

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Yukio Mishima has been trending this week for uh, reasons. He was a world renowned Japanese author and all of his work is overshadowed by his actions on November 25, 1970. You might not want to read more about this guy because he is horrible and disgusting, but he's utterly fascinating and the movie about him is brilliant.

He's a really interesting character, to the point that he sounds fictional. He's gay, obsessed with ritualistic death, a right wing lunatic, led a private militia that was halfway to a cult, and also was a legitimately great author. His life is covered in the film Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters and it's easily the most beautiful film I've seen in my life. Look at the stills I posted above; every frame of this movie looks like that. It's all just a series of beautiful paintings with people living in them.

The way the film is structured is that it tells the story of his life in three ways. His past is told in black and white flashbacks with static cameras. This is closer to how a movie from the 50's would look like (specifically ones directed by Yasujirō Ozu). The events of three of his books are told with this beautifully stylized look, with sets that look like stage plays. The events of November 25, 1970 is told in an almost normal fashion, with regular colors and competent camerawork. The past is nostalgic, the present is mundane and only in fantasy can you truly come alive.

Through this movie we see the ideology of Mishima coming through. His nationalism, his sexual feelings and his thoughts on beauty and death all come together. Death isn't just a violent and tragic end, it is in itself a beautiful act. Beauty is the only true goal of life and creating beauty brings honor. Growing old and ugly is an act of hate; to die at your peak is to give love back to the world. It is therefore treasonous to live long enough to die peacefully. He pities what heaven must look like now; when men died young and beautiful it was paradise, but now it is filled with old men.

This is an objectively insane way to view the world but it is also fascinating. How much of this was what he believed, and how much of it was just begging for attention? In one instance when asked why he moved to the right politically he said "because the left was full". It was a joke answer, but he clearly wanted to be in the spotlight. His shield society was a paramilitary group dedicated to living a virtuous life of beauty, honor and old ideals. It was also a group of good looking, athletic young men led by a (barely) closeted, conservative gay man. So much of his life could have gone differently but also he was pretty much in control the whole time; he was independently wealthy and revered on the world stage. He could do whatever he wanted, and apparently the way his life went *is* what he wanted.

What's special about Mishima, both in the film and in real life, is that he's a smart and eloquent guy. In films the guy with a crazy worldview is someone like Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver or D-Fens from Falling Down. Travis couldn't understand the alienation and loneliness he felt and he couldn't find any healthy solutions. D-Fens was smart enough but not emotionally strong enough to confront his problems or deal with them maturely. These are people that could benefit greatly from therapy (other examples include Joker from Joker, Rupert Pupkin from the King of Comedy, Frank Murdoch from God Bless America, Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, Tyler Durden from Fight Club and so, so many more).

These are either 20 something year olds that are lost in the world, alienated and lonely, or 40 something year olds with a mid life crisis when they realize that everything has fallen apart. People who don't know where to go, or realize it's too late to change things. Travis Bickle had basically no friends, no family, no charisma with women and a lot of rage and anger. D-Fens lost his job, his self respect and was estranged from his ex-wife and daughter. These are people who's lives are shit at best (Patrick Bateman is a bit of a subversion. He is rich and successful, but his life is completely hollow, his relationships are shallow and he personally is very, very pathetic. I need to write about American Psycho later that film is great too.).

Mishima is different. He's smart enough to understand his issues and how to find help. He's got the money and means to do so. He's famous and rich enough that he could basically get away with anything weird or eccentric so long as it was harmless. On the world stage he was a popular author, and at home he led a life of political activism. If he was unhappy he could easily find healthy ways to fix it. His self destruction was the most avoidable of any of them, yet he's the only one that existed in real life. You expect these people to have serious personality flaws and unfixable (or seemingly unfixable) problems, not to be poetic writers that adhere to healthy living and regularly journal about their emotions, while enjoying respect from their peers and fulfillment in their work.

It's a hell of a film. Paul Schrader has not written or directed anything better (he actually wrote Taxi Driver too, so he had some experience with this type of character before) and it stands out as an incredible experience to watch. Like, Mishima's life is public knowledge and you can probably guess how it went, but I've purposefully not said what happened on November 25, 1970 because I don't want to spoil it. It's an event that actually happened but it's better for you to find out via the film than some wikipedia page.

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mandsleanan · 5 months

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The Affordable Care Act covers sterilization at no-cost if you're in the US.

Article text under cut.

Sitting in the living room of her Cleveland home, 30-year-old Grace O’Malley reflects on when she ruled out having kids of her own.

O’Malley has Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a genetic condition that weakens the body’s connective tissue, and can get much worse postpartum. About three years earlier, when she was in her mid-twenties, her condition worsened. O’Malley’s doctors told her that if she did get pregnant, her uterus could rupture and her child would be more likely to be born prematurely.

O’Malley was on hormonal birth control up until last May. But after the U.S. Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, she knew an abortion ban was likely coming in Ohio and she might not be able to end a pregnancy if her birth control failed. She booked an appointment with her gynecologist.

“I went in that day and I knew right away I wanted a more permanent solution,” said O’Malley. “I was like, ‘I actually want to talk about getting surgery.’ And the nurse was surprised, and she was like, ‘Oh, okay.’”

Dr. Clodagh Mullen, an obstetrician-gynecologist at MetroHealth Medical Center in Cleveland, said since the Dobbs v. Jackson decision — which took away the constitutional right to abortion and returned the issue to state governments — many of her patients have been increasingly worried about access to reproductive healthcare and seeking more permanent solutions.

“Some patients will say, ‘Oh, could you stash some IUDs for me?’” Mullen said. “They get very nervous that [birth control] is just going to go away overall. Nobody can re-implant your tube once it's been taken out, so I think that they have that comfort of there's no way anybody can take this part away from me.”

Legislators in some Midwest states have floated bans on birth control, which, so far, haven’t gone anywhere. Mullen doesn’t anticipate that access to contraception will disappear.

“But I get why people have that fear, as I also probably didn't really think that Roe was going to get overturned, if you had asked me this four or five years ago,” she said.

What Mullen is seeing in Cleveland is mirrored across the country. The Kaiser Family Foundation surveyed more than 500 gynecologists across the U.S. in the spring and about half of doctors in states with abortion restrictions reported the number of patients seeking sterilization has increased since Dobbs.

That includes states like Indiana and Missouri - where abortion is banned with very limited exceptions, and states like Ohio, Iowa and Wisconsin where bans are currently being disputed, or where residents feel they may lose the right to an abortion. Ohio voters just approved an amendment to the state constitution, which guarantees access to abortion.

Three Ohio health systems that track contraception — MetroHealth Medical Center in Cleveland, University Hospitals in Cleveland, and Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center in Columbus — reported a sharp rise in the number of patients seeking tubal sterilization.

Contraception decisions

There aren’t many big health risks to the type of sterilization procedure Mullen performs. Doctors mostly worry about regret. Most studies found that when doctors followed up, a small percentage of women wished they hadn’t gone through with the procedure.

The majority are like O’Malley, who had some complications post surgery, but said she never second guessed her decision.

“I've never really thought about it, honestly,” said O’Malley. “It’s become kind of a fact of my daily life. It’s like, ‘Hi, I'm Grace. I have red hair and I can't have kids.’”

O’Malley is happy her doctor respected her choice. She believes the political climate helped.

She shared the story of her best friend who sought sterilization in her late 20s, about five years ago. She said her friend had to meet with several doctors before one agreed to do the procedure, and even then, made her wait another year in case she changed her mind.

“My friend did not have that kind of grace,” O’Malley said. “Her doctor probably thought, ‘You would have other options. If you got pregnant and decided that it's really not what [you] wanted, then you could get an abortion.’ Whereas for me, that might not be the option.”

Men decide, too

Men’s contraception patterns are also changing, according to physician reports.

Dr. Sarah Sweigert, a urologist at Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center, said doctors at her office performed double the number vasectomy consults and procedures as they had before the ruling.

She points to a Cleveland Clinic study, which showed that, in the summer following the court decision, the average age of men getting the procedure has dropped from late 30s to mid-30s compared to the same period the year before. The study also showed there was a significant increase in the number of men under 30 and men without children seeking vasectomy consultations post Dobbs. Sweigert has seen that trend first-hand in her practice.

“I think as more women speak out about perhaps not wanting to be on various forms of birth control for decades, I think that men are more aware of vasectomies and perhaps are doing their part,” she said.

Vasectomies are generally safer than female sterilization and have a much quicker recovery.

But Mullen isn’t surprised that so many women want the procedure themselves – they are the ones who would have to carry the pregnancy and handle the ensuing health impacts.

O’Malley feels that acutely. She had been in vulnerable situations in the past. She was sexually assaulted in college and went through a period where she was homeless. O’Malley said her choice was an act of self-protection.

“It’s not like I sit around thinking that the worst case scenario is going to happen,” she said. “But I would want to know that I was going to be safe and I wasn't going to end up in a situation where I was pregnant and I would have no path to go.”

#Childfree #Reproductive rights #Sterilization #Roe was only the first domino

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muraae · 13 days

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i’m sorry (but also really not) but this the vaultghoul poto au has me in a chokehold- and i don’t know if i’ll ever write or if someone else wants the challenge, but here are my thoughts on what the au could be.

a vaultghoul phantom of the opera au where cooper is the phantom and lucy is christine.

would have elements from both the book, musical, and the show.

cooper obviously looks like how he is in the show for his disfigurement, and wears a black half mask to cover the upper half of his- also kudos for this because coop does look exactly like erik (the phantom) in the book.

debating if cooper will be born deformed or someone or something causes him to be disfigured.

i personally like the latter more just to play with the idea of cooper once being a famous star within the opera house who befell a terrible incident that ruined his life and is now embittered and angry, wishing to exact vengeance against those that ruined his life.

only a slightish change, but ‘the ghoul’ is added along with ‘the phantom’ and ‘the opera ghost’ as his other aliases.

lucy is a ballet dancer in the opera, the daughter of the famous soprano, rose maclean. i’m not certain where hank would be for this au, but he’s not exactly in the family picture, but i would want him to cause some kind of conflict in the future.

slow down there abbie, we don’t have time to write a full story- let’s just stick to the basics.

lucy and norm come to live and work at the opera house under the care of moldaver (madame giry) after the death of their mother- lucy in the ballet corps. and norm with the stagehands.

lucy had always been a talented singer until she hears a voice in the halls, vents, and the grand stage she visits late at night, and starts starts teaching her that the managers begin to take notice.

cooper takes notice of lucy whenever she walls the grand stage late at night singing to herself. he becomes intrigued by her.

so cooper watches lucy from afar and doesn’t make himself known to her as the ‘voice’ until he finds her crying in the opera chapel, grieving for her mother after a long, trying day.

mother said, "When i'm in heaven, child, i will send the angel of music to you."

cooper commends her voice, but tells lucy it needs training. he offers her voice lessons, promising to help lucy become the greatest singer the world has seen- does it come at a cost later on for his own purposes- that it is for all to decide if lucy is a means to an end but ends up wrecking his plans by becoming more.

fuck i’m getting sidetracked again-

over the years the two develop a bond that extends the bounds of teacher and student, cooper’s infatuation with lucy becoming deeper.

steph is lucy’s roommate and friend- sharing the role of meg with norm- and she and norm are the only two who can put up with lucy’s disappearances and odd hours, though are concerned by the strange behavior.

cooper continues to reign the opera house as his domain, demanding the managers to follow his instructions on how the opera should run, and causes ‘accidents’ if anything doesn’t go his way.

on the night of the gala, lucy finds herself replacing the prima donna when the former falls ill. she is an overnight sensation and ensnares the hearts of half the city, and much to cooper’s jealous chagrin, catches the eye of the opera’s newest patron.

i’m tempted to make maximus raoul, however, monty would fit a little better- so we’re going with monty because i want this vicomte and his intentions towards the new starlet to be sinister. because fuck monty.

lucy is at first flattered by monty’s attention, but becomes soon after uncomfortable by his advances.

and though she is charmed by the young detective (maximus) that was hired by the managers to prove there is no opera ghost, she is still drawn to the mysterious voice.

on the night of her triumph, cooper reveals himself and takes lucy into the vast underground tunnels of the opera house. it is here where lucy becomes enamored by the man who has given her so much, but is confused why he wears the mask. Surely a face would match a voice as beautiful and deep as his.

it only takes removing a mask to change the course of a relationship and for the two of them to cross the point of no return.

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arteastica · 8 months

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early in the morning, especially when it rains, and a little before noon. (13)

erwin x fem!reader

chapters: (1) | (2) | (3) | (4) | (5) | (6) | (7) | (8) | (9) | (10) | (11) | (12) | (14) | (15) | (16) | (17) | (18) | (19) | (20) | (21) | (22) | (23) | (24) | (25) | (26) | (27)

summary: I basically took Isayama’s work, forced it into a romance story, and made Erwin the love interest. Commander meets cadet and they fall in love (not instantly though)

notes: very berry canonverse (but some events were modified to fit my narrative), wasn’t intended to be this long, but it all is in the details right?

content warnings: smut where it fits (or where I make it fit. Also, reader is NOT underage, so likewise, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, please.) slow burn (I really mean it. I’m not olympic diving into any form of smut for the first chapters.) no angst. I dislike angst. I would never. I could never. (Although angst can be somewhat subjective so take it with a grain of salt?)

wc: 2.7k

“I mean, if that’s something you’re comfortable talking about.” You rushed to add, fearing your question might open old wounds. “We don’t have to talk about it if-”

“No, it’s fine. You told me about your family, it’s only fair that I tell you about mine.” His eyes scanned the ceiling, as if trying to find the starting paragraph to a really long, complex story. He then took a deep breath and said: “My father, his beard was always unkempt and so was his mustache.” You chuckled lightly, tickled by the unexpected and rather random beginning he chose for his story. “He disliked loneliness. Not only when it came to people, but also objects. He didn’t like it when things looked lonely. If he passed by a bakery and there was only one loaf of bread left at the end of the day, he would buy it even though we had enough at home. If there was a book alone on a table, he would place it in a group with the others.” If your eyes hadn’t been glued to him the way they were, scanning every inch of his face, trying to read all the sentences you knew he was purposely leaving out of his story, you would have missed the way his lips twitched as they tried but failed to compose a smile.

“He rarely got drunk, but when he did, his habit of bringing lonely things home would only worsen. One time, I woke up in the middle of the night, startled by a noise that to my sleepy 8-year-old self sounded like a woman crying.” He said, as you shuffled against him, having no clue where this story was going. “Scared, I looked out the window only to see my father trying to push a cow inside the house.” You opened your mouth in disbelief. “He said the poor animal was all alone in a field, looking like it could use a friend. The next day, he had a hard time explaining to our neighbors that he wasn’t trying to steal their cow.”

“Well, that alone tells me a lot about him.” You said, the thought of a perplexed, golden-haired boy in his pajamas, and an equally confused thousand-pound cow being forced through a small door in the middle of the night making you chuckle. “What did he do for a living?”

“He was teacher.”

“Let me guess, History.” His eyes widened, head tilted to the side, asking you to explain your deduction as well as the conviction present in your voice. “I mean, that would explain a lot of things, including your love for History as well as all these books.” You said, pointing at the shelves that covered the walls of his room.

“These are not books. The ones in my office are. But these… these are just things I write.”

“All of them? You mean as in journals?”

He nodded before explaining: “Writing helps me clear my head, especially after expeditions. When we come back from a mission, time moves on and so does life, at least for those who survive. But what about those who don’t?” The question seemed to be directed at the air and not particularly at you. “What about those who never make it back home?” He paused for a moment, seemingly letting the taste of those words linger on his tongue like bitter lemon, before continuing. “When my men die out there, they are not really left behind. They are forever immortalized in the pages of these journals. It’s my way of remembering them, of making sure their sacrifice doesn’t go to waste.” Your eyes paced around his room, things slowly taking on a whole new meaning, and you wondered how much anguish and sorrow were trapped in the pages of those journals. “They stay behind and trust us, the living, to go on and find meaning in their deaths.”

You stared into the flickering flames of the fireplace without speaking, but simply, quietly understanding. Understanding that writing was his way of finding meaning, of making sense of it all. Understanding that a scout’s life was never easy, you knew that from the get go, but it was then and there where you finally and fully comprehended the dimensions of the position you held, the implications of the path you had chosen. And, when your vision started to get blurry, and your mind, to wonder if one day you would become a character in one of those dreadful entries, you decided it was time to change the topic.

“So! Your father was a teacher.”

“Yes, and I was in his class.” He paused for a moment, the space he decided to leave between each word, as well as the calmness in his voice, reminding you of trees after a violent rainstorm, battered and partially uprooted, but still standing somehow, or at least trying to. “One day, he was talking about how humanity was forced to take refuge within the walls to protect themselves from the Titans, and how that bought them 100 years of peace.” There was something about his voice that took you back to a rainy day, ten or fifteen years ago, sitting by the classroom window, only that this time your head wasn’t propped on your hand, your pencil wasn’t tapping on the desk, and your mind wasn’t lost somewhere far away, wondering when you would be able to go home. Because this time, the commander was the one speaking, and his voice, while monotonous and gentle, had the spark required to narrate the longest of stories without losing the audience’s interest in the process. A rare skill you had known only one more person to have: Hitch. That, paired with his ability to explain complex things, made you think he would make a great History professor; and you couldn’t help but wonder how different his life would have looked like had he chosen to follow his father’s footsteps.

“In doing so, any records of our earlier past were lost for all of time.” His voice pulled you back to the present, and you nodded, both to signal you were following his story, and to shake the vivid pictures that had started flooding your imagination, vivid pictures of him coming home after work to a warm dinner on the table, to his family, to a beautiful house in some small village or to a cozy cabin in the middle of some quiet forest, instead of this lonely office trapped between walls of cold stone. An alternate reality where he wouldn’t have to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, startled by nightmares of titans tailing behind him, trying to devour him and his men.

“At least, that’s what we’re all taught.” You looked at him, your brow furrowing in suspicion, sensing there was more to this story. He seemed to be trying to decide what he would say next. Or whether to say it at all. And before you could tell him it was okay if he didn’t want to say more, he decided to continue. “I… having doubts of my own, asked my father a question. At first, he evaded answering and ended class as normal. But after we got home, he answered my doubts. He said the history books given by the government were full of contradictions and mysteries.” Something about that last line reminded you of a conversation you had with your own father a while ago, about those government conspiracy theories he was so intrigued by. But you didn’t want to interrupt, so you just nodded and let the commander go on.

“My father continued to tell me more, and even as a child, I was astounded. You see, there’s a reason he didn’t tell that story to the entire class, but I wasn’t smart enough to know.”

“You told the story to someone else.”

He nodded. “To other neighborhood kids. And one day, the Military Police came to question me.” He was looking straight into the fireplace, as if having a staring contest with the flames. Almost as if someone was standing in the middle of the flames, staring back at him, and he wasn’t allowed to break eye contact. You thought about the scenery reflected in his eyes. The blue in his eyes mirroring the bright, red fire, as well as glimpses of an emotion he had never displayed in front of you before. Slight anger, maybe. “My father didn’t come home that day… And I haven’t seen him ever since. He died in some accident in a faraway town. Or so I was told.” He added, sadness scattered around his eyes like stars in the dark night sky.

His words reverberated inside the silent room, spreading across the available space, reaching every corner, and stabbing every inch of your heart in the process. You had somehow deducted his father wasn’t around anymore, so when he started narrating the story you hadn’t expected it to have a happy ending. This, however, was way beyond your imagination. This was downright traumatizing, another level of disturbing for sure. And you felt horrible for asking him to pick at a wound that had barely even scabbed at all. But you also knew that his father hadn’t died in an ‘accident’. “Based on what I knew-”

“The government. He was silenced by the government.” You concluded, words leaving your mouth at the exact same time the thought was born.

He nodded again before continuing his story. “One hundred and seven years ago, humanity that fled into these walls… The king had altered their memories to make them easy to rule. That was my father’s theory.” You had never listened to this part of the story before. It was as if important pages had been ripped off the history books you studied at school. And the whole sensation was very odd. It left your mouth dry and your skin shivering. It was like finding there was an alternate ending to a book you had read a hundred times. One you never knew existed. A darker one.

He didn’t say anything, and you felt he was giving you time to process everything and reach your own conclusions.

“Because if he hadn’t done that, civilization within the walls could never succeed.” You finally said.

“Exactly. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been thinking… Why did my father have to die for nothing more than getting close to the truth?” He asked, and you knew this time he wasn’t talking to the air nor to you, but to himself, his voice and the emotions behind it raising like water reaching its boiling point. “Even those in the government would believe what they’re doing is just. However, I realized one thing about them: What they’re trying to protect is not humanity.”

“It’s their gardens, houses, and land.” You completed the sentence before he could, having lived far too many years around them to know what their most precious possessions are.

“If anyone dares threaten their authority, they’ll be silenced, whoever they are.” The hand that was intertwined with yours tightened its grip on your fingers. “In the end, there was nothing to justify my father’s death. In the end, my father was killed by human greed.” His knuckles went ghost-white. “And by the foolishness of his own son.” Still staring into the dancing flames before him, you noticed he had the eyes of a man whose future resembled a dead-end street. The eyes of someone who was tired of seeing seasons die one after another, knowing that his father would never come home. The eyes of someone who was tired of seeing tomorrow die even before it came. The eyes of someone who spent a whole life dreaming upon days that would never return, dreaming of a person he would never see again. And you wondered if it was his father whom he saw in the flames, or was it a younger version of himself? Or maybe, he saw memories of happier days. Memories of a past he would never be able to go back to, along with scenes of a future he would never be able to move on to. Because his legs remained forever trapped in the heavy muds of regret.

“Before I knew it, my father’s theory became true inside my heart. Now, my mission in life. It’s to prove my father’s theory once and for all.”

You wanted to string together the right words, one by one, until they formed a bridge that would lead you closer to him, so he wouldn’t feel so alone. Because, even though your bodies were pressed so closed together, you could tell his soul was lost somewhere far away, somewhere dark, somewhere lonely. And you knew his father would have hated it for him to feel that way.

You stayed still, silent, and slightly mad at yourself for not being able to say something to him. The night is always dark if no one holds the light, so you wanted to hold it for him. You really wanted to. But you were astounded and overwhelmed by all the information, both about his past and about the reality you all lived in. His father’s theory, if true, would change the world as you knew it. As everyone knew it. A possibility that, if true, would change everything.

In the end you made peace with the fact that you weren’t wise enough to know what to say, and opted for gently wrapping your arms around him instead, pulling him closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck, hugging him as tightly as you could. If you couldn’t tell him, you would show him. If words were beyond your ability, you would make sure actions weren’t. He immediately responded by tightening his arms around you and pressing his nose against the top of your head, where you could feel him breathing heavily. He took such a deep breath that, for a moment, you thought he was going to cry. But no, you knew he wouldn’t, that would be nearly impossible. Because at this point, given the rate of pain he had been enduring for years, at that rate your eyes would run out of tears before your heart could let go of the pain.

As your head rested against his chest, in such proximity to his heart, and as its beating told you more about the pain he had been living with for all those years since his father’s passing, a question popped up in your mind.

“The basement. In Eren’s house. It has something to do with this. Doesn’t it?” You spoke after a few minutes of silence.

“Intel suggests that the basement of Eren Yeager’s home in Shiganshina holds a vital secret regarding our enemy. That’s our destination. By getting there, I can prove my father’s theory. I know it.” He held your hand tighter. “I just know it.”

His words carried the exact same conviction they did during meetings when planning strategies or during expeditions when giving commands in the field. Only that this time they were infused with something else, a certain vulnerability. A vulnerability that, along with the violent beating of his heart against your ear, explained to you why he was so committed to the cause. Why he had decided to give his entire life to the Survey Corps. It all made sense now. You understood that it had less to do with freeing humanity from the walls, and more to do with his late father.

As his heartbeat lulled you to sleep that night, your mind became flooded with thoughts of the basement and the secrets that could be hidden there. If there was something hidden at all, in the first place.

next chapter

taglist: @elnyrae @angelaevangelion @depitaangeline @ynackerman9499 @afatalheat @pumpkin-toffee @velouria17 @gassytritis @goddessinsweats @nube55 @jeanboyjean

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isbahstudio · 7 months

Text

🍁 Books To Read This Fall

If you love books with a dark academia vibe, here are my recommendations for this fall!

🟣 The Secret History - Richard grew up in a lower class family. His life changes when he attends a prestigious university and befriends an exclusive academic group of rich students led by an elusive and mysterious professor. The group of college friends end up killing one of their own friends. The story details how they got to that point, how they covered up the murder, and how they all personally suffered after the event.

🟣 Ninth House - a girl who is a dropout and delinquent has the ability to see the supernatural. She gets recruited by Yale University to join their secret Ninth House alongside two other students. The trio is then responsible for keeping check of Yale's 8 secret societies who frequently dabble in dark magic. When a girl ends up dead on campus, the trio set out to figure out which secret society was behind the incident.

🟣 The Atlas Six - a group of 6 magicians, considered to be the best in the world, are recruited by Atlas Blakely. Atlas is the caretaker of the mysterious Library of Alexandria, the magical library said to hold all the knowledge in the world. The 6 will compete for a year by researching complex topics such as wormholes, dreams, dimensions, the subconscious, time manipulation, and so forth. Only 5 will be allowed to join this secret society. 1 will be eliminated. All 6 contestants are witty, hungry, and manipulative. Alliances change, betrayals take place, and no one is to be trusted.

🟣 The Silent Patient - a psychotherapist takes on a case of a famous painter who killed her husband and never uttered a word after. He goes down a spiral of uncovering clues and solving the mystery of what drove the woman to kill her husband.

🟣 The Ecliptic - a famous painter who has lost her creative touch agrees to stay at a seceret island in Turkey, that is a rehab for broken down artists. She spends years in this isolated facility, disconnected from the outside world, amongst other artists, trying to create a new masterpiece, and rekindle her flame.

🌸 All of these books are my faves!

#writerscommunity #blogger #coquette #self improvement #studyblr #writing #soft girl #dark academia #booklr #bookish #bookworm #books #ninth house #the silent patient #the secret history #the atlas six

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bonezone44 · 9 months

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Muddy Waters, pt 4. (18+)

'Punching Bags'

Ezra x F!Reader x Joel Miller

Summary: A peek into your past and present with Ezra. A brief clash between you and Joel. Then, your best friend catches you with Joel.

Word Count: ~7,5k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 (story masterlist) (my masterlist)

tags: NSFW 18+. Intuitive!Reader. Afab!Reader (she/they). Southern!Reader. Established Ezra x F!Reader. Polyam. No use of Y/N.

This Chapter: Pet names: baby, angel, darlin. Fighting/Fucking. Unprotected P-in-V. Ezra and his poor hygiene habits. Angst. Rage. Humor. Adult conversations.

Warnings: The first section of this chapter occurs in the past and contains consensual physical violence + sex, aka fighting/fucking, between the Reader and Ezra and the Reader and Ezra threaten each other’s lives (it’s understood between them that they don’t literally mean what they’re saying).

Author's Note: It's amazing how many different version of a chapter can exist before I end up with what I post. I hope this is the best version. I might have had too much caffeine today.

++++++++++++++++

“Just leave it!” he shouted at you from across the library with veins bulging from his neck. He splayed his fingers wide and threw his hands down. “We can’t take ‘em all!”

You traced the letters on the cover. 1,000 Facts About Space. Decorated with images of stars and planets and black holes. Your lips trembled and you fell to your knees.

Ezra groaned. “We don’t have time for this!”

“We were gonna go places.” Mars. The Asteroid Belt. Jupiter and beyond. To the very end of space and time. “We were gonna see… we were gonna see it all.” You swallowed thickly as your eyes filled with tears.

“Yeah, well." Ezra spun around with his arms swinging. "It’s no longer an option, now is it?” he spat.

“B-but we’re gonna lose all this–all this knowledge!” You held the book to your chest and clung to your lower lip with your teeth as you pouted. In any other lifetime, it would have been a silly little collection of trivia you flipped through on someone’s coffee table. But in that moment, it was your ancestors’--nay, your entire species’--lost destiny and tragically unfulfilled prophecy.

“I am well aware of what progress our society is losing,” he snarled with wide eyes. “And I am just as heartbroken as you are but–" he placed his palms together in prayer. "–we cannot allow ourselves to mourn eternally over it and we cannot allow ourselves to mourn right–now!” He stomped his foot twice. “We need to move with haste,” he hissed.

“Stop telling me what to do!” you shouted, regressing into your childhood self, desperate and selfish and kicking your feet. God, why couldn’t Ezra understand you? Why couldn’t he understand the pain you were experiencing? Where was his fucking compassion?!

“Baby, if you don’t put that book down right now…” With his chin high and serious, he raised one ominous finger in your direction. “I’ll say it.”

You whipped your head up and flared your nostrils. He wouldn’t dare.

“You think I’m joking, huh?” Something about your reaction made his eyes glow. He dropped his hand.

“Don’t,” you threatened–your lips curled thin.

“Drop the book and get up or I’ll say it.” Excitement bubbled in his cheeks. He was grinning.

You stayed on the floor, snarling at him. Fire began to burn in your fists and ripple throughout your chest. “Don’t you fuckin say it.” Fuck, you wished he would. You wished this motherfucker would say it just so you could feel something for once in your whole stupid life.

“I will.” His eyes were positively glittering—sparkling like the falling dust in the pale white light flooding in through the windows. “I will speak it loudly and I will speak it proudly.”

“Don’t you fuckin say it, Ezra!” Your breaths were heaving now, hot blood pumping through your arms and legs. You were a wild beast being toyed with and prodded and the thought of pouncing your torturer burned embers low in your belly. You squeezed your thighs together–squirming.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” He said with a sideways shake of his head. He started laughing. You could see the beast in him, too, the way his teeth shined like fangs ready to sink into your skin.

You two went back and forth, taunting and tugging on one another while your bodies stayed in place and built up fiery momentum.

It was Ezra who finally burst and snapped and he dug his teeth into the depths of your craw.

“I–" he started and your nostrils flared with hot air.

"--miss–"

Energy coiled in your toes

"--the fuckin INTERNET!” He shouted and stomped, all red in the face and neck.

You launched yourself up from the floor and ran straight for him, screaming with fury and heated spite. You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around his knees, and tackled him to the ground.

A loud pained groan was knocked from Ezra’s gut as he hit the floor. You scrambled up his body.

You hovered above him, fingers gripping his shirt tight. "I am so fuckin sick of hearing you talk!" You punched him in the chest with the sides of your fists before tumbling over sideways and slamming into the floor, shoulder first. You hastily shimmied out of one pant leg because one leg free was all you needed before clawing yourself back on top of him.

"Give it to me–give it to me–" he choked out through short breaths. His pants and underwear were pulled under his hips. His twisted amusement was gone–replaced with a deep, snarling hunger. "Make it hurt, baby–" Ezra spit on his hand and stroked his cock. "Come on–" He whined.

You slid your panties to the side, wasting no time to sink down on his length. The sharp, dry pain went unnoticed as rage flooded your vibrating veins. You scratched your nails along the back of his scalp and pulled his head down and away from you. Your other hand curled into his shirt again. You wanted to rip it off his body and shove it in his mouth while he whimpered–and you tried, honestly, but the fabric wouldn't tear.

Ezra dug his fingers into your waist. "Fuckin hurt me, baby!" He shouted and rolled his body, trying to get you to start moving. "Come on!"

You hunched over, meeting him nose-to-nose and screamed. "You wanna fuckin hurt?! I'll show you how to fuckin hurt!" You leaned upright. One hand squeezed his cheeks before the other swung back and punched him in the jaw–fist following all the way through.

Ezra whimpered and jerked his hips.

You saw blood in his teeth.

Fuck, it felt good. So good you almost came–it felt so good. The way your cunt clenched around him, sucking his cock deeper inside you. You bounced up and down, savoring the way his length stroked your inner walls. You reeled your arm back a second time and punched him again in the same spot to the right of his chin. This time, your fist hit the floor beneath him as well–sending a shooting pain from your knuckles up to your shoulder and right back down again.

Hoo! It hurt, but you shook it off–shook your hand around while bouncing up and down.

Ezra didn’t complain. In fact, he started fucking up into you, hips and bare ass using the hardwood floor as some kind of springboard. The rebound threw your body forward and you nearly toppled over him completely. But you were quick enough to steady yourself and met his strokes in a pounding, synchronous rhythm.

“I fuckin hate you!” you screamed in his face, sweat building on your brow. You punched him one more time for good measure, and the sting was so sharp–you felt pins and needles all through your hand. You clawed and tugged at his hair while hunting the billowing heat at your core. “I fuckin hate you, Ezra!” Fat tears filled your eyes and spilled down your cheeks. “I hope you fuckin die!”

“Nnng–I hate you, too, baby!” His eyes were glossy and wet and he was sweating from the exertion of his thrusts. "Fuck!" He whined and ached. "I fuckin hate you, too!" He croaked as he wept.

You wrapped your fingers in the hair on his crown. “If you fuckin come first, I’ll kill you mySELF!” Spit flew from your lips.

“Do it!” he yelled through gritted teeth, pain evident across his face. “Fuckin KILL ME ALREADY!” He shrieked. He was panting like a dog and crying like a baby.

“I’ll do it! I’ll fuckin KILL you, Ezra!” You were sobbing now–your abdomen spasming and twisting. You didn’t stop riding him, though. You were determined to get your orgasm–even if you felt yourself wavering. You shoved your dirty fingers in his mouth, down to your broken and bleeding knuckles, while your other hand braced yourself on the floor next to his head.

He tongued and choked on your fingers. He bit down hard and you loved it. Once you felt his hips slow–once his pace stuttered and grew weak–it set you off on your high. A creaking whimper escaped your throat. Your pussy clenched and contracted around him. A heady wave of blood pulsed through you, leaving you dizzy and disoriented. You collapsed into his body, limbs flopping around while Ezra chased his own end.

You weren’t sure if he came in you or on you or somewhere else in the room. You just remembered the whole world going dark and quiet as you floated serenely on some post-orgasmic ethereal cloud.

You were eternal.

Unlimited.

Until a waft of air over your bare ass sent goosebumps up your back and down your arms. You pried open your heavy eyelids with your cheek smushed against the floor. In front of you was a blur of book spines. A label on the shelf read ‘Local Authors.’ The title beneath:

'The Nature of Good and Evil' by Sylvia Browne.

—------

Ezra trekked ahead of you, smiling widely in the sun with a red wagon in tow. Its contents were covered in a black plastic tarp and wrapped up with cord. He craned his neck back and chuckled. “You clocked me pretty good, baby. It’s been–what?--over two weeks now? And I’m still feelin it.” He flexed his jaw. "Hoo!"

“Sorry,” you murmured, embarrassed. You fumbled behind him, dragging a wagon of your own. Your knuckles were still tender, too.

“There is no need to apologize for your actions.” He stopped and smiled. “I am proud of my woman.” He had been perky and grinning since you left the library behind. “I love it when you kick my ass.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed. You walked passed him, navigating carefully upward through the dry, grassy terrain. Your thighs and glutes trembled and ached. The soles of your feet burned. You couldn't feel your fingers hardly, but you didn't care. You didn’t wanna stop, yet, because you knew that stopping would make all the hurt settle in and throb through your body like rolling thunder–make your muscles spasm and twitch like flashes of angry lightning.

“Shouldn’t be much further now," you heard him call from behind you.

You laughed again and yelled over your shoulder. “You have been saying that for days.”

“Well, since every scale is relative, I am technically correct each time I say it.”

You shook your head and sighed.

You heard a hungry moan. "Baby, I am treasuring the sight of your ass from this lower perspective–"

"Stop it!" Embarrassment heated your face as you giggled and squirmed, trying to cover yourself with your free hand. "You pervert!"

He grunted. “You know me, angel–”

“HEY!" Shouted a deep and booming voice.

Your hand instinctively pulled the pistol from your hip and you let go of the wagon. Your heart drummed in your chest as you searched the horizon. Like some kind of optical illusion, as soon as you saw one person heading towards you on horseback, you saw two more in your peripheral.

“Drop ‘em down! NOW!” It was the same deep voice as before–coming from a man wearing a bright red bandana over his face and a black cowboy hat. He was aiming his rifle straight at you. “And step away from the wagons!”

You both complied, clearly outnumbered and outgunned, too.

“Are you bit?” he shouted.

You shook your head as you raised your hands in surrender.

“No, my good sir.” Ezra cheerily spoke for both of you. “We are clean as whistles, I assure you.” He cleared his throat. “We are merely passing through—”

“What’s in the wagons?” asked a woman’s voice. She was to your right, wearing a denim jacket–face wrapped in a yellow bandana, but nothing atop her head but tightly twisted long black locs.

“Nothing nefarious, I promise,” Ezra pressed his palms together. But he lifted them again when the woman raised her rifle. “We are delivering a collection of books–”

“Books?” The man in red sounded disgusted.

“Delivering to who?" Asked the woman. "There’s no one out here." She shook her head. “Certainly no one that ordered books.”

“Well, we uh–We–” Ezra looked to you, nudging for you to speak by widening his eyes.

You looked at the three riders surrounding you. Their clothes appeared clean and fitted. Although you could only see their eyes, they weren’t red and sunken. Their horses looked well-kept, too, brushed and attended to. You took your chance, praying to every single god you had ever heard of in your life that these were the right people and you were about to say the right words. “They left the light on for us,” you croaked out.

“...What?” said the man in red.

“They left the light on for us,” you repeated, though now that you were saying it out loud, you weren’t sure if it was correct. “They left the light on for-for-for me.”

“Th-that’s right!” chimed Ezra, still smiling with his hands up. “They left the light on for me.”

The three riders looked at each other. The woman in yellow trotted forward.

“Who told you to say that?” she asked.

The tension eased a little. Your heart rate slowed. “My friend, Tonya. W-we met her back in Kansas City.”

The woman hummed. “And where is Tonya now?”

“She stayed,” you said and took a tight breath through your nostrils. “She’s still in Missouri.”

She hummed again. “And she told you to bring us …books?”

“Tonya encouraged us to provide… tribute to the good people in the Jackson community,” said Ezra, bouncing on his toes. “My partner and I desire to join and participate in the development of this, uh… small town that Tonya has told us quiet, but evolutionary things about.”

The man in red scoffed. “So you brought books?”

“Yes. Books.” Ezra stood as proudly as he could with his hands still high in the air. “We carry with us some mechanical and medical textbooks and some children’s books for the little ones and-and-and we also have some literature, as well, from some of the greats–which–” He looked to you again. “--we know was a biased effort, of course, as is the nature of any opinion, b-b-but I believe we chose quite fairly across the board to-to-to express the diversity of our world’s uhh… our world’s—”.

“Capabilities,” you added.

“Capabilities! Yes! Our world’s capabilities and talent and knowledge.”

“We don’t do hand-outs, alright?” said the woman in yellow. “Everybody works.”

“Absolutely!” Ezra said. He looked over at you, flashing his eyebrows in a silent cheer before returning his attention to the riders. “I completely agree! One hundred percent!” He nodded in your direction. “M-my partner may need time to-to rest after this long, arduous journey, but I, personally, am fighting fit.”

The woman grunted and turned to the man in red. She spun her finger in the air. “Go get the dogs.”

Ezra smiled uncomfortably. “The-the what now?”

—-----

There were never enough hours in the day. You don’t know how Joel kept his whole house so neat and clean and still found time to go on patrol and build things around town and limewash new shutters and take care of Ellie. You and Ezra shared a small apartment above the Outfitters and it was always an overwhelming disaster.

You two had somehow collected so much in the brief time you had been in Jackson. And you had no idea what to do about all of it. Books and papers and trinkets and gifts and clothes–how the hell did you two own so many clothes?

And the shower was never clean enough and there was always dirt on the floors and the bed sheets–God! The bed sheets always smelled.

And Ezra never gave a shit.

Your eyes bore into him with fury as you stood watching him from the bedroom.

He was reclining on the couch wearing only blue boxer briefs and …a baseball cap, for some fuckin reason. He reached down to scratch his balls and then smelled his fingers after. A high pitched pained scream resounded in your head.

"Jesus Christ, Ezra," you groused and pointed at the floor. "Can't you put your clothes in the fuckin hamper?"

"Nope," he answered cheerily and flipped the page of his book. "I sure cannot."

The thing about Ezra’s cheeriness was that sometimes it was happy and perky and jovial.

And sometimes it was a big 'Fuck You.''

You stomped through the living room and picked up his laundry while grinding your teeth. "You come home and just fuckin… throw your clothes all over the place."

"I sure do." He grinned and continued to read.

Fire built in your chest. It didn't matter that you were just as messy. What mattered was that you were trying to do better–trying to be cleaner. And he refused to make a single effort.

"I'm sick of living in a fucking pig sty!" You screamed. You did not understand how to get through to him. No matter what avenue you took, he fought you at every turn, so you gave up and yelled at him all the time instead.

"It must suck to be you, then."

"Oh my god!" You shouted with your hands curled into tight fists. "You are a fuckin child!"

He turned to you with a proud smile, eyes disappearing behind his rounded cheeks, and released an utmost satiated hum.

You started panting in anger. You wanted to grab his book and rip it in half. Or set fire to each page one by one, laughing maniacally as he cried–the flames reflecting brightly in your wild eyes.

But… no. You didn't really want to do that because he loved his books. He loved reading. And you didn't really wanna hurt him.

That would break his heart.

And in turn, it would break yours, too.

…But you did kinda wanna strangle him right where he was, laying on the couch without a care in the world.

But.

Again.

You didn't really wanna strangle him.

Because even though you imagined doing all this damage to Ezra, it was a cartoon fantasy that played in your mind. Like Looney Tunes or Ren and Stimpy where the excessive violence never did any permanent damage but allowed the characters to get out all their frustrations.

This was usually where the hate-fucking came in.

But that was for ‘out there.’ Out in the rest of the world where safety and survival was a constant uncertainty. Where there was nowhere to go when you needed a break from one another and the persistent grinding friction between the two of you had to breach your surfaces somehow.

But now you’re ‘in here.’ In Jackson. In a community that allowed you to get the fuck away from him when necessary.

And–Praise be!–on this day, you knew the perfect place to go.

“I am getting the fuck out of this fuckin apartment!” you shouted into the air.

“Good for you, angel.” Ezra was so calm and encouraging. “I hope you have a wonderful day.”

The fact that he wouldn't fight you back just made you angrier. "Well I hope your day fuckin sucks!" You screamed and slammed the door behind you as you left.

You stomped down the stairs into the alleyway and stopped once you hit the bottom. Your head was already clearer outside of the confines of your shared living space. The cool fresh air cleansed the heat from your skin and a slow, deep breath brought you even further toward peace of mind.

It was inventory day at the General Store and you knew they needed extra hands.

It was the perfect distraction.

Counting items was easy and repetitive. And you would be under direct surveillance, by Derek of all people, so there would be no opportunity for your mind to wander and ail you. The man was impossible and it made you do better just to spite him.

Derek was one of the patrollers that first found you and Ezra. He was on the council, supervised the General Store, and ran the town meetings. And he loved Ezra.

His feelings toward you, though, were tepid at best.

You hoped Tracy would be there. She was Derek’s wife and probably your closest friend in all of Jackson. She was funny and bright and she loved her kids more than anything. She always wore a velvety soft brown cardigan and smelled like lemongrass. Her friendship made you feel all warm inside and damn, you needed a friend.

Unfortunately, as you approached the front door, you saw Derek through the window. And even more unfortunately, he saw you, too. Meaning there was no turning back. You took another deep breath and opened the door.

“Inventory day,” Derek groaned as you walked in.

“Oh, I know!” You smiled with your fingers tugging on the hem of your shirt. “I wanted to see if you needed an extra hand.”

“An extra hand?” He scoffed with his eyes all big. He crossed his arms over his stomach, one hand clinging to his clipboard. He glared with disdain. “We started over an hour ago. You can’t just show up whenever you feel like it.”

You crossed your arms right back. “I was just passin by–”

“Passing by?” He pointed his stupid little clipboard at you. “You live across the way.”

“Livin across the way doesn’t mean I can’t pass by.” You huffed. This wasn’t quite going how you had planned it would go. “Maybe–Maybe I could bring y'all lunch or something?” You suggested as you scratched your eyebrow. “So you don’t have to go to the hall for it?"

Derek scoffed even louder than before. “And make a big mess in the middle of the store? No.” He huffed back. “We got enough mess to deal with already.”

“Heeey!” You heard Tracy call out to you in song. She wore chunky heels that echoed with every step as she approached. “How are you?” she asked as she opened up her arms.

“I’m doin good, Tracy,” you grinned and glowed and hummed as you met her in a tight warm hug. You glared at Derek over her shoulder and he rolled his eyes. “i was just seein if y’all needed help, but–”

“Oh, great timing!” she said and squeezed your shoulder after pulling away. “Derek, let’s get her counting those pillows in the back.”

“No." He was all worked up, eyes bulging, offended by the suggestion. "I’m gonna have Kara take care of that when she’s done with the blankets.” He tossed his hand in the air. “We don’t need her. She’s just gonna count ‘em wrong anyway.”

You raised your finger to defend yourself. "I told you. Last time, I had a cold and I was on my cycle, okay?"

"Horseshit," he muttered under his breath.

“Derek, be nice,” Tracy hissed. “She is my friend and she is trying to help.”

“I don’t care if she’s trying to help.” He tossed his hand up again. “Let her go help someone else.” He stomped away, shaking his head.

Tracy rolled her eyes, tucking a brown curl behind her ears. “Sorry about that.” She huffed as she wrapped her cardigan around her front. “He is bein such an asshole today.” She mouthed the word 'asshole' so no one else would hear. "And I don't know why–" she hid her mouth behind the back of her hand. "--'cause he definitely got some last night."

You faked a laugh. Normally, her little asides would crack you up, but your mood was souring everything.

She shook her head and sighed. “Anyway, if he won't let you help out in here, there was a little accident that happened in the tool shed over night last night." Tracy interlaced her fingers together and pleaded with her eyes.

"Oh yeah?" You really didn't want to work by yourself, but there was no way out of it at this point.

"One of the shelves fell and we just haven't had a spare moment to go clean it all up." She smiled kindly and you forced a smile back. "Maybe you can go do that for us."

"I can do that! Don't you worry ‘bout a thing," you nodded, groaned internally, and walked back out the front door.

—--

The large barn door to the tool shed was wide open and you recognized an empty space on the back wall above the wood-top counter. Once you stepped past the work table in the center, you saw the edge of it--the 'accident' that Tracy referred to. To the left of the back counter was a tall pile of nails and bolts and screws and broken pieces of glass from the jars that had once sorted them all.

“The fuck,” you muttered.

The shelf itself was a long, thin, deep slab of wood, sitting on top of the back counter, dusty and stained. Its brackets were still secured to the wall, strangely enough.

You scoffed. The shelf had no holes in it. It was solid. 'What idiot puts up a shelf and doesn’t attach it to the fuckin brackets?' You huffed. 'How long has this been here like this?' You shook your head. 'A disaster waitin’ to happen and then–' you waved your palm out to the mess on the floor. '--it finally happens.'

You groaned. This looked like something Ezra would do. He was so lazy. He never finished anything but his books. That's all he ever wanted to do was read. Hardly ever spent any time with you.

Sure, there was that amazing sex you had the other morning, but besides that–hardly ever!

You groaned again. Not that you would want to spend time with his unwashed ass right now.

God, Ezra was the worst. There was something wrong with that man. What kind of person happily marinates in their own filth like that? Why couldn’t he shower every day like a normal person? Just because he had off the night before didn’t mean he should just soak in his own sweat and muck and – Ugghh!

And he never picked up after himself. Sometimes …maybe he would pick up a thing or two, but mostly never.

And then Derek, ugh! How the hell was Tracy married to him? He was so impossible to please. You wanted to help with inventory. You weren't there on time because you didn't know how you were gonna feel that morning and you didn't wanna commit to something if you were just gonna let them down again. And last time you had a cold and you were on your cycle and your brain couldn't hold the numbers in your head but that wasn't your fault! You did the best you could every single day of your life and sometimes your brain and body betrayed you and forced you to betray others but it wasn't intentional! You weren't trying to be an unreliable piece of shit! You were trying to do better every fuckin day for yourself and for Jackson and for Ezra’s disgusting ass! You didn't mean to be a big fuckin failure who had no skills and devolved into a panicked puddle of blood, sweat, and tears by the tiniest inkling of responsibility now that you were inside the safety of Jackson’s walls! It wasn't your fault that you were never gonna be enough! It wasn't your fault that–

Someone cleared their throat and it grated against your skin.

You looked up from the pile of sharp glass and metals.

Great.

Now Joel was here.

He was the last person you wanted to see while you were busy being animus and self-loathing. And he was smiling at you like life was all fun and happy or something when it wasn’t!

God, it felt so fuckin stupid to be alive.

"Mornin, darlin," he grinned and shuffled towards you.

His sexy, smoky voice was so stupid and annoying.

"Mornin," you rolled your eyes as you sorted out nails and tossed them into one of the few surviving jars.

He stopped. Tilted his head. Had the nerve to breathe in your general direction. "So…" he pointed with his chin. "What happened here?"

You raised your head slowly with a condescending glare. “The shelf fell down." You raised your palm toward the empty spot on the wall like you were Vanna White. ‘Is this beautiful idiot incapable of observing his own surroundings? Is he too busy being attractive and handsome to use basic deduction skills?’

He raised his eyebrows and put his hands on his hips. "Did… did you do it?" He asked.

And now he was accusing you of being the idiot that didn't properly install a simple fucking shelf?!

"No, I didn't do it, you fuckin asshole," you groused and tossed more nails into the jar.

"Hey."

You felt him more than you heard him–a tense shockwave rippling through you like an earthquake, shoving you to teeter on the edge of a crevice. You whipped your head up. Your gut trembled. Your whole world became uncertain and unbalanced.

Joel towered above you from where you sat, shrinking into the floor. He scowled with his arms crossed. "What is this? What are you doin?” He shrugged his broad shoulders and shook his head. “Don't talk to me like that."

His disappointment sent your heart over the edge into free-fall. Shame crawled across your skin and all the heat and turmoil in your head suddenly vanished, leaving behind nothing but a cold, empty wind. You covered your eyes with your hand and sucked air into your lungs. "I'm sorry," you creaked out, frowning. You had seen Joel standing there, but you hadn't felt him yet. Too busy in your own storm to see anyone but yourself. Your heart shrank further. "Sorry." Tension stung the muscles in the center of your chest and snaked its way up your throat. "I-I-I get like this …sometimes." The water that had once been boiling inside of you had cooled and started pouring out your eyes.

"Well, don't… get like it… with me," he said, sounding on the edge of timid.

"Okay. Okay." You nodded and recycled another breath. And even though you still felt the burn of shame on your skin, the pressure on your chest was relieved. "I'm sorry." You sniffed and spoke to the floor.

You wiped enough of your tears away to see Joel eyeing you with his brows pulled tight, chewing on his lip. It surprised you that he didn't push back or start yelling. It surprised you that he stayed instead of throwing his hands up and stomping off or, at the very least, saying something polite before leaving you be to wallow in your own shame.

"Are you alright? What's goin on?" He asked.

You opened your mouth to speak, thinking the words would come to you, but they didn't. You sighed, half-smiling. "I'm sorry, Joel. It's nothin." You waved him away. "You've got work you're trying to do–"

"Can't be nothin if it's got you actin like that. I–" he sighed. "C'mon." He offered you his hand.

You obliged, reaching out and allowing him to pull you up. You wiped the dirt from your knees and shit, they felt stiff and bruised. You didn't realize you had been kneeling for so long.

He carefully took your hand in his own again. It felt good and warm and safe. "So what's wrong? I-I gotta be honest" He huffed and smiled. "I didn't know… someone as happy as you could get like that."

If he hadn't been holding your hand, you would have ran away–you were so embarrassed. You closed your eyes. Your breaths grew shallow.

"It's–It's–I just–" The right words still weren't there.

"Look at me," he said.

You complied.

"I wouldn't be askin if I didn't wanna know." His eyes were big and tender. The lines around them and in his forehead echoed his sincerity like ripples in water.

You closed your eyes, nodding.

And his thumb was rubbing along the center of your palm and he was waiting–so patiently.

You opened your eyes and his expression was unchanged. "I have these moods…" the words finally tumbled out of you. "...where I get lost in my own head and wanna hurt everyone and everything. But I don't really wanna hurt anyone.” You sighed. “But then I go lashin out at everybody, anyway."

A soft smile bloomed on his face. “Yeah,” he said and glanced into the alleyway. “I know what that’s like.”

Relief washed over you, removing all your remaining apprehension. You had been so scared and yet… he impressed you again.

“I don’t wanna be your punchin bag, though,” he said earnestly.

You didn’t know a statement like that could feel so good–warming up your chest and clearing out your mind. “I don’t want you to be my punchin bag, either,” you said, echoing his sincerity. “It won’t happen again, Joel.” You were confident of that. “I’m sorry it happened in the first place.”

“‘S alright.” He blinked and looked down to where you had been sitting on the floor. “That was… easy compared to most of the fights I have.” Amusement rounded his cheeks, his dimple burrowing deep. He leaned his hip into the back counter, resting his elbow atop it. He was still playing with your hand, interlacing your fingers through it.

You giggled through your closed-lip smile.

He spoke to the floor between your bodies. “I … fight myself more than anybody.”

Your smile turned sympathetic.

“You could say I’m my own punchin bag,” he said in a forced joke with a forced smile.

“Yeah,” you nodded, staring at him with open tenderness. “I know what that’s like.” Your hand found his waist, fingers on the smooth leather of his belt and the rough fabric of his jeans. You rubbed your thumb up and down the soft, cotton fabric of his shirt. You wanted to wrap your arms around him and hold him close, but you weren't sure how he would respond. You didn't move. Didn't say anything. Didn't want to risk him closing back up.

His eyes–you could lose yourself in them forever. Especially with how adoringly he looked at you. You wondered if he was delusional or something to be so quickly enamored with you.

Shit, though. Maybe you were delusional, too, because he was constantly making you melt and you didn't even know him. Not really. Not like you knew Ezra.

Was this okay? Was this alright to feel about someone when you didn't yet know all their quirks and viewpoints and world opinions? You knew Ezra for years before you crossed that boundary. And that was living every single day in his presence. You and Joel had spent very little time together, but god, you felt yourself pulled to him by some electromagnetic current.

But you were a lot older and wiser than when you first met Ezra. Your instincts were stronger and clearer. And your life wasn't at risk if things went south between you–there were no cordyceps or raiders or slavers to find you if he wasn't at your side with a gun in his hand.

You could trust this–whatever it was–happening between you. You could trust yourself to figure it out, too. Maybe Ezra was right. Not everything could fit into a pretty little box for you to label and package all nice and neat. Maybe it was alright to be messy.

So when Joel stepped closer, bringing your bodies flush, you felt warm and easy. And when he leaned forward to kiss you, you felt no doubt in your body when you leaned in to kiss him right back.

The distinctive sound of metal clocking against itself and wood sliding against wood startled both of you. You both whipped your heads around to see Tracy, slamming the door behind her and scuttling towards you from the back of the General Store.

Time slowed down right in front of your eyes, moving like molasses down a shallow incline. You felt your heart pounding in your ears. You hadn’t prepared for this. You hadn’t prepared to tell anyone. Til you knew what the hell you were doing.

But… of all the people to catch you in the act, at least it was Tracy. She knew you better than anyone else in town.

"Hello. Hi." She waved her hand–a broad, panicked smile on her face.

“Shit,” Joel muttered under his breath.

She stepped inside the shed with her hands clasped together. “What’s going on? What are you doing?” She asked. Her voice teetered between casual and accusative.

“‘S none of your business.” Joel’s voice teetered on threatening.

“Um, actually it is my business–” She held her finger up and snaked her head around. “--when my best friend is about to throw her perfect relationship down the toilet.”

Joel scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Your heart jumped. ‘Best friend?’ You hadn’t had a best friend since high school. And you and her had had a falling out, which was why you went to college alone in the first place. You needed this. You needed to save this. You held your palms up, attempting to calm her. “Look, Tracy. I know it looks bad, but–”

Her arms were crossed and angry. “After all Ezra does for you and for this town and–what? You’re just gonna leave him for-for this?” With a disgusted look, she tossed her finger in Joel’s direction before tucking it back beneath her arm.

Joel placed his palms on the work table, leaning his weight into them. He looked ready to pounce.

You stayed even and gentle. “I am not leaving Ezra.”

You felt Joel’s eyes on you.

“Oh, okay. Of course.” She shrugged. “You’re just gonna fuck someone else behind his back. My bad.”

“It’s not like that,” you said evenly.

“Ezra knows.” Joel added.

“No. Uh-uh.” Tracy shook her head. “There is not a man alive that would let their wife run around and make a fool out of them.”

Your palms were still high, still trying to ease back her cloud of upset. “No one is bein made a fool of, Tracy. Ezra knows.”

She scoffed. “This is a joke, right? This is a fucking joke?” Her head was still shaking. Tears rimmed her eyes as she dropped her arms. "Is Ezra not enough for you?" She pressed her fist into her chest. "After all he's done to support you and he's not enough?"

You struggle to find the words, every thought in your head is blurry.

She laughs, wiping pained tears from her reddening eyes. "Ezra is such an incredible, perfect, handsome man and you–"

"Ezra is not some golden child.” Joel spat.

"What?" You turned to look at him. His face was red and he was snarling.

"Ooooh!" Tracy looked sickeningly excited and started waving her finger around. "You got a lotta nerve to say anything, Joel." She spat his name out like an insult. "I have heard plenty of stories about what you did before Jackson."

He raised his jaw, his body gone stiff. His chest heaved hot breaths through his nostrils.

"All the killing and smuggling." She huffed. "The only reason they even let you in was because of your brother."

You scoffed. "Tracy, stop it." Your calm was disappearing.

"You don't know, do you?" Her eyes were now trained on you. "You don't know how many people he's killed?"

"Tracy," you warned. “I am not going there. There is not a single person in this town–”

“Innocent people.” She said your name to you as if to emphasize her point. She leaned forward, pointing at Joel as if her finger was gonna help you understand everything she was telling you. “He killed innocent people.”

“I killed innocent people, too.” You threw your hands up–stiff, exasperated. You spoke through gritted teeth and trembling lips. “And people tell me stories all the time about murderin and torturin and-and-and the sick, painful shit they did to get by.” You pointed a shaky finger downward. “People here. In Jackson.” You stared at Tracy's pained face, wet cheeks. "But we are not who we were when we were survivin'."

“Fine. Fine!” Tracy spat, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Fine!" Her head was shaking. Her body was trembling. “B-B-But you can’t do this.” Now her finger was pointing at you. “You can’t just go around… fuckin whoever you want.”

Your eyes grew wide and your jaw went slack.

“It is none of your business,” Joel snarled again.

“There are families here. And there are children.”

“What?” What the hell did that have to do with anything?

“And how am I supposed to explain to my kids that you’re out there sluttin’ it up like nothing means anything?”

“What?” You wanted to laugh. "That–that doesn't even make sense! What are you talking about?" ‘Like nothing means anything?’ What the hell did that mean?

“You get one, okay?” She started stepping back, out of the tool shed and into the alley. “You get one and that’s all you get. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked.” She nodded, satisfied. “Okay? So pick.” She clapped her hands together. “And you know how I feel about this one.” She nodded toward Joel and turned around.

You stomped around the work table. “I don’t have to pick shit!” She was almost to the door. “I can do whatever the hell I want!”

She threw her hands up, shaking her head, and went inside.

Your whole body was jittery. Your breaths were short. There were people, you noticed, on the edge of your vision. Other people in the alley. But you didn’t count them and you didn’t look to see if they were looking at you. You placed your hand on your chest, attempting to calm your nerves.

Joel stood in the tool shed, watching you and working his jaw. He looked down and crossed his arms.

“I … I don’t know what the hell just happened,” you said as you leaned against the doorway. You were exhausted suddenly–every ounce of life having been sucked from your veins and mind and bones.

Joel didn’t say anything. Just wiped his face and adjusted his belt.

“Everything is happenin so fast. It’s too fast.” Your eyes welled with tears. You didn’t know you had any left in there. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand what is goin on.”

Joel slowly stepped to you, boots scraping against the dusty floors. He placed his hand on your shoulder and opened his mouth to speak. But he closed it just as quickly.

You sighed and wiped your tears. You wrapped your palm around his warm hand and it felt so good to touch his skin. You didn’t need or want him to say anything at all. It was enough to be in his presence. You took a deep breath and looked at him with a small smile on your lips.

“I need to go tell Ezra what happened so he’s not blind-sided by it later ‘cause I know she’s gonna tell somebody and they’re gonna tell somebody else and I’m pretty sure–” you sighed. “I’m pretty sure some other people just heard us arguin out there.”

“A-alright,” he said–his hand staying on your shoulder.

God, being with Joel felt so good and so right and so… correct. Like this was what you were supposed to be doing. Like this was what your whole life had been building toward and you were exactly where you needed to be.

“I wanna see you again. Soon."

Joel's eyebrows shot up, his lips upturned on the edges. “Really? E-Even after all that?”

“I'm not changing myself to make her feel better.” You spoke with confidence. You shrugged. “This is who I am.” You gasped and stepped back, putting out your arm to make space between the two of you. “I mean, if you need to take a break or wanna stop or if it's too much and you wanna think about it–"

“No no no no.” Joel smirked. "I'm good."

You couldn't believe it. "...Really?"

He scowled. "I don't give a shit about these people." He pulled you back in by your waist, adoring you with a smile. "I can do whatever the hell I want."

You laughed, shaking your head. His tender eyes had you hooked again and you reached up to hold his face in both of your hands. The kiss you shared was just as tender, lips locking with only a tease of your tongues.

You were determined to make this work.

You were also determined to not lose Tracy as your friend.

You knew it wouldn't be easy, but it would definitely be worth it.

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A/N: I feel like it's important to say that Joel 'Bottles-Up-His-Emotions' Miller will not stay cool, calm, and collected forever. The next chapter will include a lot of processing.

tag list: @toxicanonymity @jksprincess10 @shotgun-shelby @walkintotheriveranddisappear @for-a-longlongtime @rubyfruitjungle

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(story masterlist)

(my masterlist)

#my writing #ezra x reader x joel miller #ezra x reader #joel miller x reader #muddy waters series

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