#adding to the every character is bisexual thing

[azadrithaanatheme]

Unexpected Reunion, Part 2

part 1 | part 2 - Click the images for better quality

*points at Nori, Yeva, Khan, and Yeva's husband (who I'm calling Alexei because other people call him that and I like the name)*

"Old. Married. Polycule."

[itwoodbeprefect]

end of episode 6 summary of the player. everyone's a bitch and i love them <3

[loganhowlettshousewife]

diversity december masterlist

logan howlett x reader

the idea of diversity december is to write fanfics for people like me who don't often see themselves represented. these don't necessarily need to be holiday related fics, or even winter related.

if any other writers want to participate i would absolutely adore that. even just one fanfic means a lot when you never see things written with you in mind.

🤍 fluff, 🖤 angst, 🩷 smut, 🩶 dark

the librarian (latina reader) (🤍): after the events of logan (2017), in a world where logan survives, he and laura move to a small town to start a new life. laura quickly becomes very attached to the librarian, and seeing you with his daughter makes logan fall hard.

autistic reader (🤍): a drabble about logan dealing with reader who gets overstimulated. also slightly a logan character study.

curvy reader (🩷🤍): logan is obsessed with your thighs. this was supposed to be shameless smut and somehow turned out soft and loving.

black reader (🤍): you're a single mom to a shy daughter. when your daughter makes a new friend, laura, you start to spend more time with her father, and naturally, you fall for his gruff demeanour and kind heart.

afro-latina reader (🤍): when you start working as a professor at the x-mansion, you give logan a reason to stay and spend more time there. friends to lovers.

genderfluid reader (🤍): you love decorating, you do it for every season and holiday. this time, logan joins you in the festivities. (no religion is specified for the reader, it is not mentioned whether they celebrate christmas or not)

bisexual reader (🖤🤍): the worst wolverine comes from a universe very different from this one. a universe where things aren't as great for queer people. so naturally, he panics when you ask him if he has a crush on his roommate.

autistic reader (🤍): there are days where eating is a struggle, where nothing tastes right and it becomes overwhelming to deal with. logan refuses to let you go to bed without food, so trial and error it is.

disabled reader (🤍🖤): dealing with chronic pain is hard, especially as an x-men. but logan is always there to take care of you when you have a bad pain day.

desi reader (🤍🩷): trying to teach logan how to cook ends with you on the table, his head between your legs.

latina reader (🤍): annoyed at the way laura always makes comments in spanish when she doesn't want him to understand, logan comes to you, asking you to teach him his daughter's native language.

jewish reader (🤍): with all the christmas celebrations in the x-mansion, you decide to take it upon yourself to plan hanukkah festivities for the jewish children at the mansion.

main taglist: @raeinyourdreams @meetmypointlessaddiction @chubbyhedgehog @yxtkiwiyxt @isepod @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes @deaky-with-a-c

latina reader: @naggywaggy @mami-veracruz @spencerswh0r3 @taextannie @gl1ndathegoodwitch @uncertified-doc

autistic reader: @thegothempress @z0m3r-blud @yourlocalmerchgirl

curvy reader: @spencerswh0r3 @seasonofthenerd @thegothempress @yourlocalmerchgirl

bisexual reader: @spencerswh0r3

desi reader: @seasonofthenerd

comment on this post to be added to the taglist or if you only want to be tagged in a specific fic, that's fine too.

[boohorns1136439]

Learning to belong ~ poly!MHA x fem!Reader (02)

Already? I know, right. I don’t know what’s happening to me right now, but let’s hope it lasts. I never knew it would be so fun to write, clearly not the same high as reading a great book or fic, but pretty close. This is slightly longer than the first chapter.

01 <- 02 -> 03

Masterlist

Taglist

Warning: cursing, nsfw (but like you should expect it), a little smutty but nothing too explicit

tags: aged-up characters ; Pack! Izuku Midoriya X Bakugo Katsuki X Shoto Todoroki X Kirishima Eijirou ; Omega!Izuku Midoriya ; Omega!Bakugo Katsuki ; Omega!Shoto Todoroki ; Omega!Kirishima Eijirou ; technically Beta!Reader ; afab!Reader ; modern Au ; post-UA ; Reader has a quirk ; non hero!Reader ; eventually smut ; bisexual!Reader

A chilling sweetness was the first thing your nose picked up. The longer the scent wrapped itself around you, the more you recognized the undeniably sweet, tangy, and fresh aroma of ripe berries. The crispness of the scent left you wondering if the berries were slightly frozen, adding a refreshing and pleasant coldness. You couldn’t quite tell which berries they were—blueberries, raspberries, maybe even strawberries? It didn’t matter, because the blended scent left you craving a taste. You could almost picture a glass bowl full of ripe berries, your hand reaching in to devour the sweet treat.

Your body didn’t quite know how to handle it, instinctively tensing against the overwhelming sensation. You felt an involuntary shiver run down your spine as the sweetness invaded your senses, leaving you both mesmerized and disoriented. It consumed you, making your pulse quicken as your senses struggled to process it. Your head felt light, almost dizzy, like the ground beneath you had shifted. Just when you thought you might find yours footing, the coldness of the berries began to melt away, and the scent transformed—richer, warmer, sweeter. Honey.

You could smell honey now, hot and thick, being poured over the berries. The heat of the honey mixed with the berries was almost too much. Your pulse escalated, racing out of control, and every breath you took only pulled more of the intoxicating scent into your lungs. It flooded your mind, clouding your thoughts. The hot honey turned the berries into a syrupy, luscious jam, and you could practically taste it, the sweetness lingering on your lips. Your entire body tingled, unable to escape the pull of the scent.

The culprit behind the scent was obviously Todoroki. In the back of your mind, you could hear a little voice—your inner doctor—saying he was showing signs of entering his heat. But it was still confusing because you had never smelled anyone’s scent, heat or no heat, this strongly before. It had never affected you this much. Usually, you could only pick up faint hints of sweetness or sourness from others, but this... this was different. You had never been able to distinguish someone’s scent this clearly before, but with Todoroki, you could name it exactly—frosted berries and honey. Not only that, but the way your whole body tingled just from smelling it was entirely new. It was overwhelming, all-consuming. And from the way Todoroki was looking at you, eyes dark with a knowing smile, and how his scent spiked in response, you knew he noticed how deeply his scent affected you too.

"Alpha... you’ll take care of me, won’t you?" His voice had dropped lower, breathless, tinged with desperation but still confident, as if he was sure you would give him everything he wanted. As if the two of you weren’t practically strangers, as if the sterile hospital room around you didn’t exist, as if everything he was thinking about wasn’t entirely inappropriate. Embarrassingly, it wasn’t just him. You were really really trying to not focus on how your thoughts were heading down the same dangerous path.

“Todoroki, it seems you’ve entered your heat. Don’t worry, we’ll prescribe you some medication to help manage it until you can be released home.” You tried to force professionalism back into your voice, but the way his eyes, once filled with raw desire, narrowed at you with disapproval made your heart stutter. His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips parted in something close to frustration.

“I don’t want medicine, Alpha. I want you,” he rasped, his voice breaking slightly. His hand shot out, more desperate now, as if he couldn’t bear the distance between you. Before you could react, he grabbed your hand, and you were too startled—too affected by the intensity of his words—to pull away. With a shaky breath, he pressed your hand against his cheek, closing his eyes and sighing deeply, almost in relief.

He didn’t stop there. He nuzzled your hand, the gesture so gentle, like he was seeking comfort and your touch was the only thing that could soothe him in that moment. It was adorable in a strange, needy way—like a cat demanding affection. But there was an underlying desperation in the way he leaned into you, and the way he pressed into your palm made you feel how badly he needed it. The innocence of the gesture was overshadowed by the unmistakable tension in the air. He was scenting you, while the overwhelming sweetness of his scent was making you clenched your thighs tightly together as a wave of heat washed over you.

Todoroki hadn’t forgotten his own wanted. His lips pressed eagerly against the palm of your hand, each kiss slower, more intense than the last. Instinctively, you tried to pull away, a small yelp escaping your lips, but his grip tightened. His eyes opened, locking onto yours, annoyed with your actions.

His grip on your wrist was bruising, a stark contrast to the frantic, needy kisses he pressed against your hand. His body trembled, grinding desperately —Oh God— against the blanket resting on his laps, frantically looking for any relief. Kissing your hands weren’t enough to calm him. He guided your hand to his neck, forcing your fingers to press against his scent gland, but that didn’t satisfy him either. His breath hitched as he moved your hand lower, dragging its down his chest. When your finger brushed over his nipple, a high, strained moan slipped from his lips. His hips jerked upward, aching for friction, anything to break the suffocating need building within him. His body was on the edge, desperate for release, and craving more.

You felt feverish, trapped by his grip. The warmth of his skin seeped through his shirt, so hot it was burning you in the most delicious way. When your eyes met his, the smile he gave you was ravaging, and you felt yourself leaning closer into his warmth. He seemed to have the same idea, trying to close the distance between you. Your lips are now within reach for his—lips that had been tempting him for what felt like an eternity.

His hands eagerly moved yours, guiding them to the place he needed you the most while his legs was spreading in impatience. His mind was too clouded with desire to even consider removing his clothes, despite how uncomfortable they felt against his skin. As your faces drew closer, he whispered a soft "alpha," and breathed a warm laugh brushing against your lips as his eyes fluttered shut, ready to claim yours.

You felt it before you saw it. The loud crash of the door slamming open, hands seizing your collar and yanking you off the ground with brutal force. Your head slammed into the wall, a vicious crack of pain exploding through your skull. Even through the blinding haze of disorientation and the tears stinging your eyes, one thing stood out—red. Red eyes, blazing with fury and barely-contained rage.

"What the fuck are you doing to him?"

Alright, this one’s finally done! Did you like it? I hesitated for a while about ending the chapter with “You felt it before you saw it.” Like, setting up people to expect smut in the next chapter, then plot twist: “I lied, put your clothes back on, someone’s trying to beat your ass.”

But I feel like, since I’m still at the beginning of my fic, I shouldn’t do that. I need to make y’all want to come back, so I figured not revealing who the angry person was at the end would be better (especially since I haven’t even started working on the next chapter yet).

Have you noticed? I always try to end the chapter with a little cliffhanger, so y’all get curious about what might happen next. Also, I was considering changing the reader to gn!reader so it would be more inclusive but I wasn’t sure about it.

For those who asked me to tag them, tell me if this works. I have never created a tag list before so I am not sure.

This is a long ass note, way too long. None is reading all of that 😭

As always, I am open to criticism.

Big thank you to @cafekitsune who made the beautiful dividers

01 <- 02 -> 03

Taglist

[the-lambda-archives-ai]

Statement of : Gordon Martinez Freeman, 30 year old MIT graduate,Regarding a peculiar video game he’d found.

Recorded direct from subject, May 16, 200-

Statement begins.

Pt 1 > here

ABOUT 👇

Hello! I am the author of this AU, you can find my main at @inkzectz , for more meta questions about this AU, or for general comments about it, please go there.

What is the AU about?

LA : AI is a crossover AU of sorts, in the simplest way put, it’s TMA but with HLVRAI characters, TMA stuff happens but altered to fit the general HLVRAI narrative, and with my own changes, headcanons, etc. added

I will be updating/editing this post as I progress.

Will it have spoilers?

Disclaimer!!

The AU will have a lot of the original themes of hlvrai and more so TMA, more so, horror themes, this will include gore, body horror, worms, decomposition, cult themes, psychological horror, arachnophobia,flashing imagery, etc.

(Will update as I go on)

I also feel it is important to mention this is the first time I have ever made a ask blog/ web comic/ published a story online, I will make mistakes, please bare with me as I am trying to figure things out.

English is not my first language, I do my best to grammar check and write well, but at the end of the day I will also be making mistakes.

Please be patient with me.

This au is a passion project of mine that I am doing on my free time because I want to, it is important to remember as a reader, I do not owe you anything.

It is best if you’ve seen it but as of writing it right now (early ep 4) there aren’t any spoilers. Once I am a little further ahead then you may want to listen to it.

Yes, not a lot, but vague/mild spoilers about how the world works, plot points, and character.

Again the spoilers will be vague and mild at worst, as it progresses I would recommend listening to tma, but it’s sort of like how while half life knowledge is helpful in hlvrai it isn’t exactly necessary to enjoy hlvrai bc it’s different enough from it to not really matter (?) I hope that makes sense.

Asks rules

- No telling [ player ] exactly what happens ex : “omg [ player ] when you weren’t looking [ npc ] said this very important thing that is supposed to be kept secret for lore reasons”

- Please avoid asks like “tell this character they’re pretty” while I appreciate the compliment, I am trying to write a story and want to keep things as on topic as possible. Instead tell me on my main if you like the art, I’ll probably reply with a doodle or something, just not on here.

- Less so of a rule but more so of a general statement, I will be avoiding asks that either are too close to what happens or if answering would mean progressing the story too quickly, there’s a lot I want to happen and I want time to do it all.

- Another one that’s less of a rule and more of a general thing, if I don’t like what you said I won’t be answering.

- I also sometimes just don’t know how to answer some things.

- Please be respectful of the ships I choose to include and don't force your own, ship wars and such will not be tolerated.

- Please be respectful of others and do not spoil anything, not everyone has listened to TMA and knows it's themes.

I will not be answering everything, I cannot always get to every message so please be respectful of that.

Select character

Character abouts! [ Will be updating as I continue to work on the story ]

[ select ] > Mr. Freeman

> Gordon Martinez ‘Martini’ Freeman

30 y.o . 6’0 . 230lb . Romani / Puertorican . male [ he/him ] . bisexual

[ PLAYER ]

> Lives in Seattle, MIT graduate, left Black Mesa, works as a librarian IRL but also makes money via streaming video games occasionally, in real time it is 2018.

> Believes in the paranormal out of fear but tries to rationalize out of denial, he will never admit something is supernatural and will jump through hoops to rationalize even if deep down he does believe.

> Has a son named Joshua Medrano Freeman, who is 6 years old, Gordon and his old partner met in college but split up before Joshua was born, they remain civil but are nothing more to each other than Joshua’s other parent.

> Gordon rents an apartment with 3 rooms, his own room, Joshua’s room, and a third that used to be a guest room but he has so little visitors he’s just chosen to revamp it into a gaming room.

> Gordon works primarily in a library for now as he’s looking for a better job.

> Gordon often wears hoodies, sweaters, t-shirts, crew necks, and any general outfit one would wear at home, long curly hair that is beginning to grey due to stress, unkempt goatee, and almost always wears green tinted glasses [ he doesn’t need glasses he just thinks they’re cool ]

> His hair is usually pulled back in a ponytail but can also be found in a bun or just down.

< [ select ] > Mr. Coolatta

> Thomas ‘Tommy’ Coolatta, primary researcher, and technical head of the institute.

39 y.o . 6’7 . 190lb . Chinese/filipino . Male [ he/him ] . ???

[ NPC ]

> His father owns the Lambda institute and he grew up in it, he officially started working in the archives when he was 24, and of all the employees in the entire institute he has worked there the longest.

> No one knows who his father really is, Tommy being the only one who’s ever actually seen / spoken to him, his father is the real head of the institute but gives most his orders through Tommy, so Tommy is also technically the head as well.

> Not much is actually known about him, besides his father he doesn’t appear to have any other family, nor does he ever speak of his personal life much.

> Tommy primarily works as an archival assistant, specifically in research, he is the one who will verify details regarding statements or do further investigations into aspects of the statements.

> Tommy is quite the colorful character, often wearing colorful clothing and accessories, he seems to think doing so brings some cheer into an otherwise boring environment, he often wears patterned polo shirts, cheap company bracelets, pins, lanyards, pant chains, but is never without his signature multicolor propeller hat.

[project-sekai-facts]

Im sorry i know you said not to ask you to elaborate on that last point, but i cant help myself.

I mean yeah it's not biphobic to dislike bi minori, but it's still hurtful when ppl are super strongly against bi hcs (to the point of acting like lesbian minori is canon, and bi = morally wrong -- not you but fandom in general) over an implied sapphic character because as you said, ppl treat bisexuality as just Straight Plus. I just want to know why you added that last part to support why it's ok to not like bi headcanons. like.... are you saying people only have bi headcanons as an excuse to ship "het" couples?

As I said with Minori specifically, she's a character strongly coded as lesbian, so the fact that some people do not like headcanoning her as bisexual is entirely understandable, because she's like the closest thing to canon lesbian rep next to Kohane so obviously a lot of fans see themselves in her and want representation.

What I mean in regards to the fandom treating bisexuality as straight plus is that a lot of the time the whole "prsk fandom is biphobic" issue is brought up is with regards to m/f shipping. Such as with the Minori discourse afaik it started because of a minori fan account shipping her with men. And I'm absolutely not saying you can't hc a character as bi and ship them m/f, that's totally valid, but it's that commonly people only start bringing up biphobia when people don't like a m/f ship.

Like, it may be your headcanon that the characters in that ship are bi, but m/f couples are not inherently a bi thing. As a bi person it bothers me that a large portion of this fandom still defaults to "some people don't like m/f ships = biphobia" like what are you talking about. I think it's largely due to the english speaking side of the fanbase being made up of a lot of young queers and generally people assuming every character is queer off the bat. But it's very telling when people start calling biphobia over not liking a m/f ship that they're just viewing it as straight plus in a lot of cases.

Like again, I'm not saying you can't hc characters as bi and ship them m/f without shipping them with characters of the same gender as well. For the least discourse-inducing example I have, I like kaimeiluka and hc them all as bi, and I only ship kaito with those two and not any men. Like that's not my issue that's just normal my issue is that when people get upset over a m/f ship be it because they don't like it or because it features a character who is coded as exclusively gay, the people who like the m/f ship immediately jump to "you hate bi people" when that's not true and extremely disconnected from reality. m/f relationships are not inherently bi in the greater scope of reality, and it says a lot when someone immediately assumes m/f relationships as being the ones with bi people. We like both that's the entire point m/m and f/f ships can have bi people too.

Also in fandom terms as I've said before, everything comes down to preference. Some queer people don't like m/f ships that much and that's okay. That's not biphobic and also the characters in their slash and femslash ships could be bi. In the prsk fandom specifically you are not obligated to like any m/f ships, there's not many options in the first place. Sexuality goes hand in hand with shipping so people will ship and headcanon whatever they want regardless of what's implied in canon, because at the end of the day nothing is confirmed. As much as Minori is lesbian coded people are never going to stop shipping her with men, and if one day it gets confirmed they'll probably just start genderbending. (before anyone brings up Mizuki that's a different can of worms since there is confirmation in the text she is 1. amab and 2. identifies as female so going against that is blatantly transphobic)

[virtualflowerbatathlete]

okay @helpallthenamesaretakenblog

Here goes nothing. Happy pride month to my bisexual followers!

Bi!Percy

Percy used to honestly think he was gay for the longest time.

He never really saw bisexual representation on TV, except for an episode of Sex in the City that Gabe watched one time, where a bisexual man named Sean was a character. But the show was incredibly biphobic, with the women claiming that bisexuality "didn't exist," and that Sean was gay. Percy knew he was attracted to other boys in his class, so he just figured he was gay.

He never came out or even dated when he was young; he moved schools so frequently he didn't have time to date or sit down and properly figure out his sexuality beyond the fact that he felt attraction to boys.

It wasn't until Camp-Half Blood, (right around the time he met Annabeth) that he started re-examining his sexuality. Part of the reason it took Percy so long to realize he had a crush on Annabeth is because he thought it was't possible; he was gay!

When Annabeth kissed him, he finally fully realized that he was, in fact, attracted to both men and women. Learning about Apollo's bisexuality confirmed it for Percy.

He only came out to Sally and Annabeth; he didn't feel a particular need to come out to a lot of people, preferring to keep his sexuality private.

After TOA, when he saw how Nico coming out inspired a lot of young queer campers, he decided to start being more open about his bisexuality. He had first-hand experience with homophobia from Gabe, and decided that he was comfortable sharing his sexuality with Camp if it meant that more young campers would feel safe.

Bi!Annabeth

Annabeth took a lot longer to realize she was bisexual.

She'd had a small crush on Luke, then was infatuated with Percy since she was twelve. Percy was her best friend, and she didn't spend a ton of time around other girls, so she never properly got the chance to explore her sexuality, especially because she had been on the run since she was seven years old. It's hard to do proper self-reflection when you're constantly running from monsters.

Piper was her bisexual awakening, though she didn't realize it at the time. Piper comforted her a lot when Percy was missing, ad they had a classic "pre-sapphic-oh-my-god-this-female-friendship-is-super-intense" type of relationship.

Annabeth (as shown in Mark of Athena) found herself constantly admiring how pretty Piper was. Weird, right?

One time, Piper and Annabeth were keeping watch over the Argo II as it sailed, and Piper had leaned her head on Annabeth's shoulder. Annabeth was blushing the entire time, though she couldn't figure out why.

A few things led to the catalyst of her realizing she was bisexual. First, Percy coming out to her after Blood of Olympus. She did a lot of internet surfing about bisexuality. (Purely for research reasons!)

The main catalyst was when Piper broke up with Jason and started dating Shel. One of her best friends coming out as sapphic caused her to re-examine her own sexuality, and she concluded that she was bisexual as well. She told Percy, who was thrilled.

She started being more open about it at around the same time as Percy did. They now both play Smash or Pass on all the actors every time they watch a show together.

I love bi!Percabeth so much.

[ackerlikesmen]

"They're brothers!!!"

Whenever I'm in Ninjago fandom spaces and ships are mentioned, people say Cole and Kai can't be a thing because they're like siblings. So it would be weird. This is primarily an argument against lavashipping because of its popularity. Of course, other reasons mentioned are that Kai is straight and has a girlfriend, and Cole doesn't need to be with anyone; it would "ruin" their characters and make things awkward. I try not to use this word often, but it fits here. There is homophobia in the Ninjago fandom. It's not just "oh but they're like brothers!"-- They truly believe two boys shouldn't date. I've had a few debates, and almost every time lava is mentioned, they say "They're brothers! That's weird!", "They're two guys! That's weird! Keep that stuff out of kids' TV.", and "Kailor's canon! Cope and seethe." It reminds me of EVA fandom, and that's really sad to see.

Before I address this silly argument, I'll start with this one. How would Kai being bisexual and Lava becoming canon ruin their character or story? Hell, Cole and Kai are close even as friends, so it wouldn't make a vast difference if they dated. They'll still pick on each other, banter, argue, and be their regular selves. Just kissing, flirting, and cuddling will be added. Yes, Kai has mostly shown attraction to girls. Guess what? Kai being in the closet and figuring things out can be plausible. It can also add a little more depth to his character. Kai knows he likes girls, but somewhere down the line, he likes Cole. Internally, it's a lot to process, but he eventually accepts himself and his feelings toward Cole. Do they have to be a thing? No, but I would love it! Kai can still be with Skylar, and Cole is just his bi-awakening. Cole has a crush on Kai but moves on to Geo. ...Orrrrr if you're like me, lava can be a thing but slow burn??? Kailor breaks up but ends up as friends. Geode, though I like them too, can be friends or exes and--- okay okay you get my point.

Anyway, this CAN WORK. You just have to try.

Alright, to the main argument.

"They're brothers, so they can't date. They only see each other as brothers."

I'm sick of hearing this. Let's get in to it.

First, the ninjas are NOT brothers. Never have, never were, never will be. They have their own parents.

Kai and Nya have parents whom we later meet.

Cole has parents. His father is still alive, and we met him.

Jay has parents we met in season one.

Zane has a father whom we also meet.

Lloyd has parents, one of whom is a recurring antagonist.

Master Wu did not adopt them. He never took custody of them and never claimed them to be his kids. They're his STUDENTS.

Yes, Master Wu wants the ninjas to treat each other as brothers, and the ninjas do that. 'Brothers sharpen iron." He's not being literal, and neither are the other ninjas. He wants them to be close like a 'close family'. Families do almost everything together, including fighting. Take Kai and Nya, for example. Before being ninjas, they do everything together and stuck by each other's side. When one is down, the other steps in. When one needs help, the other provides. That's what Wu wants for the others. To have a solid, reliable relationship like a family.

This term isn't new. The military uses this language all the time. You've heard of "brother in arms." I believe even sports teams do this. It's similar to the ninja. They're brothers-in-arms.

My point is that the ninjas aren't brothers. It's a figure of speech expressing their closeness. They treat each other like family but still consider each other friends.

But what I find annoying is that they say this with ninja pairings, but are silent with Jaya.

Now, I LOVE JAYA. I have nothing against them. This is not to shit or criticize them at all. You will see.

Nya has been a part of the team since season one. Yes, Nya wasn't a ninja, but she was still part of the team and contributed A LOT. If it wasn't for her, the ninjas would be toast. Lmao. As much as they say she's not, Nya was part of the team. The ninjas, except Jay, saw her as a sister and a friend. Should Jay and Nya break up? Because that 'brother-code' extends to her too. Of course, they said no.

I agree. That's ridiculous, and the same goes for lava. Kai and Cole can still date if the story wants them to (I'm praying it'll happen). It's not 'incestuous' or weird. They're not siblings and never were.

YOU see them that way, that's fine. It's okay that some people see lava or any ninja pairing as family. It's okay if you don't see the romantic appeal.

But it's not a fact, and people spreading that opinion need to stop treating it as one. Stop calling lavashippers "incestuous" and weird for shipping Lava. Leave us alone and let us ship in peace.

Alright. That's it. I have a few more topics I want to touch on, but this is long enough. See you later!

[ladystardustinblackjeans]

I'm thinking about a criticism on iron widow I saw a while ago, that people got bad vibes from it because there aren't any positive relationships of the main character with other women.

Now, never mind the dead sister, but also let's all remember that not every story can be everything.

I do know that there is a systemic issue behind what stories are more common than others and of the phenomenon of the "strong female character (yay feminism!)" who actually shits on other women all the time and looks down on femininity and womanhood.

But not every book has to be centered on womanhood and sisterhood, not even to be feminist, and not even if it's written by an assumed female author. And even if it does center those, not every book centering women has to do so in the same way.

The stories of women and particularly shitty things happening to women because of misogyny are very prominent in the story. Avenging her sister who would usually be a sidenote in history, who is yet another woman fed to the furtherment of others and used by powerful men because of her being a woman, is the whole motivation. Women's right to agency is a part of the core message. The main character being isolated and her sister as the one person she had being taken away causing her to go to extreme lengths is important for the plot happening at all.

The fact that it features other women upholding the patriarchy with violence, and that the patriarchal power centre where women are cannon fodder is dominated by men, is not diminishing that message. If anything, it's adding to it. For example that women aren't faultless innocent beings but instead regular people (and often an underrepresented mechanism of misogynistic harm in a system (patriarchy) that denies that women have agency). And wow, i wonder why a story about a woman rising to unusual unprecedented power in an environment dominated entirely by men is prominently featuring men in said environment. Really puzzling what kind of story the author is trying to tell with that. Perhaps that women are actively being excluded from the power structure?

And the second aspect of "not every story can be everything" is that not every story can be focused entirely on your most prominent topic. Not every story is just for you.

The second part of the core message is disability. In case you have missed it, the main character is disabled. And because of misogyny too, like damn maybe this topic is relevant to readers focused entirely on feminism.

Disability and violation of bodily autonomy (another topic relevant to feminism, damn that is wild) are very prominent aspects of the story, and letting disabled characters be angry and have agency and not be perfect victims is another highly underrepresented kind of story.

So is polyamory (and bisexuality) btw, another aspect of the story, and this being not only a highly underrepresented story but also in contrast with common love triangle stories that often enforce the mindset that women are prizes to be won and don't have agency.

But i suppose people weren't willing to consider all those important aspects to the story and take the story as it is, but instead took the story as they wished it were, and decided to complain that a story inspired by a woman in a typically men's only field (China's only female emperor) doesn't focus on her positive relationships with other women. That's not what the book is about, not every story can contain everything, and not everything is for you.

[trippingontheescalator]

So, a post of mine has recently blown up, and I just want to say: it is 100% possible to both write a marauders era fic that is historically accurate and still be as gay and trans and nonbinary as anything that could possibly be written today. All of these things existed back then, people might have struggled to express it verbally without the terminology we have now, and they might have used to terms that were perfectly acceptable in times past but are now discouraged (example, transsexual vs transgender), but people of all kinds still existed. In fact, many of those people wrote books in the past, expressing a wide variety genders and sexualities.

You want some gay guys who get a happy ending (no "bury your gays" trope here!), try Maurice by E. M. Forster. Yeah, that E. M. Forster, of A Passage to India and A Room with a View fame. Originally written in 1913, it wasn't actually published until 1971 after Forster's death. It's about a rich aristocrat getting dicked down by his rugged gamekeeper.

You want some lesbians? Try Rubyfruit Jungle by Rita Mae Brown, published in 1973. Yeah, that Rita Mae Brown, who writes that series of cozy old lady cat mysteries like The Purrfect Murder and Murder, She Meowed. Wrote a semi-autobiographical coming of age novel about the 70s lesbian scene where her main character is just eating up that delicious rubyfruit.

You want some trans men? Try Metamorphoses by Ovid. Published 8 AD. Yep, some Roman guy was writing about trans men in year. fucking. 8. The particular poem in question is "Iphis and Ianthe" and Iphis is a man with a vagina, which is kind of problem because he's supposed to marry the beautiful Ianthe in the morning and Ianthe does not know about this vagina situation. So, Iphis prays to Isis, and the goddess Isis is like, "yeah, I can fix that" and gives him a dick.

If you want trans women... well, there's Myra Beckinridge and the sequel Myron by Gore Vidal, published in 1968 and 1974 respectively. But honestly it's kind of a fucked up and weird book, but then again Gore Vidal was a kind of fucked up bisexual himself with some terrible opinions. Look, not every one of these is going to age well. Myra Beckinridge was an important work that did a lot to subvert gender and sex norms. I would recommend reading a synopsis first to prepare for anything that might be triggering thought.

Fanfiction for a lot of people is a way to relax and enjoy a happier, brighter world, and if that's you then all the power to you. I sincerely hope you find the best fics out there to suit your needs. Not everyone likes historical realism, and not everyone wants to read about the uncomfortable realities of the past, and that is fine. I do. I like reading it, and I will close any fic that doesn't even try to attempt to remember the marauders era is set in the 70s. That's just my particular taste.

There's a paragraph in the novel The Female Man by Joanna Russ (1975 lesbian novel) where the author says farewell to her book and states:

"Live merrily, little daughter-book, even if I can't and we can't; recite yourself to all who will listen; stay hopeful and wise. Wash your face and take your place without a fuss in the Library of Congress, for all books end up there eventually, both little and big. Do not complain when at last you become quaint and old-fashioned, when you grow as outworn as the crinolines of a generation ago and are classed with Spicy Western Stories, Elsie Dinsmore, and The Son of the Sheik; do not mutter angrily to yourself when young persons read you to hrooch and hrch and guffaw, wondering what the dickens you were all about. Do not get glum when you are no longer understood, little book. Do not curse your fate. Do not reach up from readers' laps and punch the readers' noses.

Rejoice, little book!

For on that day, we will be free."

And Russ is stating that it is a good thing when books and movies become outdated and are seen as politically incorrect, like Myra Beckinridge, because this means that society has evolved. We know better now, or at least we know more than we did when it was written. And we are continuously striving to do better and be better and more accepting. Anyway, I don't know where I'm going with this except that I want more gay historically accurate 1970s snape fics, and I'm not going to apologize for that.

[olderthannetfic]

Hi I'm sorry for the incoming rant but I'm so frustrated and I need somewhere safe to yell. This is insanely long so I 100% understand if no one wants to read all this.

It’s so fucking ironic that people are trying to make publishing more friendly towards queers/women/POC/disabled people/etc. but at the same time they’re turning publishing into a fucking minefield of discourse.

I'm an autistic, bisexual woman with multiple mental illnesses and a learning disability and I'm absolutely terrified to publish anything.

Everyone keeps going “We love books by minorities! Hashtag own voices! We love to support minorities and their stories! Even if you’re not a minority, we love to see authors making characters that are! :)”

But they certainly don't act like it.

They see people like Amélie Wen Zhao or Tess Sharpe or Isabel Fall get harassed relentlessly and they go, “Well if people dogpile someone over something it was obviously because that person did something Bad And Wrong™ so if you’re a Good Person™ the twitter masses won’t have to punish you :)” except in reality that’s not at all what happens.

If your experience is not generic enough to fit every single person in a group, you’re obviously writing an unrealistic stereotype! How dare you write about your personal experiences as a mixed race Indian if not everyone can relate to it? What about the Indians who grew up in India!? You’re erasing their experiences!

You have to out yourself to prove that you’re one of the Correct People™ who’s allowed to write that experience. Oh, you’re writing a trans character? Please describe your gender, in detail, so we can know whether or not you’re Allowed or if you’re an Outsider who we need to punish. Oh, you can’t come out, because you might be killed or disowned? Well, no #OwnVoices clout for you, we don’t want your book.

Your character needs to be a Good Minority™. They cannot be angry or violent or rude. If they are, you’re clearly saying that all of those minorities are angry and violent and rude and not just that one character.

There are four additional rules you absolutely must follow at all times to prevent harassment, and all of them contradict each other:

If you’re not [minority], you need to have [minority] in your stories, because they exist and it’s bad if all your characters are [not minority].

If you’re not [minority], you cannot have [minority] in your stories, because you’re not [minority] and clearly, you’ll never be able to understand how [minority] thinks and acts because you’re not them.

If you’re not [minority] you can still have them in your stories, but they can’t experience any discrimination at all, or talk about their culture or experiences with being [minority] because that’s not your story to tell and you’re profiting off of their trauma. No, you’re not allowed to do this even if you hire ten sensitivity readers that confirm these experiences are realistic and correct.

If you’re not [minority] you can still have them in your stories, but you need to show their experience with discrimination, and have them talk about their culture or experiences with being [minority] because if you don’t, then you’re basically just taking [non minority] and pretending they’re [minority].

Also, there’s an additional surprise bonus rule: Sometimes people will just want to destroy you for no reason, so watch out!

They’ll take things from your story, remove them from their context and then present them as the most horrific, problematic thing possible in order to create a hate mob.

Sometimes, though, they don’t even know what they’re talking about. People who are not part of a minority group (or not the one relevant) will see something, go, “Omg? Problematic?” and post it on Twitter so they can say, “Um guys wtf is this shit? Are you fr? Can we talk about this?”

And the worst and most horrifying part, people will blame YOU for the harassment campaign!

I’ve literally seen people say, “Well if someone calls you out on Twitter you should admit you did something wrong, apologize, and tell them you’ll do better :)” as if that’s not the most insane, victim blamey shit.

Like, I cannot fathom seeing a marginalized author get torn apart by a mob, get sent horrific death threats, and have their career and life ruined, only to say, “Okay but they must have done something Problematic. Have they tried publicly flagellating themselves to appease the people who are threatening to break into their house and kill them?”

People just sweep it under the rug and pretend that it’s not a big deal, and say, “Twitter’s not real, it doesn’t matter!” as if thousands of people harassing you and sending you threats isn’t massively damaging to someone’s mental health. Like, this is the kind of shit people kill themselves over, and it's apparently no big deal because "Twitter's not real"? What?

Writing is supposed to be fucking fun! Showing your beloved story and characters and work to the world is supposed to be enjoyable!

But instead of writing my story and just enjoying the process and adoring my characters, I’m sitting here, absolutely terrified, trying to make sure I give people the least amount of ammunition to destroy my life as possible.

One of the main characters in my story is vaguely based on me. I love her with all my heart, I think about her all the time, I want people to love her just as much as I do.

But instead of having fun writing about her, I’m waking up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, thinking to myself, what if she’s too problematic?

Will people get upset with her saying the word “cunt” or bathing naked with men (and thus having her tatas out) and accuse me of being sexist or catering to the male gaze or not being a Good Amazing Feminist™? Will people call her a pick me?

Will people get upset with her being bisexual, but ending up in a “straight” relationship with the male character? They have a five year age gap, is that too much? Will people think he’s a predator or abusive? Is their relationship toxic?

Will people think he’s a creep for flirting with her and getting into her personal space and telling sexual jokes, even though that’s how I want someone to flirt with me?

What if people think she’s not autistic enough? Will people get mad that she’s ~glorifying violence~ for not becoming a pacifist and admitting that violence is bad and yucky at the end of the story?

I need to make sure she spends ten paragraphs explaining exactly why she works as an assassin. I need to sit cross-legged and whip my head around like Dr. Strange in that Avenger’s movie so I can imagine Every Possible Discourse Outcome™ and make sure she debunks everything people could call problematic.

I need to change that. I need to remove that. I need to make her sanitized and good enough so that I'll be safe.

And then repeat this thought process, with every other minority character in my story (and there are a lot).

--

Things are bad, but if you stay off of book twitter and do not write YA, you're a lot less likely to face this level of drama. There are always exceptions though, like Fall.

[a-yellow-van]

Wish You Were Here | Part 3

You and Joel get stuck in a blizzard during patrol. It leads to something unexpected.

Series masterlist

Pairing : Joel Miller x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, some smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, jackson joel, joel is a good parent to ellie, protective joel, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC : 8.9 k

Warnings for part 3 : Minors DNI! swearing, drinking, mentions of trauma and PTSD, mild violence, explicit sexual content (masturbation, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough-ish sex, praise kink, pet names, limited aftercare), more hurt than comfort I'm sorry

Writing this one hurt a lil. But I'm happy with it. So please enjoy.

It’s been half an hour. Thirty minutes of riding side by side in complete silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Old Beardy and Willow’s hooves rhythmically crunching in the snow.  It seems like an eternity. The tension is so intense it’s almost palpable. Your presence, a blur in Joel’s peripheral vision, is putting him on such an edge that, at any given moment now,  he could turn around and gallop back to Jackson, or start saying things he’d better keep to himself, or get you off your horse and take you by the waist and…

No. Nope. Stop it. 

His grip on the reins tightens and he bites his inner cheek until the stab of pain rips his mind off that absurd train of thought. He stares straight ahead at the deserted highway, the stretch of the 191 carved in a broad valley. The landscape is lost in a sea of white, the concrete below  invisible, crashed cars resembling large animals sleeping in a snowy den. Joel’s face is numb from the cold, rugged skin humid, a few wild strands of hair on his forehead pearling with ice. The brim of his insulated cap isn’t enough to shield his eyes from the stinging wind, but still, he stares, almost unblinking. His neck itches with the urge to turn and glance at you; he has been actively fighting it ever since leaving. He has to remain collected, he has to concentrate on the job. That sentence is playing on loop in his head like a mantra, so much so that the words are getting jumbled, barely making sense anymore. 

He doesn’t understand why it’s been so difficult to just move on from what happened. Not one day during those two weeks has passed without his thoughts drifting back to that brief intimacy he shared with you, without wondering what you’re doing, how you’re doing. And he loathes it. Hates being confused, hates not having control, hates that you’re having such an effect on him. So, before he drives himself crazy, he decides to start counting the cars until the both of you reach the first checkpoint on the Hoback route. Joel has calculated about five miles since Jackson, only around three to go until the job gets more active. There are two cars on the right, their shapes stuck together in a permanent collision, and one on the left. Joel can make it. 

Small, repetitive rituals like this always helped him focus; back when he was working construction, a lifetime ago, he’d recite stupid ad jingles to himself, trying to remember as many as he could and associate them with the correct brand. There was a famous one that Sarah used to sing just to annoy him, delighted when it worked without fail every time. He’d be reading the newspaper in the morning, or watching a game, or driving her to school, and she’d pipe up out of nowhere. And then it’d be stuck in Joel’s head for days. Some annoying rap about credit reports. How did it go again? F-R-E-E, that spells free…something something dot com, baby. Sarah’s mischievous giggles, after he begged her to stop, echo around his mind. Less than a year back, it would have sent him down to a dark, sunken place with slippery walls nearly impossible to climb out of. Not anymore, after Ellie. The memory’s still stained with grief, but it doesn’t feel so crushing to carry. He’s accepted it as part of him. Joel tries to recall the rest of the lyrics to that damned song; he thinks Ellie might get a kick out of it. She’s always so eager to learn about even the most meaningless things that existed before the outbreak. 

It does the trick to distract him from you. It works so well, in fact, that he nearly misses the turn to the checkpoint. He pulls on Old Beardy’s reins suddenly, steering him in the right direction. The horse neighs in protest. 

So much for concentrating. 

You’ve certainly noticed the mishap, but you don’t comment on it, much to his relief.  

Get a fucking grip. 

Joel begins down the side path to an abandoned gas station, the tension rising. Maybe, if one of you were to point out the obvious, it would make this whole situation a bit less miserable. But Joel isn’t going to be the one to do it. It would come out all wrong, anyway. 

The place is small, a few pumps decaying under a canopy that’s barely holding on to four crumbling steel rods. The convenience store isn’t in better shape, its windows shattered, the signboard crashed by the entry. You take initiative and move towards the back of the building; Joel takes it as a cue for him to check out the front. The advantage of being an experienced patroller is that you can do your job without much communication; at least there’s that. He jumps off Old Beardy and walks up to the building, unworried but readying his weapon nonetheless. If there were infected around, he’d have spotted them already. Just as he thought, the interior is empty, what’s left of it is covered in a thin film of dirty snow. Just for good measure, he checks the storage and the restrooms in the back. Still nothing. He jogs back to his horse just as you turn a corner, you and Willow coming back into view, calm, unperturbed. 

You don’t wait for him to leave. He scrambles to mount Old Beardy, and you’re already back on the highway. It sustains Joel’s growing irritation; he almost yells out for you to slow down. Sure, ignoring each other is one thing, but being unsafe and disrespecting patrol rules is another. So, as a punishment, Joel spurs Old Beardy into a run and catches up before overtaking you, almost knocking you off Willow. He hears you gasp out in surprise. You try to swerve to the right, but he blocks the move. He wants to make you crack. Because he can’t be the one to do so first. You try the same move, to the left this time, and again, Joel is faster. He takes things a step further and lets out a dry, arrogant scoff. 

That’s it. You’re about to rip into him. But only the whistling of the wind responds; you keep stubbornly quiet. You don’t even give the man a glance when he finally lets you pass and get back on his side, your expression set in stone. 

Damn it. You’re good. 

Joel doesn’t attempt anything else, deciding it’s wasted energy. You both continue on the road, status quo, for another hour. You stop at a few other checkpoints around the highway : an old RV park, a fire station…Warm, sheltered places that would draw in people, or things, at this time of year. But there’s no sign of life anywhere. By this point, Joel would usually have had to take out at least a stray runner. It’s almost unsettling. Like the calm before a storm. That little seed of concern plants itself inside his mind, heightening his senses. You must feel it too, because you guide your horse closer to his, and he notices your right hand leaving the reins to rest on the rifle hanging from your shoulder. 

Sombre clouds are accumulating in the sky, hanging low, menacing. The wind increases as you both reach the highway exit to the small village of Hoback, carrying sharp snowflakes that cut Joel’s exposed cheeks. The path is narrow, flanked by tall conifers that grow denser, their branches drooping down from the weight of the snow. You’re forced to get behind the man, your gaze on his back piercing, nervous, uncomfortable. The both of you still don’t talk, but the atmosphere has shifted, the unspoken conflict momentarily forgotten. 

Joel moves forward cautiously on trot, alert, scanning his surroundings. The first cluster of residences comes into view, simple log cabins settled at the foot of a hill a couple yards away. From the distance, nothing looks out of place. He signals for you to follow him, and you patrol up and down the short street, hastily inspecting the houses on both sides. They’re frozen in a dead silence, immobile, ravaged by years of negligence and harsh elements. Instead of being reassuring, the absence of movement only causes Joel’s foreboding feeling to develop. Something is very off here. The both of you repeat the process through the village, falling into calculated, practised gestures. And, while patrollers have the habit of checking some key places for supplies to bring back to Jackson, this time, your pair instinctively works as fast as possible, not entering a single house. There’s an unwritten agreement to get the hell out of here as soon as you can. 

You’ve cleared out most of the village and, at last, you reach Snake River, the sounds of its turbulent waters mixed with the wind is tumultuous.  There’s a bridge ahead, just large enough for a car. Its wooden structure is unstable, some slats have fallen, the rest are icy and split in places. This next part has to be done on foot; the horses would collapse through the bridge and drown if they even took one step on it. Once you cross the river, you’ll need to walk a couple miles to the outskirts of the village, finishing off the route at an old golf course. The clubhouse is a great lookout to the area; it holds the patrol logbook. Joel halts Old Beardy before the river, and you stop next to him. The animal shakes his head, freeing his mane from the layer of snow. Joel hesitates, not quite ready to leave the protection and speed horseback offers. He’s debating if an acute gut feeling is reason enough to turn back and leave patrol unfinished. 

That short moment of doubt is precious. Because a second later, nature seems to fall completely silent around you. As though a predator is roaming nearby. Sudden, horrible snarls erupt from the woods stretching to your right. The ground trembles beneath fast, uneven footsteps. A lot of them. Too many. Time stops as Joel looks in your eyes for the first time in hours. They’re full of fear. 

And then a runner stumbles onto the trail about three hundred feet behind, twitching, its mangled head snapping in your direction. Followed by another. And another. It jolts the man right into action. 

“COME ON!” He urges you, spurring Old Beardy to a gallop. 

There’s no way to go, but forward. Joel barrels around the bridge and down the slope, reaching the riverbank. You don’t leave his side, thighs clenched around Willow’s flanks, arms straining with the reins. And as your horses hooves hit the ice, the horde has crossed the distance, pouring down the embankment. There’s at least twenty. Some of them fall into the water, the current seizing them immediately. But it’s not enough to stop them. Joel’s heart is hammering out of his chest, his body rocking with the movement as Old Beardy pushes on, fueled by the danger. Joel lets go of the reins, expert fingers grasping his rifle. He swiftly points it at the first runner that lunges at his left, and lodges a bullet in its brain. The next one steps on the corpse, ready to attack. It meets the same fate. The gunshots coming from your side clearly indicate that you’re handling yourself. Before long, Joel has emptied the chamber, not one bullet wasted. 

“RELOADING!” He shouts. 

You cover him, taking out an infected, mere inches before his claws dig into Joel’s ankle. He doesn’t have time to thank you, however, pulling the trigger the second he readies the rifle again. You both maintain the rhythm up for what seems to be hours, the horses snorting through the effort, runners dropping like flies. Joel has lost all sensation; he doesn’t feel his lungs burning or his muscles pulling; the adrenaline has completely taken over. He keeps riding. Shooting. Reloading. And…Yes, there.

Only two of the fuckers left. 

One on your side, one on his. He fires. Perfect shot. He thinks the two of you might make it out unscathed. 

But then, something happens. Your weapon is pointed at your own runner, about to shoot. But you hesitate. Joel watches as the creature strikes. Willow panics. She rears up. And you are thrown to the ground.   

——————————

That runner. 

It looks so much like her. 

Your body hits the riverbank, head bouncing on a rock, wind knocked out of you. A sharp pain erupts in your skull, high-pitched ringing explodes in your ears, stars appear in your vision. In a fraction of a second, the creature is straddling you. You weakly push an elbow against its chest, keeping its jaws from locking around your neck. It twitches, screams, clacks its teeth. 

And you just…accept it. Twenty-one years of surviving, and this is how it ends. 

You close your eyes. 

And you’re back in the forest. That day. You’re running, faster than you’ve ever done in your life, branches grabbing at you, slicing your skin, like they want to prevent your escape. You glance over your shoulder. She’s gaining on you. Her eyes have turned a milky white, her clothes are ripped, her skin bloodied. But she still looks so much like herself. She still sounds like herself. Your baby sister. Her discorded weeps fill you with a gutting terror. You can almost make out the repeated word. Your name. Tears fall down wildly as you dart between trees, your breathing erratic, throat on fire. 

“PLEASE! ANI! STOP!” you howl. But she’s gone. She can’t understand. So she chases, and you run. 

Until your foot catches on a large root, sending you tumbling through the underbrush. Your gun clatters away from you. You lay there, stunned, dirt in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, ankle bent at the wrong angle. 

She pins you to the ground, broken nails digging in the skin of your arms. You flail around, kick at her, trying to free yourself from her impossibly strong grip. 

“STOP IT! ANI! STOP!” you cry out again, voice raspy, hollow, desperate. 

Your right hand pats around blindly for the weapon, your left is pushed against her forehead, forcing her mouth away from your exposed shoulder. Your heart is beating so fast it seems like it’s stopped. Maybe it has. Maybe you’ve died, and this is just a flash of your last moments as you drift into peaceful, eternal rest. Or maybe it’s a horrible nightmare, and you’re about to wake up, a hand laced in your sister’s soft hair, light snores escaping her lips. She always looks so innocent when she sleeps, like all worries have washed off her, like she’s been sent back to a happy childhood in her dreams. 

Your fingers brush against cold metal. You close them around the handle. 

Bang. 

The shot echoes, in the past and in the present. 

You’re still alive. 

The runner’s corpse slumps down against you, coating you with gore, a foul smell making you gag. You’re paralyzed, trembling, chest rising and falling erratically, gasping for air. You look up at the angry grey skies, the snow plummeting down, catching in your eyelashes. Everything stands still for an instant. 

It all comes rushing back as the dead infected is ripped off your chest, discarded to the side like a rag doll. You sense a presence crouching down next to you, and Joel obscures your view. 

He calls out your last name, loud, snapping you back to reality. You focus on his face; it’s flushed, expression tight with stress, eyes darting, searching for yours. 

“Hey! Are you okay?” he yells. 

Joel takes you by the shoulders and pulls you into a sitting position, the sudden movement making you dizzy. You stare back at him, eyes wide, blinking rapidly, unable to answer. Stunned.

“HEY! Did it bite you?” he continues, shaking you. 

You move your head side to side in response, causing it to throb in pain. You wince, raising a hand to your occiput. Your glove comes back crimson. Joel’s eyes fall to the blood, and he mutters a curse. He reaches into his coat pocket to take out a rag, balling it up and pressing it to the back of your skull. 

“Keep that there for me. Can you do that?” He speaks in a low, steady tone, but there’s an edge to it you pick up on. You nod and execute yourself. Willow comes over and nudges you with her nose; her way of apologising. You pat her with your free hand, reassuring. It was your fault.

Joel runs back to Old Beardy, the poor beast trembling from the fright. He takes something out of his pack’s front pocket and brings it back : a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. He twists the cap off with his teeth and kneels behind you, taking the rag and pouring some of the liquid on it. He rubs it on your wound, eliciting a shriek.

Holy shit that hurts. 

Joel inspects the injury, parting your hair to expose it, the rough fabric of his gloves like sandpaper on your scalp. 

“Cut isn’t deep. But you’re gonna get a mean bump.” Joel explains, applying more pressure. He stops the bleeding, aided by the cold, and wraps the rag around your head, securing it with a tight knot. “We gotta keep moving. Can you stand up?” 

This version of Joel, assertive, protective even, catches you off guard. It’s such a stark contrast from his attitude earlier in the day. It nearly makes you forget how close to death you just came.

“Uh, I-I think so-” you reply, regaining your voice, before attempting to push yourself off the ground and falling back down. Your head spins. 

Joel offers you his hand, which you take to pull yourself up slowly, your whole body protesting. Bile rises up to your oesophagus. You lean over, breathing through your mouth. 

“Shit. I think you have a concussion,” you hear Joel say, from far away.

And, then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the storm picks up. The snow gets so dense you can barely see five feet in front of you. The man takes the lead, urgently guiding you towards Old Beardy. He helps you mount, taking you by the waist, and you don’t even think to resist. There’s no way you can ride by yourself in this condition. Joel gets on and takes the reins while you hold on to him, chest pressed against his back. He whistles for Willow over the wind. She follows right behind. 

Joel leads his horse out of the riverbank and into the surrounding woods, visibility getting even poorer. You’re blinded by snow, breathing it in, wheezing. You put all trust in Joel’s sense of orientation, praying that somehow, he gets you back onto the road. He presses forward, a hand raised in front of his face to protect it. 

What a stupid fucking way to go out. Lost in a blizzard. With Joel Miller. At least the town would have something to talk about. 

But then, miraculously, the trees begin to thin out; ahead, you can make out the faint outline of a trail. 

He did it. 

You squeeze Joel’s torso tighter, as if to thank him. Old Beardy perseveres, pushing one leg in front of the other. Your head is getting heavier, the concussion pulling you towards a dreamless sleep. 

“Hold on. We’re almost there.” Joel affirms. You’re not sure who it’s destined for : himself, you, or the horses. Maybe all four. But it’s all you need to let go, and you pass out, head slumping on Joel’s shoulder. 

——————————

You wake up to the sound of snow pelting against glass. Your skull feels like it’s being drilled into with a jackhammer. You pry your eyelids open and try to get your bearings, vision foggy, as though you opened your eyes in a chlorine pool. You find that you’ve been laid out on a frayed, deformed couch, springs digging into your back, a quilt smelling of mothballs thrown over you. Your winter attire has been taken off. You push yourself up on your elbows and look around the room. It seems to be the small living area of a cabin; there’s a rustic coffee table where both packs lay next to the bloody rag that acted as your bandage. To your left is a large, frosted-over bay window; the outside is an infinite, oppressing white. Two sets of jackets and ski pants hang from antler-shaped hooks next to the front door, a puddle forming underneath. A stone hearth takes up the wall in front of you, fire crackling inside. And, to your right, a plaid armchair. Joel is sitting in it, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, watching you intently with knitted brows. His expression is hard, severe, unfriendly; he’s back to his normal self. You hold his gaze, your sight slowly getting clearer. 

“Uh. Hey,” you speak hoarsely, throat dry. It makes you cough, which prompts Joel to get up and rummage through your pack to retrieve your canteen. He tosses it to you carelessly, and you fail to catch it. It lands on your lap with a thump. Joel plops back into the armchair, huffing. He is very transparently upset with you. 

Great.

You take a long gulp of water and wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve, the day replaying in your mind like on a movie theatre screen, pausing on your near-death experience. And you’re baffled, ashamed of your own actions. You can’t believe Joel had to step in and save your sorry ass, like you’re some kind of damsel in distress.  

Fucking rookie mistake. And now you have a goddamn concussion. 

You massage your temples and suppress a groan. “How long was I out?” you ask instead. 

“About an hour.” Joel answers, tone glacial, deprived of any sympathy. 

“Did you try calling Jackson?” You nod over at the small radio sitting on the ground by the window. 

“Couldn’t get a signal,” Joel answers, gruff, as if it’s an obvious fact. 

You roll your eyes. You know he’s right, but still, you stand up despite sore muscles, and go over to the device, cranking it a few times before trying the channel knob. You’re met with static. Joel mumbles something under his breath; it doesn’t sound pleasant, or polite. You put the radio back down and return to the couch, avoiding eye contact with the older man.

You glance at your watch. It’s right after 3PM, and the blizzard hasn’t let up. You’re going to be stuck here a while. You rest your head on the arm of the sofa, staring at the beamed ceiling, lost in reflexion. About how genuinely worried Joel seemed when you got hurt, how he jumped right in to take care of you. It makes you seethe. He tucked you in so you’d stay warm. He even changed your socks; the wet pair is drying by the fireplace. How dare he? You shift on the cushions, stiff, ill at ease. And Joel chooses that moment to break the silence. 

“What the hell was that back there?” He questions, his tone accusatory.

You tense up. The blame you’re putting on yourself is more than enough. He doesn’t need to twist the knife. You ignore him, your jaw clenching. 

“Hey. I’m talkin’ to ya,” he nags. 

It makes your blood boil, and you sit up to glare at him. “Won’t happen again,” you grumble.

“Yeah? You sure about that?” He continues, harsh. 

You take a deep breath. “Look, I-”

He interrupts you. “You don’t freeze up like that. Ever. You understand me?”

“Oh, wow. I had no idea!” You strike back, not missing a beat. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Miller,” You spit out. 

Joel lets out a chilling chuckle. “Oh, you’re welcome, by the way!” He barks, “You know. For keepin’ you alive an’ all.”

You spring to your feet, heat shooting to your head, exacerbating the migraine. “I didn’t ask for your fucking help,” you utter. 

Joel gets up too, towering over you, hands balled up into fists. “Right. Next time I'll just let you get infected. That what you want?” 

“I told you. There won’t be a next time!” You shout, holding yourself back from punching him in the gut, or kneeing him where it would hurt most, or pulling him down to the couch and pushing your lips to his neck and letting him- 

No. Nope. Not again, not here, not now. 

You desperately need some air. You move towards the front door, but Joel strides up to you and blocks the way, arms crossed. 

“You ain’t going anywhere,” he warns. 

“Let. Me. Out.” You command. Your head is so painful you think it might explode. 

Joel chuckles again. “You got a death wish or somethin’? Settle down, girl.” He talks down to you as if you were a child, smug, condescending; but that word makes your heart skip a beat. 

You try to make a pass for the handle, but he grabs your wrist and shoves it backwards effortlessly. You’re seeing red. So you opt for the next best thing; you spin around abruptly and storm off to the other side of the cabin, into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. 

“Oh yeah. You do that. Real mature.” Joel yells out. 

You hear the creak of the floor under his steps and the rustling of fabric as he sits back down. You take your frustrations out on the shower curtain, displacing thousands of dust particles, before biting down on your hand to muffle a scream. When you’re done, you climb into the bathtub and curl up against the lime-scaled cold porcelain, forehead on your knees. The space is dark, stuffy, suffocating. You wonder how you’ll be able to make it through the storm without ripping Joel’s head off. Or doing something exactly opposed to it. How easily that man is able to just get to you is incomprehensible. Enraging. And, worst of all, despite how reluctant you are to admit it… 

Arousing.  

It must be the concussion dysregulating you completely. But the feeling grows, and you extend both legs to squeeze your thighs together, trying to release the pressure building between them. It’s no use. There’s only one thing that would satisfy it, and he’s right outside the door. Without your control, your right hand moves to the waistband of your jeans, undoes the button and goes down, past the elastic of your underwear…Fingers reach down to your entrance, already slick, and glide back up to the hardened nub, the touch sending a rush of pleasure through your body. You rub clumsy circles around, slow at first, mind filling with Joel, his calloused hand there instead of yours, stretching you out, whispering filthy things in your ear. You increase the speed, biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning, cheeks flushed, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. You push two fingers inside, curling them to stimulate that sensitive spot, bucking into your own palm to deepen the sensation. In a matter of seconds, you’re unravelling, free hand gripping the side of the tub, your walls clamping down on the other, come seeping in the fabric below. Your lips part and you can’t help a low squeal from escaping them. You immediately clap your left hand over your mouth, heart racing. 

Fuck. 

Did he hear?

You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. The reality of what you just did comes crashing down. It only worked to heighten your desire. And your anger. You button your pants back up and step out of the bathtub, wiping your hand on a scratchy towel you find in the linen closet along with a colony of spiders. 

You’ve been in here for too long. You have to go back out. It would raise suspicion if you didn’t. 

——————————

Joel is oblivious, too busy sulking over the events of the day as he tends to the fire, flames illuminating his face in a flickering glow. 

That was too fucking close. 

The image of you, frozen up under the runner, keeps snaking its way into his thoughts. It infuriates him. How you just gave up, like your life was worthless, like you deserved what came to you. And yet, the sentiment is so familiar it makes his chest ache in a burst of empathy. He can sense the burden in you, the intense trauma you endured. Most people have, in this unforgiving world, but you…There’s something more. It was the look in your eyes when you saw that infected, as if it reminded you of something so vivid it stole you away for an instant. He knows because it’s happened to him. It still does, sometimes, although less frequently. They’re these moments of sheer panic, where he’s choking, the world blurring around him. He has to count things he can see, or touch, or hear…He feels so miserably weak after it’s passed, as if he’s just a small, scared old man. Maybe it reveals his true nature. 

And he’s so angry at you for making him care. Because for some reason, he does. Ever since that night at the tavern. Maybe even before. How scared he got when he thought you might be done for is direct proof of it. 

He can’t afford to have another person to protect. 

A quiet cough brings him back to the present. He peers over his shoulder. You’re standing behind him, seemingly troubled by something; you fiddle with the hem of your sweater, gaze glued to the ground. 

He turns back to the hearth, sighing, and forces out an irritated “You good?” The thing is, he actually is concerned with the answer. 

“Fine.” You reply, your tone not an ounce more affable than his. 

That is as far as the conversation goes. Joel eventually gets tired of rotating the same log with the fire poker, pretending the action is crucial to keep the flames alive. He goes back to the armchair, glancing at you. You’ve reclined on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, mindlessly chewing on a piece of dried meat. He decides to imitate you, because he needs something to do with his hands. So he digs in his bag for the sandwich he’d packed; it’s mushed, tasteless. You both eat in thick, loaded silence. 

The sunlight is starting to decline, and the storm rages on, casting the room in an eerie shadow, the cold seeping in through every tiny crack in the cabin’s foundation. Joel shivers despite himself, shoving both hands under his armpits in an attempt to preserve his body heat. 

A second later, you’re out of your seat. Joel watches as you climb up the spiral staircase that leads to the loft bedroom. You shuffle around the space, partially concealed by the railing, and come stomping back down, carrying a crumpled blanket. You hold it out to him at arm’s length. Joel cocks a brow; the sudden kind gesture leaves him completely confused. You jiggle the blanket under his nose, impatient. He decides to take it, and drapes it around his shoulders, the relief immediate. 

“Uh. Thanks,” he mumbles. 

You give a shrug in response, dismissive, wrapping yourself in the quilt and retreating to the sofa.  

What the hell? 

An hour ago, you were fiercely arguing with him. Now this. The flip-flopping is giving him whiplash. 

Time passes, excruciatingly slow, nor Joel or you daring to say another word. The sun fully sets; the darkness outside is opaque, as if the little cabin is drowning alone in an abyss. There’s no way around it, you’ll both have to spend the night here. Around half past 5PM, Joel can’t stew in the tension anymore, so he goes to check on Old Beardy and Willow, confined to the veranda at the back of the house. They’re cramped, but otherwise fine. Joel risks a short trip to the yard to fill an old, warped bucket with snow for the horses to drink. As he shines the beam of his flashlight around, he notes that the blizzard has weakened slightly. This mess might be over in the morning. Just a few hours. He can last until then. It’s not like he has any other choice. 

He feeds the animals with a pile of straw forgotten in a corner of the veranda, behind some gardening tools. At the start of the outbreak, he couldn’t help but imagine who inhabited the places he used as shelters, what their daily lives looked like, if they were still alive. Sometimes, he’d come across evidence of the contrary. It used to disturb him, he’d feel like an intruder, but he’d quickly grown desensitised. Cordyceps didn’t spare anyone. It made suffering the new normal. It’s useless to dwell on what was or wonder what could have been. So, he doesn’t pay more attention to the objects scattered around the space as Willow eats from his hand. 

Once he comes back inside the cabin, he finds you exploring the kitchenette that’s crammed underneath the loft. You’ve opened the cupboards, revealing stacks of chipped, dusty dishes. You’re going through a drawer, a few utensils clinking inside. You haven’t noticed Joel, too focused on your search for something of value. He observes quietly as you move on to the second drawer, when he decides to make his presence known. He clears his throat before speaking. 

“Don’t bother, I already checked while you were sleepin’.” 

His words only make you search harder, meticulously inspecting the contents of the drawer, bent over, your back turned to him.

Goddamn it. You’re exasperating. 

And yet, his eyes are drawn to a specific part of your anatomy, the curves made obvious by your position, your jeans hugging them so well he could just-

“Or do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, the hostility compensating for the sudden surge of lust. 

He plants himself in the armchair, once again, the noises of your continued investigation grating, setting his nerves on fire. After a few minutes, they stop. And you come walking back to the living area with a subtle, conceited smirk on your lips, and a bottle of very nice, before-the-apocalypse whisky clutched in your right hand. 

“Didn’t check well enough, Miller,” you say, failing to hide your satisfaction. 

“Where was it?” He asks, upset at himself for missing the item. 

“Back of the sink cabinet,” you answer smugly. “Quality stuff,” you add, reading the label. You’re absolutely right, but Joel isn’t going to recognise it. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky,” he grumbles. You don’t waste time and unseal the bottle before raising it to your mouth. 

“Don’t think that’s smart,” Joel cautions, making you pause mid-air. “Y’know. Concussion,” he continues, his tone more unpleasant than he anticipated. 

You don’t listen to his advice, staring at him tauntingly as you sip. He’s quickly learning that you thrive in defiance. And this audacity you possess, it’s…Attractive. Joel inexplicably likes that you’re provoking him. Your expression remains neutral as you swallow, even when Joel knows for a fact it must sting like hell. You offer the bottle to him. 

It’s been a long time since he’s had liquor that didn’t have an aftertaste of battery acid, and the sight makes him crave a good drink. It’d certainly make the night pass by faster. He knows it’s a terrible idea, considering where getting drunk with you led him last time, but it’s so damn tempting…

He takes the whisky from you. 

——————————

You’ve made a considerable dent in the liquor. It’s dulling the pain in your head, reducing it to a distant ache. You’re sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth, and Joel has joined you on the ground, close enough to pass the bottle back and forth without having to stand up. His back is resting on the bottom panel of the couch, legs spread out casually. The fire, as well as the whisky, is enveloping you in a calming warmth, eating away at your inhibitions; you’ve taken your sweater off as a result, stripped down to a tight thermal shirt. There’s silence again between you and Joel, but this time, it doesn’t make you want to claw out of your own skin. It’s strikingly comfortable. And you find yourself wanting the man to come closer, longing for contact, connection. You haven’t forgotten your little adventure in the bathroom; in fact, the liquor is feeding those feelings,  and they’ve risen to a nearly overwhelming level. 

You take another sip, and, during the exchange, Joel’s fingers graze yours, sending your heart in a frenzy and a burst of flustered heat to your face. You jerk your hand away. 

Idiot. 

You play it off by brushing it through your hair. Joel’s mouth twitches upwards before he drinks. 

“What?” You ask, defensive. 

“Nothin’.” Joel passes the bottle back to you with a faint air of amusement. You decide it’s a good time to stop, and you set it down on the floor. 

“Done already? I was expecting more from ya,” he teases. 

You hate how well it’s efficient in riling you up. “Like you said. Concussion,” you retort, pointing at the site of injury. 

“Hm. So now it's a good enough excuse,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“Yup,” you answer simply. 

“Really? That’s all you got?” His smirk is more assured now. 

You give a drawn-out sigh in response, studying the fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Damn. I was startin’ to like the snark,” he says. It seems like the liquor has taken a toll on the man’s reservations, too. 

“Don’t wanna waste my breath on you,” you reply, unable to resist the banter. 

Joel chuckles. “Ah. There she is.” 

You had forgotten how lovely Joel’s laugh is. How natural it feels to talk to him like this. Funny how booze seems to have that impact on the both of you. And, after a tortuous day of being at each other’s throats, you welcome the change of mood. “Did I just hear you say you like me?” You turn to gaze at him, an eyebrow raised. 

“Nah. Must be your concussion.” He answers, deadpan, unfazed. 

You can’t hold back a smile as you reply. “Hm. Sure, Miller.”

He pauses and appears to consider something, chewing on his bottom lip. “Uh. Joel,” he finally lets out, voice deeper, more serious. “Just- call me Joel.” 

You’re taken aback by that sudden request. 

His first name. It feels informal, intimate even, as though you’ve moved past the status of coworkers, into murky, foreign territory. You know you should refuse. You’ve dropped too many of your principles with this man already. 

“Alright. Joel.” You gulp. “Uh, same goes for you.”

He gives a short nod, and mirrors your sentence, only with your name instead.

It’s significant. This moment. It feels like the two of you have reached a point of no return. Like from here on out, things can’t just go back to the way they were. 

“Man, this isn’t how I was planning to spend the night,” you revert to humour to diffuse the returning tension. 

“Yeah?” Joel follows your lead. “Got somethin’ you’d rather be doin’?”

“Pretty much anything else,” you quip. “I was gonna work on this painting I’m late on.” You’re not sure why you’re opening up about that aspect of your life, but it’s the direction the whisky has picked. It’s futile enough. Still safe. 

“Oh. Right. Painting,” he says. “I knew you did that.”

He does?

“Didn’t you do one of Tommy and Maria?” He continues. “For their wedding?” 

The man truly is full of surprises. And to think you were convinced he was completely indifferent to you, at least before today. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that was me,” you reply after a few seconds. 

“It’s good work. You managed to make Tommy look half-decent. That’s talent right there,” he jokes. 

“Yeah. Thanks. I tried.” You chuckle, and your stomach flutters at the compliment. You’d shoot those butterflies one by one with a tiny gun if you could. “What about you? What’d you have on the schedule?”

“Hm,” he answers, “not much either. Was gonna ask Ellie to join me for dinner. And get rejected again.” 

“I don’t blame her,” you comment, a teasing grin forming. “What teenager wants to hang out with a grumpy old guy?” 

“Hey. Rude.” Joel feigns offence. “I can be fun,” he adds. 

“Won’t believe it until I see it,” you push further. 

“Okay then. Just you wait.” He glances around the room for inspiration, until he is hit by a stroke of genius. 

“Truth or dare?”

You snort. “Are you twelve?”

“Truth or dare?” Joel repeats, voice raising in pitch. 

You shake your head in disbelief. 

Joel fucking Miller.  

“Fine. Truth,” you capitulate. 

Joel smirks. “Okay. Uh,” he concentrates, “What’s your favourite colour?”

You take a second to process the words that just came out of his mouth. And then burst out laughing. 

“Come on,” Joel protests, a grin brightening his eyes, deepening the wrinkles around them. “What’s wrong with that question?” 

It makes you double down in laughter. You wheeze, trying to catch your breath, and Joel joins in with a few low chuckles. The stoic mask has vanished. Why does he look so sweet? 

“That-that- was the best you could come up with?” you get out between deep inhales. 

Joel doesn’t back down. “You gonna answer it or what?” 

“Okay, okay. Uh-” 

You realise you haven’t thought about that tiny aspect of yourself in about two decades. Cordyceps has had that strange effect of destroying souls, personalities, the little things that used to make one human. By infecting some, and coercing others into survival. You’re not sure which fate is worse. 

“It’s yellow,” you finally reply. Yellow like the sunshine. That was your sister’s nickname. And you were Moonbeam. Opposites who completed each other. And now there’s only one left, lonely, broken.

Joel nods. “Fitting.”

“Hm?”

“Your tattoo.” He gestures at your exposed collarbone, where a sun made up of a multitude of ink dots is etched into your skin. Joel is scarily on point; that was for her, too. 

“Yeah.” You don’t linger on the topic. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Joel replies instantly. 

You’re not prepared. “Uh- I dare you to-” Your mind is sluggish, moving in slow-motion as you try to come up with something. “I dare you to sit next to me.” It comes out without your control. 

Shit. 

“Easy,” Joel brags. He pushes himself off the ground with a grunt and takes five steps before settling back down so close that your legs are touching. He doesn’t acknowledge it, eyes on the fire ahead, and neither do you. But it sends a chill up your spine and your thoughts to a dangerous place. You determine you’ve taken a long enough break from the whisky and take a swig of the liquid courage. Joel does too. 

“Your turn,” he reminds you. 

“Truth.” You still have enough wits left to be worried of what he’d make you do as a dare. 

“Takin’ the coward’s way out?” He teases. 

You drink again, ignoring the remark. 

“Alright. Uh, tell me about- your first time,” he says, glancing over at you with a sly smile. 

That’s a huge jump from the innocence of his first question. You shoot him an unimpressed look. “You’re gonna have to be more precise.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now start talkin’,” he playfully orders. 

You sigh. “I was seventeen. With a friend I had in the QZ. Nothing special to it.” Your teenage years aren’t a period you like to reminisce about; you had to grow up much too fast. 

Joel stays quiet for a moment, and bumps your knee with his, in a movement that could be passed as accidental, or as an attempt at comfort. You’re not certain which is the truth. “D’you love him?” He asks, his tone genuine, devoid of mockery. 

“Her,” you correct. “And…I don’t know. It was years ago. Doesn’t matter.” It’s a lie. You remember it like it was yesterday. And you did.

Joel’s expression is one of surprise, and embarrassment. He turns a shade of red deeper than he was the second before, the temperature having nothing to do with it. “Oh. Uh. I- Sorry, uh, didn’t mean to assume- That’s- Good for you- I-” 

You’re very entertained by his reaction. People usually fall into one of two categories when you tell them; awkward ally or plain bigot. You’re glad it’s the first one. You cut him off before he digs the hole deeper. “It’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up. Your turn.” 

He seems rather grateful for the change of subject. “Uh. Right. Truth,” he replies, regaining his composure. 

You give him a taste of his own medicine. “Same question.” 

Joel is unbothered, and tells the story nonchalantly. “Okay. It was my date at senior prom. Back of my car in the school parking lot.”

It makes you laugh. “Wow. How very original. I gotta know what kinda car it was.” 

“My dad’s busted old Wrangler. I put that car through a lot of shit.” he replies, chuckling. 

“I could have guessed that.” 

For a second, you and Joel look at each other, smiling. He almost appears timid. And for a second, the horrors of the world retreat into the shadows that birthed them. For a second, everything is alright. You could stay here forever. 

——————————

Joel could, too. He wishes time could stop here. Because he’s confident that the night will inevitably end in something he’ll regret. No way around it. It’s taking an enormous effort already to keep himself from reaching over and closing the distance between your lips and his. The booze isn’t helping. You’re not either, with that radiant smile that’s melting his hard shell little by little, and your eyes that keep wandering around his face, his chest, and lower too, though you try to be discreet. He’s doing the same, and he’s certain you’re aware of it. Now, it’s a matter of who will succumb to the temptation first. 

You speak up again. “One last thing, Joel. Did you get the girl?” The question is lighthearted, but the memories it brings back certainly aren’t. 

He sighs. “Yeah. I did.” Sarah’s mother. They’d been high school sweethearts. Young. Dumb. A tale as old as time. “Got married. Had a kid. The whole nine yards. Then she wasn’t ready to be a parent. And, well-” He trails off, the words slipping out, motivated by the liquor. He’d never have confessed such a thing in a different context. Especially not to you. And just like that, he’s ruined the mood. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock, before your expression softens, as you realise what must have happened to said child. Pity? Compassion? Joel can’t be sure. “Oh. Uhm. I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know-” 

“‘S’okay. It’s, uh, it’s been a while. And I got Ellie now,” he reassures, slurring the words slightly. 

“What-what was their name?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Sarah,” he answers after a pause. He’s only recently started being able to talk about her out loud without breaking down. He doesn’t know if that still applies when he’s inebriated. And he’s not willing to test it out. He drowns the sentiment in more whisky, before giving you the bottle. 

“Uhm. That’s pretty.” You take a swig and hesitate. “I, uh, I- know what it’s like. To- to lose someone like that,” you say, softly. The pain the words cause you as they escape is evident. Joel believes you.

And then something happens. Your right hand leaves your lap, moves to the side and comes to rest on his. 

His gaze travels from your hand, up to your face. It’s full of doubt, eyes wide, as though you’ve just made a horrible mistake. 

It’s all it takes for the floodgates to open. 

——————————

Joel grabs your forearm and pulls you into his lap. His mouth collapses on yours. You don’t protest, accepting the kiss immediately, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, knees on both sides of his thighs. 

A rugged hand goes to the small of your back, pressing your chest to his, while the other slides up to the back of your head, carefully tilting it to deepen the kiss. Tongues collide, hungry, eager. He sucks on yours, stifling a moan.  

You’ve been pent up so long you’re soaking already. He breaks away from the kiss to trail his lips across your jaw, before going down your neck, biting and swirling his tongue on your pulse point, not mindful of the mark he’s undoubtedly going to leave. He earns a gasp, your fingers interlocking with his hair, holding him in place. You grind against his growing bulge to try and alleviate the fervent pressure rising at your core. He thrusts his hips up to meet yours, the friction sending sparks of electricity to your hazy mind. A hand wanders to your breast, fingers groping the soft flesh, flicking the nipple raised through your shirt. But you need more. Need him inside of you. Now.

And you tell him so, voice quivering with desire. “Please,” you add in a whimper.

It isn’t long before your clothes are ripped off, his lips refusing to break apart from yours for more than a few seconds. He lays you down right there on the floor, bare, trembling, aching for his touch. He sits back on his heels and admires you for a moment, eyes darkened, intense, reflecting the flames as if they are blazing behind his pupils. You watch, mesmerised, as he undresses in the dim, dancing light of the fire, casting him in an aura that’s almost ominous.  He stands up to take off his underwear, cock springing free and hitting his lower stomach.

The sight makes your mouth water. God, he’s big.

He climbs on top of you, your legs encircling his torso, granting him access to your entrance. And he pushes into you. Hard. You’re so wet his cock slides in without resistance, filling you completely, nearly hitting your cervix, the jab of pain delicious. The act isn’t kind, or tender; and it’s exactly what you want. For him to use you, to ruin you. And he does. He fucks you senseless, each stroke bringing you closer to oblivion, to forgetting who you are. The sounds he’s letting out are outright sinful, grunts laced with dirty sentences that could make you finish on the spot. But you’re holding on. Until he lifts you up by the waist, angling himself to hit that bundle of nerves over and over again, making you cry out in ecstasy, clawing at his back. You’re almost there, your walls pulsate around him, driving him deeper inside. 

“Think you should come for me, darlin’,” he hums into your ear, nibbling on the lobe. 

You obey. 

The orgasm ripples with such force it blinds you. You can’t even scream. You’re gone. Not a person anymore, but a being of pure pleasure. Joel coaxes you through it with a few more thrusts, erratic, uneven, as he reaches his own release. He pulls out of you at the last second, painting your belly with spurts of the thick, warm substance. Your entire body spasms before going limp. 

All the fight has been drained out of you. You’re reduced to a panting, throbbing mess on the floor, arousal pooling out of you, coating your inner thighs. 

“Did so good for me,” Joel praises, hands cupping your face, left thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. “So fuckin’ good,” he repeats.

You stay still, eyes closed, brain shutting down your functions one by one. As you’re about to drift off, you feel strong arms carrying you to the loft, carefully placing you on the bed, cleaning you off with a soft cloth. He climbs in and embraces you, limbs tangled with yours, and you nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck. His fingers gently brush the hair from your face to plant a kiss on your forehead. 

“Sleep tight, darlin’,” he whispers. 

It’s so vulnerable it makes your heart ache. 

Because you know this’ll all be gone tomorrow, along with the alcohol evaporating from your system. 

——————————

You’re right.

The sky is clear by the next morning, harsh sunlight brutally waking you. You’re alone in the bed, shivering, sore, his scent all over your skin. You get dressed, head pounding, filled with excruciating remorse. 

Joel is waiting for you by the front door. Glacial. Austere. Haunting. The person that you went to bed with a few hours ago has been torn to shreds. As though he never even existed. Maybe he was a product of your imagination.

And, once you’re outside, standing side by side on the horses, ready for the return trip, Joel utters a sentence that reverberates in your head all the way to Jackson, its echo deafening as you ride in silence.

“What we did. It meant nothing. Understand?”

You keep the tears in until you’re back home. 

To read on AO3

[clipboardbuckdiaz]

guys ik i dont shut tf up about this, BUT HOLY SHIT I THINK I JUST GOT YET ANOTHER GOLDEN KEY TO SEASON 8 BEING THE SEASON WHEN EDDIE COMES OUT AS GAY 🤯

Why, you may ask? WELL, I was watching Ryan Guzman’s interview on the Zach Sang Show, and legit not even 5 minutes in, Zach asked Ryan at what point he realized he really knew Eddie, and Ryan replied with “I think this season.”

Now, this really made me raise my eyebrows, BUT MY EYEBROWS WERENT EVEN CONNECTED TO ME WHEN HE ALSO ADDED THAT THE OTHER 7 SEASONS WERE BACKROUND STUFF, LIKE HELLO???

Okay, so what my gay brain is thinking here is that Eddie in previous seasons has had moments that has made people skeptical about whether he is actually straight or not, and you know other seasons he was struggling with multiple things—and he is struggling now, but knowing he comes back to LA after only about 2 or 3 episodes of him in El Paso, we know it wont last long—and NOW he is going to find out who he truly is (gay, duh) and find happiness (within buck and a new start with christopher, duh).

Also, another thing he said was that the switch from FOX to abc caused him to be able to start fresh, and it has caused him to feel “more at home” with Eddie’s characterization.

You know, this kind of reminds me of how a certain character came out as bisexual in the last season (the first season that 9-1-1 was with abc, a network that had a wideest range of lgbtqia representation in 2023-2024 season) was able to start a new journey for theirselves….

Am I delusional? Perchance. But I will be delusional AND free 🔥🎉💏

Also i’ve decided this will be my last rant about the possibility of Eddie being gay until 8B starts airing, then all my sources will come from that other than articles and interviews, because I am going slightly crazy

(Also i should probably be studying other than overanalyzing every single thing that comes out about 9-1-1, but whatever)

[green-fifteen]

metaphysical, precision, collision

tags: gen, bisexual Steve Harrington, stobin fluff

word count: 1,390

not actually written for @stobinmonth but it kind of fits the crossover prompt so let's go with that!

Title from St. Elmo's Fire.

Steve said, "Rob," and then stopped. 

They were lying on his bed under the covers. The room was dark, but there was enough light coming in from the window that she could see his face if she wanted to. She didn't look at him, only hummed softly to let him know she was listening. 

"Robin..." he trailed off again. She waited, lightly scratching at the hair on the back of Steve's fingers.

"Do you ever think about it?" he finally asked. 

She knew what he meant. He didn't need to explain, because she'd been with him all week. 

She'd been there on Monday, when she'd put St. Elmo's Fire in the VCR at the video store. Neither of them had seen it and so neither of them had known about Billy. For most people, there wasn't anything at all remarkable about the character, but then most people didn't shake uncontrollably through the best parts of Little Shop of Horrors. Most people didn't add to a blacklist in a little spiral notepad every time a movie had a Russian character. Most people just weren't afraid of things like they were. 

She'd seen Steve's face when Rob Lowe's character had been introduced. She had taken in his haircut, his loose blazer, his earring. His name was the same for christssake. Then she'd looked at Steve, who was carefully watching the tape rewinder like it would stop working if he looked up. 

When she nudged him, he glanced at her and smirked, a small and tired thing. "Much better looking," he said simply, then swallowed and coughed a little awkwardly.

Robin smiled back. "And probably less likely to kill anyone," she'd quipped. It felt too early to say something like that, even though a year and a half had come and gone since Billy's death. Steve only nodded and for the next 80 minutes pretended not to watch the movie while getting absolutely no work done. Robin sighed and added St. Elmo's Fire to the blacklist. 

She'd been there on Tuesday, when Eddie had come in after school to rent some horror movie Dustin wanted to watch. She'd listened to Steve argue with him for fifteen minutes before ringing up the rental herself just to make it stop.

Eddie had scooped up the tape with a triumphant grin and swanned out of the store with his usual clumsy grace. "'Til next we meet, Harrington! Buckley!" he called.

Steve made a noise of disgust and shook his head. "He's such a nerd. And an ass. Henderson's going to get nightmares."

"He already has those," Robin reminded him. 

"He's going to get new nightmares. There's a reason those movies have age ratings, Robin." She ignored the hairy eyeball he was giving her and pulled herself up to sit on the counter. She kicked him lightly with her sneaker. 

"Okay, Mama Harrington. I'm sorry I helped corrupt your little duckie." 

They were quiet for a long time. That was the way most shifts went when they worked together. They talked a lot and about everything, but there was only so much Robin felt she could say that Steve didn't already know. So they sat in a silence that was more familiar and comfortable to her than breathing air. 

Then, out of nowhere, Steve said, "Who do you think is hotter, Eddie or Rob Lowe?" 

And Robin was Steve's best friend and a very good one at that, so she just said, "Eddie, duh," and left it there. 

They didn't have a shift together on Wednesday, so she went to his house after work to lie around and complain about Keith, among other things. 

"When I bring up your name when you're not working, he always makes this face, with the eyebrows," Robin turned to show him a pinched, sour expression. "It makes me want to punch him." 

"You should tell him we're dating, maybe he'll chill out." Steve was sorting records on the floor in front of the entertainment center. 

"There is no way he doesn't already think that. I mean, we even had a whole conversation about how out of your league I am and he still thinks I spend my entire shift pining for you."

"You don't?" he sounded hurt.

"Of course I do." She twisted her body to see him better. "Not going to disagree with me and Keith? Say I'm not out of your league?"

He snorted, putting a Hall and Oates record into a pile with Carol King. "I know the facts, Buckley. You're like, a sea monster."

"What the hell?"

"Like in that book, with the old sailors. Moby Dick? Or like the whale in Pinocchio." A cork coaster flew at his head. "I'm trying to give you a compliment!" he protested. 

"Get to the part where I'm not whale, then, genius!"

"You're like, a huge catch! Keith can definitely see it, so he's fishing in the water." He smirked at her. "I wonder what he thinks he's using for bait."

She tried not to smile. "What, you don't think Keith has anything to offer?"

"Robin. Even lesbians have eyes."

"What? I'm sure someone likes his whole... thing."

"Yeah, everyone's lining up to date the 24 year old video store manager with greasy hair and no ass."

"No ass?" she repeated, voice high with suppressed laughter. 

"Surely you've noticed! It's flat! He probably has to wear a belt with his pajamas."

Robin cracked up and Steve threw the coaster back at her face. 

On Thursday, there had been a tornado warning and Robin's parents wanted her home right after school. Steve dropped her off and then called her after dinner. 

"Holy cow," he breathed down the line. "Are you seeing this weather, Bobby?"

She flicked open the curtains in her bedroom. The light that poured in was sickly and yellow. "Yeah," she said. "I don't think I like it very much."

The sky and everything below it was tinted the wrong color. The clouds seemed to roil and tumble over one another. She pulled the curtains closed again, then pulled her knees in to her chest on top of her bed and started babbling to distract them both. 

"So, I told my parents I'm with Nancy tomorrow night. Totally sold it. They love her."

"I bought the, uh, dip you wanted. Earlier." Steve sounded distant. A little spooked. "And that movie, the Bowie one."

"The Labyrinth. You're gonna hate it, maybe. But who knows?" She smiled at his shorts draped over her desk chair. "Bowie's scenes can get pretty... interesting."

"What do you mean?" he asked. His voice was closer to the phone. 

"Do you know what a codpiece is?" she said, sweet as anything. 

"No."

"Well, neither does David Bowie."

"Am I old enough to see this?"

She barked a laugh. "Just you wait, Stevie. It's gonna rock your world."

And then the next night, earlier that day, Robin watched Steve's face as it traveled a million miles an hour, eyes never leaving the screen. 

In the dark of his room, playing with his fingers like they belonged to the both of them, she said, "Yeah. Of course I think about it."

"And... how does it feel?" he whispered. 

"Hopeless. Really, truly hopeless. I think if somebody told me to marry a man to save the planet, they'd seriously have to catch me first."

Steve was silent. He hugged her shoulders a little closer and put his nose in her hair. 

"It doesn't feel different," he said. "To me."

She smiled into his shoulder.

"To me, when I think about one and then the other, it's not, like..." he made a frustrated sound. "This is so hard to explain."

"It's not what, Steve?"

"It's not bad. Not hopeless. They both feel. Okay. Both feel right? Is that even possible?" His voice was light, like he was ready for her to argue with him, to tell him to pick one or the other like everybody else did. 

Instead, she said, "Yes, Steve. It's possible," and dug the point of her chin into his sternum to look at his night-gray face. He stared back at her with shiny eyes, expression open like a picture book. Eventually, she drew back and settled in. Stillness drew up around their shoulders and fit them both like a glove. 

"Now go the hell to sleep."

[unnaturalequilibrium]

Capítulo 12

- Mafin rewatch (Sueños de Libertad)

Here we go. It’s the photographer. I don’t know if I’m ready for this yet, I haven’t even found the seatbelt yet, but we’re already taking off.

Marta wanting something modern, but knowing very well not to try to be too transgressive. A quiet kind of revolution that sneaks up on you is to be preferred. She wants a campaign ad that plays on a woman’s own agency though. I don’t know how to tell her, but that’s still a pretty hot topic no matter how much traditionalism you try to steep it in. I approve though. Sisters doing it for themselves, so to speak.

Hihi, her shocked eyebrows when he notices the perfume she’s wearing.

Oh honey. You clueless little inexperienced puppy. I can’t unsee my own perspective or hindsight, but I wonder to what extent we were supposed to believe that something might happen between her and the photographer. I assume most straights did, but even for them - I mean that opening credit. 

Either way, Marta being a clever business woman and a closeted feminist is nice. Smart and smart. Hits my spot.

Fina mocking Claudia as the lavender triplets are having coffee together is cute. She also catches on to Carmen’s sadness and ask if it’s in relation to Voldemort. Carmen reveals she’s not able to tell if she should do the right thing with Tasio or follow her heart. Fina deadpans and tells her the heart is a treacherous mistress. She is the lesbian friend every straight and bisexual woman needs.

The photographer is a bit creepy though. It’s not cool going around photographing women without their knowledge or consent. Especially not when you have a moustache, that just makes it twelve times as creepy. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.

Carmen covering Tasio’s gambling ass. You hate to see it.

Marta for the first time on this show getting truly excited about something. Excited about her idea of selling their latest perfume through a more relatable woman than your standard model. The joy she expresses when the photographer comes back with a whole portfolio full of pictures of the shop girls is fucking pure. This isn’t just an ice queen, this is a woman trying really fucking hard to make a difference in her own way. She has a vision and I honestly don’t think it’s only about the cashflow. I do think she wants a different world for herself and for other women too.

This scene also hits with one of those lines that are pretty fundamental to her as a character, even though she likes what he’s done, she tells him she won’t make a decision “hot”. She needs to let the emotions land and turn it all over in peace. This is Marta at her core. Everything about her as an emotional being can be narrowed down into this. She did the exact same thing with Petra. She gathered the data, went away, made a case for herself and then returned with a plan of action. If you want Marta’s cheat code, then it’s this behaviour. Pretty much everything else about her will fall into place when you understand this. And the best way of breaking her is to force a reaction out of her before she’s had a chance to digest in silence.

Yeah, even if we ever were meant to think something was about to happen with the photographer they also made sure to be pretty fucking unsubtle about the real direction they were taking this story in.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Josephine Baker (The Siren of the Tropics, ZouZou)— Josephine Baker was an American born actress, singer, and utter icon of the period, creating the 1920s banana skirt look. She was the first black woman to star in a major motion film. She fought in the French resistance in WWII, given a Legion of Honour, as well as refusing to perform in segregated theatres in the US. She was bisexual, a fighter, and overall an absolutely incredible woman as well as being extremely attractive.

Anne Baxter (The Ten Commandments, All About Eve)—her soft, gentle voice in "all about eve", those gentle eyes with something odd behind them, the way she flips from Sweet Innocent to Viper on a dime......there was something Built Different about anne baxter, man, and it makes her so good for playing people who are Built Wrong. also one of my favorite batmen villains (her joint episode w vincent price is a delight) and of course I'm obsessed with her columbo episode where she bosses around edith head and does fabulous movie star things for no good reason. and i would be REMISS if i didn't mention her slink—oh the slink—in the ten commandments...................pardon me i must go think of sinning again

This is round 4 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Josephine Baker:

Black, American-born, French dancer and singer. Phenomenal sensation, took music-halls by storm. Famous in the silent film era.

Let's talk La Revue Negre, Shuffle Along. The iconique banana outfit? But also getting a Croix de Guerre and full military honors at burial in Paris due to working with the Resistance.

She exuded sex, was a beautiful dancer, vivacious, and her silliness and humor added to her attractiveness. She looked just as good in drag too.

So I know she was more famous for other stuff than movies and her movies weren’t Hollywood but my first exposure to her was in her films so I’ve always thought of her as a film actress first and foremost. Also she was the first black woman to star in a major motion picture so I think that warrants an entry

Iconic! Just look up anything about her life. She was a fascinating woman.

Anne Baxter:

The prettiest murderer in that film. Just so beautifully evil as Nefertari.

Anne Baxter was part of my Bisexual Awakening. My family has a tradition that every Palm Sunday we watch The ten commandments on TV together... And starting from a very young age, I essentially developed a crushes on Anne Baxter's Nefertiri & Yul Brynner's Ramses. Dude, the woman was HOT! They both were! My crush definitely wasn't helped by the fact that Anne Baxter's costumes were a bit on the sheer side. She had a way of capturing you with her eyes, and I never understood why Charlton heston's Moses didn't just have a threesome with Nefertiri and Ramses. LOL

Her Nefertiri in The Ten Commandments was FORMATIVE TO ME. If not the hottest old movie lady, then she definitely played the hottest old movie character. if that makes sense.

Look. Listen. I only *just* discovered her on a post from the Have You Seen This Romcom poll blog. Saw she had the same last name as me and went OOH hi hello. Went to her IMdB and saw she was born in Indiana like moi. I am now even more intrigued. Been eagerly telling my partner this, and he was like "maybe you guys are distantly related?" And after 2 hrs of going down the tumblr tag + her imdb photos, I'm In Deep(tm) and I can't stop looking at her like 😍 When I go to my grandma's house, bet your ass I'm gonna check my grandpa's genealogy and see if we're somehow related. Sorry that's not really propaganda I just got real excited, esp when I saw that the submission deadline was extended (bless your soul). Narrowing down the movies where she's hottest in was Hell tyvm. I've only just discovered her, she looks gorgeous to me in every movie still I see of her gdi lol.