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macfrog · 9 months

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champagne problems sex on fire chapter ten

i'm not sorry!!!!! you'll never catch me!!!! (im, like, super sorry)

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: the secrecy between you and joel comes to a head. one huge, explosive, painful head.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, whew boy the angst is big in this one sorry, reader has a lot of internal struggle, daddy issues and commitment issues to the max (ha), memories of parental abandonment and adultery, sort of vague mention/description of reader having panic attacks, attempts to initiate sex (but alas, only one small mention of previous sex), Big Argument, alcohol consumption, cursing, sugardaddy!joel, soft!joel, fluff and angst. angst angst angst angst

word count: 11.1k

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The lavender is the first to wilt.

It stares glumly at the kitchen counter. Posture hunched and drooping. You stand before it, clutching a jug of water like you’re starving the purple sprigs for information. Why did he lie to me why did he lie why would he lie to me tell me why.

The daisies look on, awkward and curious. Their petals streaked with green – still fresh and still at least trying to bloom. The news hasn’t reached their delicate stamens yet – they still have blind hope. But they’re drinking from the same rotten water their lilac neighbors are. They must know it’s futile.

You fill the vase up and fix the lace bow – the one you’d transferred from the brown paper wrap to the vase last night, after seeing Joel out. He stayed until nightfall, until the rest of your apartment faded into a pale gloom, forgotten about while the two of you watched TV and kept secrets from one another in your warm-lit bedroom.

When he leaned down and held his lips over yours, you pushed yourself onto your toes and kissed him goodbye. He ruffled your hair, clipped your bottom lip lovingly. Said, I’ll call you tomorrow. Get some sleep, pretty girl.

You lay staring at the ceiling the whole night.

He was out all day Saturday at a charity event. He called you as he arrived home – you heard the elevator’s ding through the receiver, announcing its arrival at his top-floor apartment. And you stayed on the phone, the thing discarded on your mattress, as sleep blurred the edges of the world in and out of focus all evening.

Three times you thought about just telling him to come back over, hold you until you forgot what he’d even done. Pretend that the man who, possessed by lies and jealousy or something much worse, had taken your wrist and swept you off out of Jean-Marc’s penthouse isn’t the same one who brought you tea and Chinese food yesterday. The one who held you, blood and broken wings safe in his arms, while you wept into his body.

Three times you stamped the flame out, remembering. As if you needed reminding. Your stomach still sinks anytime the reel jerks back to its beginning behind your eyes. The words unfortunately and unavailable. The rustling of the bag in the kitchen. The padding of his footsteps drawing nearer and nearer.

Your phone buzzes somewhere across the room. You set the jug down and shuffle over, tilting the screen in the morning light.

We’re outside baby. Take your time.

You haven’t mentioned it to him, yet. Haven’t breached the conversation. You’ve no fucking clue where to start. It hurts too much to look at it just yet – like scalding yourself with boiling water and clamping a wet towel to the burn until you can stomach the sight of your skin, all blistered and bubbling.

The towel is still covering the wound. You’re still frantically pacing around the kitchen clutching it, heavy and sopping. You’re not sure what it looks like, but from beneath the cold cloth, it doesn’t feel good.

It doesn’t feel good at all.

Joel’s leaning against the Rolls when you totter down your front steps. Fall plucks the leaves from the trees one by one; they swirl down to the smooth pavement, brown and amber and golden. You’re in a floral tea dress, which took you an obscene amount of time to decide on, given the cocktail of nerves and confusion and outright panic rolling around your stomach.

Your heel scuffs to a halt in front of him. He pushes off of the car and swings your door open, squints at you in the sunlight. You watch his eyes move down your frame, a misplaced desire to impress him dripping through your veins, and then he looks back up.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says, and your veins sizzle. “You look…” he shakes his head simply, “…you’re beautiful.”

Your lips betray you. Your mind – that poor, dead lavender; your body – the poor, naïve daisies. Still has blind hope.

You can’t help but reflect his expression, attempting to mask it with a soft shrug. “Are the heels too much?” you ask, glancing down and lifting your foot.

Joel shakes his head instantly. “I like ‘em. And even if they were, we’re late. You ain’t got time to change.”

“You said you’d be here at twelve. It’s ten after.”

“I run a construction company, not a watchmakers. You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. Unconvincingly.

“I mean,” he circles a hand over his stomach, lifts his eyebrows, “you feelin’ okay? We don’t have to go – Martha wouldn’t mind, you know that.”

“I’m fine,” you chirp, and your painted lips flatten against one another as you dip into the car. “Hi, Rand.”

The driver lowers his sunglasses and tips his head in the rear-view. “Hi, baby.”

Joel shimmies along the leather, shifting his jacket from between you to scoop your body against his. You glance down, eyeing his soft sweater, the light shade of it paired against that of your dress. The glint of his watch as his wrist slips happily between your legs, hooking under your thigh. The bloody crimson of the birthday card envelope, trembling in the door pocket.

The car pulls off, dragging you from your daydream. Stealing you back from the dystopia where you and Joel match, where you go together. A couple. Removing the notion of it from your makeup, each cell in your body slowly reverting back to yours again. Just yours. No CEO boss to stake his claim to any of them.

Martha’s place sits at the end of a cul-de-sac; neighbored on one side by a retired couple who spent their entire summer arguing in the backyard, according to Martha, and on the other by a row of quaint cypress.

The front door, bordered by polished mosaic squares of glass, sits inside one of four gable roofs. Dark green shutters either side of each stark-white window frame. A smooth path snaking between neatly-fringed grass, a hierarchy of tiny bushes growing greener and greener the closer they draw to the front steps.

Come in through the back, she’d said. Gate will be open. We’ll be in the yard.

Joel makes some quiet remark just to you about how perfect the house looks. The red brick and marengo tile. How much effort gone into polishing the front, only to tell you to use the back entry. ‘s only for looking, he decides, and then offers his hand to pull you from the Rolls.

He bends over the car, hand flat on the roof, and calls back to Rand. “Do me a favor – don’t go far. Just –” he jerks his head in your direction, “– just in case.”

When he straightens up and the car purrs off, you shake your head. “I’m fine,” you whisper, and he hooks two fingers around the string of the giftbag, taking it from your grasp.

He replaces it with his hand, his huge palm against yours. “I know,” he mutters, glancing down the drive, “but it’s an excuse for when I get sick of Alan ‘n all his damn friends.”

“Henry,” you remind him.

He tosses you a half-second look, smirk scrawled on his lips. He knows.

She’s waiting for you by the French doors when you arrive – Martha. Glass of sparkling champagne in each hand. Your fingers slip free from Joel’s before you’ve even rounded the corner.

“Saw the car pull up,” she tells you, leaning to let Joel kiss her cheek. “Here,” she hands you a glass, then one to Joel, “and here.”

You sip at the bubbling drink, letting the sharp fizz assault your tongue. Letting the feeling wash down your throat, stinging and bitter. Joel seems to swallow his just fine.

He swings the bag in her direction, tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “Just a little somethin’ from the two of us.”

You frown, holding a hand up to shield your eyes from sunlight too faint to cause the stiffness of your face and the drawn string of your brows. Where is Deb? And her two sons? And their shared gift? Isn’t it totally platonic and professional after all, to sign something from you and Joel?

Martha’s hands clasp. She reaches gleefully for the bag, smiling at the striped pattern. “I got no idea where he is. Last I saw, they were all headin’ up to his room. Some zombie game on his PlayStation. He promises me they ain’t playin’ the R-rated version.”

“That’s alright,” Joel says, “I believe ‘im.” He leans closer, a weight apparent at the small of your back. It shocks like a surge of electricity up your spine, hurts like a sudden muscle spasm. And then it soothes the pain, his thumb rubbing delicately. “’s a nice place,” he tells Martha.

She feigns disbelief. “Well, thank you, Mr. Miller, C-E-O,” she sings, and then, cocking an eyebrow, “y’all want a tour?”

You both nod politely, following her towards the kitchen doors. Joel nods towards a table by the barbecue – an island amongst a sea of candy and pastries, chopped fruit and bowls of nuts: a two-tiered, sky-blue cake. The name Henry piped in red icing – the letters swirling much like a birthday card you once read in a house on Maple Street.

“Nice little cake for Alan,” Joel mutters, squeezing your waist.

A stolen laugh shudders from your lips; the two of you snicker together, and despite your best attempts to cover your grin with your champagne flute, Martha spots you.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, sidling back over.

“Martha,” you clear your throat, “would you do me a favor?”

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

“Would you please tell Joel your son’s name?”

She looks at you blankly. Blinks between you and the man at your side, both staring back expectantly. But her stone-set expression begins to crack, the lines deepening around her mouth.

“As in,” you clarify, “his real name. Not Alan.”

She makes to reply when the swish-thud of a window opening interrupts, the prepubescent bellow of an almost-teen from overhead.

“Mom!” Henry calls, his dark head of curls and long, boyish arms dangling over the sill.

Martha glares up at him. “What have I told you about hangin’ from there” she yells, fists propped on her hips. “What is it?”

“Mike brought Blood Cry III; can we play it?”

She shakes her head indignantly. “I have told you – how many times? No!” She holds her hands out in apology to you and Joel, and then scuttles off into the kitchen. “Go explore,” she waves, “I trust ya!”

Joel wordlessly takes your hand, leading you in Martha’s wake through the kitchen to the living room: its navy walls and white paneling, bookshelves spanning the entire length of one wall, and a pale-brick fireplace centering two leather couches. Very pristine, very perfect. Very Martha.

You amble around, slowing in front of the mantelpiece above which a gallery of framed photos hangs. Henry as a toddler on a green trike; Martha’s stepdaughter and her kid; Alan on a golfing trip. Your eyes jump from plump cheeks to missing teeth, sunhats and Thanksgiving meals, until they land on a photo of Martha and Alan on their wedding day – her veil pinned neatly into a permed updo, her puffy-sleeved dress and the lemon bouquet spilling from her hands.

Joel’s shoulder brushes against your own, his eye journeying across the photos, too. “Ha,” he tosses a finger towards the wedding photo, “nineties Martha. Nice hair, huh?”

You smile, lazily swatting his arm. “She looks beautiful. They seem happy.”

Joel agrees. “Wonder what their first dance song was.”

“I bet it was something classy. Sinatra or something. Martha wouldn’t be breaking the marriage in to anything cheesy, that’s for sure.”

He laughs, spinning off towards the dining room. “You ever thought about what you’d pick?”

You hesitate, rounding the table on the opposite side. “Uh…no. Not really.”

“Not your thing? Marriage.”

You chance a glance at him over a vase of lilies in the center of the mahogany table. The smell twists towards you, leering as it coats your skin and your clothes and the back of your throat in a sickly film that makes your head spin. “I guess not. I’ve never – Not since…”

He nods. He knows. “That’s fair,” he says, hands finding his pockets. The idea of Blake – his name, his shaking hands, the tiny box in his suit pocket – the thought of those images flitting through Joel’s brain pinches the air from your lungs.

You watch the silhouette of him as it crosses over the bay window, looking out onto the trimmed grass and smooth asphalt street. Something cracks deep in your chest. Something begins to unbind.

“What would yours be?” you ask him, and he turns.

“Depends,” he shrugs, “on when I’m gettin’ married or not. Makes no difference to me.”

You bypass the point he’s making. Turn away from it like you would a shadow in the night. “If you were,” you insist, “what would you pick?”

He nears you, never breaking your stare. His confident matches your nervous, his steady gaze on your shy. “Somethin’ special to me ‘n her. An our song kinda thing.” And then, as he brushes deliberately by your shoulder to head for the stairs, “AC/DC or som’.”

Your heels stick like they did that night in the dive bar. Ears hurt with a ringing loud enough to blur the edges of your vision. Your skin feels the same hot – only, not from the crowded room you’re in, or the mix of alcohol and sweat and something akin to lust seeping through your pores.

You stare fixedly at the view from the bay window, the perfect little cul-de-sac with its perfectly smooth roads; perfect for kids learning to ride their first bikes, perfect for couples wandering arm in arm, perfect for angry fathers taking off in cars packed with belongings.

When you were a kid, buckled into the back of your dad’s car, you used to fight sleep to watch the moon race you home. Her white glow surviving being split over and over again by the trees you’d whip past. Your eyes would flit from hers to the windscreen, watching the road up ahead as it threatened to twist and turn. No matter how fast you thought your dad must be driving, no matter which direction he turned – every time you looked for her, there she’d be.

It makes sense now. The notion of staying. Occupying somewhere in space or in time, and forgetting how to leave. Forgetting how to try. Forever fixed there, glowing in a brilliant melancholy, singing to nobody in the dark expanse of the sky. Waiting for the sun to make her return. Just waiting waiting waiting.

You – the moon, and your sky – that fucking driveway. The Toyota, the rust on its underside so bitter you could taste it like blood on your tongue. Searching all over for the scraps of yourself, the pieces he tore away as he fled: veins tangled around spokes, severed fingers tinged crimson and hooked around the steering wheel. Don’t go. Don’t leave me.

And then, the sun – some sharp-suited, quick-witted Texan; enough charm and ease to lift himself over the horizon, to give you something other than the glimmer in your own tears to reflect.

The moon stares down at you now as you sit, perched on your balcony. Your knees tucked under your chin, watching two cats wrestle down on the street below. It’s just gone two; Joel’s in bed fast asleep. You slipped from his grasp and crept out of your room, a blanket over your shoulders, and disappeared between the sheer curtains. Your chest tight, your breathing short.

It keeps happening, that thing from Paris. Your head begins to spin, your voice withers to nothing. Your legs push you to your feet and force you to flee, though you’ve still to figure out where to or what from. All you know is that blue-eyed stare of your ex-fiancé has been wiped, replaced by the dusted beard of your boss instead. The plastic ring between his fingers. The creaking leather of his office chair.

Those same four words keep circling your head, replaying on a loop between your ears: why did he lie why did he lie why did he lie. Like white noise droning around your skull, bubbling nausea in the pit of your stomach. No, darlin’. Why would I lie to you?

Why did you lie to me?

Why did he do any of it? Take you to Paris, let you meet his client. Why has he been sleeping with you, treating you like some kind of girlfriend? The word plucks goosepimples all over your body. His body around yours at Aspen Heights – what you wanted so badly to believe was endearment, was comfortability and generosity, now feels like territory-marking. Feels like the white-knuckled tightening of a leash in his wide fist.

The leaves of the trees across the street tremble, lit luminous green by the 7-Eleven sign they fringe. You watch as two men swagger out of the store; their chatter drowned by the buzzing of the fluorescent sign. They split off with a quick handshake at the curb, disappearing into two different cars, driving off in two different directions.

You sniff. Some skunky smell hangs low in the air. So thick that you can feel it coating your lungs from the inside out. You sink back into your chair, push your fingers into your eyes until you’re watching a mirage of stars pull across your vision. Blow a cracked, nervous breath into the sky. Slip your nose beneath the collar of your tee.

Joel’s tee, which pools in the dip between your stomach and thighs. You suck his scent in like one hit of some intoxicating drug, for every three hits of clean air. Just seeing you through. Pretending there’s no addiction there.

But fuck, if you’re not screwed. One half of you holding back on mentioning the email because – what the fuck do you even say? How do you begin to ask him about it? How do you approach the topic, without prefacing it with feelings you’re too afraid to admit even to yourself?

And the other half – for fear of what you might cause. What you might make him do. For the pure, cut-throat fear that he’ll become the third in a list of men to just – leave. To let you down, to let you go. Change between couch cushions. Wild flowers torn from the earth’s scalp.

Then, the fracturing realization that you don’t want him to go. That you’re used to him, now, in a way you never were with your dad or with Blake. Your dad – who would choose poker night over parents’ night. Who would choose a drink with his buddies over a movie with you and your mom.

Or Blake – who would schedule sex on the nights he figured he’d have enough energy to fuck you until at least he came, and would buy you chrysanthemums on your birthday even long after you’d told him you were pretty sure you were allergic.

And then there’s Joel. Joel fucking Miller. Who turned up at your door less than thirty minutes after Martha told him you were sick. Who said in the car ride to her house earlier, Tell me your favorite flower.

Why? you asked.

Just so I know.

Joel – who has never asked anything more than you’ve chosen to tell him about your father, but whose face still screws into an angry grimace anytime he’s forced to think of him. Who reaches out to adjust the broken heart around your neck, slip the clip back to your nape without you asking Who offers you the last slice of pizza, and when you refuse, compromises by splitting it. Giving you the bigger half.

Joel – with whom sex feels like a form of communication: Here are all the things I don’t know how to say, yet. Yet yet yet. A conversation, each movement deliberate; each nip and lick and bite weighted with purpose and meaning. It lives under your nails, behind your teeth. Here – I don’t know what else to do with all this longing.

Joel – who has not only set every foot right, but has carved his own path through your heart. Explored the caves himself, a lonely lamp hanging from his fist as he carefully, gently, politely weaved his way through a jungle of valves and tissue, monsters and darkness, slowly winding his way to the center.

Joel. Who has never let you down. Until that fucking email.

A 7-Eleven employee, some scrawny kid with a mop of black hair and a polo hanging from his skeleton, drags a cloth in wide circles on the inside of the windows. He swipes his forehead along his wrist, thick tresses disturbed, and stares out at the empty street.

You blink twice, and a figure materializes at your balcony door.

“Baby?”

“Jesus!”

“Woah, woah. Easy – ‘s just me.” The pale drapes surrender to his wide frame, letting him pass. “Sorry, pretty girl. You okay?”

“You scared the crap outta me.”

Joel bends before you, a sweet little chuckle in his throat, and presses a warm kiss to your forehead. You lift your chin, letting your eyes close over and your thoughts melt away on his lips. He pulls the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“What are you doin’ out here at this time of night?”

You shrug as he settles into the wireframe chair opposite. Groans as he leans back. His wide chest constricted by a tight, gray hoodie splattered with paint.

“Just can’t sleep. Nice hoodie.”

His eyes dip to the mounds of your chest under plain cotton, the blanket slack around your breasts. “Someone stole my T-shirt. Stole somethin’ of hers back. Why can’t you sleep? You hurting?”

Yeah. “No. Just – not tired enough, I guess.”

“You want company?”

Not really. “Sure.”

He laces his fingers over his stomach as he settles back, studies you as your gaze skims the street below. He knows you’re lying. But it’s two a.m., and you’re weeks into an affair that you’re both pretty sure has gone past the point of no return, and so, voice plain, he asks, “What’s on your mind, angel?”

“How d’you know there’s something on my mind?”

“There’s always something on your mind. It’s you.” And then, readjusting in his seat, “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

You scrunch your nose with a sniff. Pull your arms inside the sleeves of his shirt and cross them under your breasts. “Your dad,” you say, locking eyes with him.

Joel lets it hang for all of three seconds. “My dad?” His face curls into a perplexed smirk, jaw tilting. He thinks you’re so fucking adorable, or maybe you think he is, and you’re not sure which one scares you more.

You laugh, chest lightening disobediently. It felt more comfortable when you couldn’t breathe. “What he did,” you explain.

“What he did,” Joel repeats, lifting his chin. Like a dog, sniffing out the truth. Something concealed in your fist.

So you unfold your fingers, holding it out in the palm of your hand: “Do you think he would’ve done it, still, if he knew what would happen?”

And then he really shakes off the humor. Sits forward, elbows leaning on his bare thighs. “What’re you talkin’ about, pretty girl?”

“Like,” you sigh, “if he knew he would split his entire family in two. You and your mom cut him off; Tommy moved halfway across the country. Was it worth it?”

“To me, or to him?”

You shrug again. He’ll choose the one he wants to answer. You’ll figure him out either way.

“Look,” Joel says, and hooks his fingers under the seat of your chair to pull you closer. He takes your ankles and you stretch your legs out, heels propped in the boxer-clad valley between his legs. A deep breath, hazel eyes pointed upwards like searching the skies for the words, and then: “People want what they want, right? They’ll do whatever they think is necessary to get it. He wanted to cheat, so he did. And he paid the price.”

“He wanted to cheat?”

It seems obvious to him. As though people seek out ways to hurt the ones they’re supposed to love all the damn time. The silver glint of a Labrador’s teeth as he sinks them into his owner’s skin.

Joel nods. “Wanted it badly enough that he did anything.”

“Lied?” you offer.

“Lied, cheated, left. Yeah.”

“And he risked everything.”

His head tips in agreement. “I guess he did. He was a damn idiot, you know? Had a wife who loved him, had two kids. He had the whole world in that house, and he threw it all away.”

“And,” the soles of your feet rest gently on the curve of his stomach, “would that – would it stop you? If you at least knew you were riskin’ something?”

“From cheating?”

“Anything. If you knew what you were risking was everything to you – would it stop you doing what you really wanted?”

His face tightens, brows knit with confusion and something else more difficult to place. “It depends. I wouldn’t risk something like you. I would n–”

“Somethin’ like me?” you interject.

Joel clears his throat. Looks up to the pitch-black sky again. “You…” He sighs. His answer is simple, black-and-white. There’s no way to hide it anymore. “I wouldn’t risk you, no. Not for the world.”

You fall silent. The moon stares down, seeming to melt around you. Her light like two steady arms holding you together, nudging you to ask the last question – the one spiraling around your mind like circling a drain.

Joel squeezes your ankle. “Where are you goin’ with this, baby? Are you asking me if I would cheat on you?”

Your heart jumps. The moon scatters.

Does he fall into the category of people who could cheat on you? Two months ago, he was just your boss. Two months ago, you hadn’t touched him more than a slap after a witty comment, the brushing of fingers as you handed him his morning coffee. But now…now, you’ve kissed his lips to shut him up. You’ve felt him come inside you. You’ve set foot inside his childhood fucking home, for Christ’s sake.

He makes you feel as though your heart is made of glass, delicate and laid bare but safe in his hands. He makes you feel as though a part of you exists outside of your own body – like there’s a piece of your soul wandering the earth by itself, touching base every time his hands are on your hips, his teeth in your neck.

Yeah. Fuck – yeah. He’s someone who could cheat on you. The way that email made you feel – he’s someone who could break your heart.

“I know you wouldn’t cheat on anyone,” you say, voice breaking. “No, I just – I don’t know what counts as a good enough reason to hurt someone you’re supposed to…supposed to love.”

Joel sits back in his chair again, the frame creaking under the weight of him. He reckons he gets it, now. You reckon he’s still wrong. “Come here,” he says, fingers flicking.

“What?”

He leans forward, takes your waist in his hands and pulls you from your chair into his lap, curling you up between his thighs. Safe. Protected by the shell of his body, protected by everything except from the thing scaring you most: the quickening of his heartbeat when you settle against it.

Your head slots under the curve of his chin, his voice a deep rumble over your skull.

“Your dad,” his chest swells, “he did what he did because he wanted to do it. Wanted it badly enough that he gave up you and your mom. And there wasn’t nothin’ you or her could’ve done to stop him, or convince him otherwise. You hear me?”

You turn into his neck, letting your tears fall hidden from view of streetlight or moonlight. You feel fucking tiny – a kid again, sat in a grownup’s lap, asking a never-ending series of why questions. Then, why did he do it? Why did he leave? Why are you staying? Why did you lie to me?

Joel presses his lips to your head, shushing you quietly, his body rocking back and forth like a boat on light waves. When he hears you sniffling, he holds you closer. Tighter. Your heart melds to your chest wall, desperate to seek his out. The hoodie he’s wearing smells like you, smells like him, smells like the chemicals of paint and the poison of love.

“It wasn’t your fault, darlin’, none of it.”

His arm hooked over your bare knees, the cotton keeping you warm. The other around your back, keeping you whole. You unstick yourself from his embrace, pulling your body straight until you’re straddling his lap, face to face with him in the light.

He looks up at you, almost afraid to blink. Afraid to lose sight of you at all. Your thighs lean heavily against his, your bodies locked together. You link your arms over his shoulders, anchor yourself to him as though the storm in your mind might sweep you away. And in the glimmer of light in his eye, the dazzling bulb of a lighthouse – you see the reflection of yourself.

Joel notices the shift in your expression. Holds you by the hips, follows the turn of your head. “You okay?” he asks, and you look down, avoiding his eye.

Glowing brilliant and lonely, blinking slowly. Your towering silhouette and caged-glass top. Drawing ships nearer just to ward them off when they pull too close. When they begin to notice the jagged shape of your shoreline, the ugly mess of your soul. Casting a blinding light on them, warning them to flee. And he didn’t fucking listen.

He docked anyways. Drew up on the beach, pulled himself into your body time and time again. You kept moving, kept warning him with each flicker of light, kept daring him to leave. And he never did. And there are pieces of you now living in him because of it, pieces you don’t understand how to take back. All you know, all you’ve ever known about Joel, is –

Your body sinks, hips lowering until you’re sure you’ve proven yourself right.

A stubborn weight between his legs. Not quite as hard as you’ve felt him before, not quite as heavy, but – a shape which sends a hot hiss between his teeth when you move over it, when the thin strip of your underwear courses over the thin cloth of his.

“P-retty girl,” Joel says, a groan seeping from the corners of his lips. A groan he holds onto with his molars, letting it snap like elastic when your hips circle again.

A weight as stubborn as the need slowly swirling in your chest. And pulled up into the cyclone are those same words: It wasn’t your fault. There wasn’t nothin’ you could’ve done to stop him. Why did you lie to me? It wasn’t your fault.

It hits you at once, the sudden realization that you’re lighter than you were before you first touched one another – really touched one another. Parts of you missing, passed over gladly the second his hand reached for them. The taste of you behind his lip, gums absorbing you like nicotine.

And you’re kissing him, your lips harsh against his, his stubble hurting your skin. Your tongue seeking out those parts of yourself. No. You don’t have me anymore. I’m taking me back.

“Hey,” Joel whispers into your mouth, steadying your hips. He pulls back and holds you still. “Why don’t we slow down? It’s late, you ain’t feeling too good –”

“I feel fine. I want to do it.” You lick again between his lips though he doesn’t budge; your attempts to move again, ineffective. “Joel.”

“It’s been a long day, you’re tired. Work in the mornin’, baby, I just don’t think we oughta –”

“You don’t wanna fuck me?”

He pauses, his tongue between his teeth. His brows pinch, almost painfully. “That is not what this is, ‘n you know it. I can see how tired you are – you ain’t even slept yet.”

“I don’t care. I want you to –”

His voice lifts to something you’ve only heard within the four walls of his office. Like chiding one of his guys, like snapping back at their red ties and crumpled collars. “I know what you want me to do. I just think we should go back to bed.”

“’n what if I don’t want to go back to bed?”

Joel sighs, looking out across the street. His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek.

“I don’t get what the problem is,” you complain, still holding onto his shoulders. “You’ve fucked me in public before.”

“It ain’t that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Why don’t you go grab a sketchbook or something? Show me some of this artwork you been promisin’ since Paris?”

You blink back at him, watching the lighthouse swirl. The black waves begin to carry him off, sweep him from your view. “Maybe some other time,” you mumble, pushing yourself off of his lap.

Joel watches you, defeated. Keeps ahold of your hand when you stand between his knees. He swings your interlocked fingers gently. “Can you…can you tell me what’s wrong? Do you know?”

Your lungs pull in a deep breath, your shoulders rolling. “Same thing as always, I guess. Let’s just go back to bed.”

“Wait, pretty girl,” he tugs on your hand, reeling you back in, “waitwaitwait.” And then he’s standing, enclosing you in his arms again, asking, “What can I do to fix it?”

That same shrug. Tired. Deflated. Terrified. “If I only knew.”

You wait for Joel to move first, a sigh falling from his lips as he pulls the sheer curtains back, taking you by the hand and ushering you between. He follows your lead back into your apartment, sliding the door closed behind.

The living room is flattened by a gray silence, the liminal night swallowing up the air. Joel’s hand comes to rest at the nape of your neck, and when you turn to him, he says, “You wanna know if he thought it was worth it?”

You pause, fingers playing with the hem of his tee at your thighs.

He’s close enough that you can feel the heat near enough sizzling from his body. The right side of his face is shrouded in darkness; the chalky wash of streetlight painting the left. “My dad.”

You swallow hard, blinking in the shadow cast by his tall figure. The light clings wearily to his beard.

“She left him after two weeks. Went back to her husband. My dad died alone in an empty four-bed in Rosedale. You tell me.”

And then he pats the small of your back, takes you back through to bed – where you let him fall asleep on your chest, listening to make sure your fractured heart is still beating.

Joel Miller is in your shower. For the second time this weekend.

He’s not fucking you, not holding you against the rough tile wall as his cock draws come and blood and tears from your body. He’s not wrapping a towel around you, handing you a fresh tampon, kissing the parts of your skin still alight from your orgasm.

He’s just showering, before work. Using your peach-scented soap, pushing suds under his arms, over his stomach, between his legs. Lathering your shampoo like treacle between his palms, hair slick and foamy white between his fingers. Fixing the head so that his height fits under the stream of water, turning the knobs until it’s as hot as he likes it.

You’re lying across your bed, suffocating in the smell of his side and pretending none of it’s really happening. Face buried in his pillow, waiting for the intoxication to throw you under or wipe your mind clean or maybe just cut the air supply from your lungs completely. Whichever’s quickest.

The bathroom door opens; the sound of footsteps padding over to you. His weight sinks into the bed by your hip, then hovers over your back. His nose, still steamy and damp from the shower, nuzzles into the spot behind your ear. His lips leave a wet trail down your neck.

“You need another day?” Joel asks, kissing.

“I’m good,” the cotton absorbs the nervous edge of your voice, “just coming.”

“Stay home if you want, angel,” he says, hands roaming south to hold your waist. Like warning the pain, tempting it to show back up. See what he does about it. “I gotta go take this shareholders meeting, but I can come back as soon as it’s done.”

“Nah,” you groan, pushing your heavy frame up. Joel’s grip slackens. “I need the distraction, I think.”

He sits back, smiling dumbly when you straighten. His tongue runs along his teeth.

“You can use my toothbrush,” you mutter, heel of your palm wiping sleep from your eye.

“Hm?” He’s fixing the mess of your hair. Brushing one side flat, then the other; leaning back and forth with this dumb, half-there smile on his face. And your chest heaves, and you almost surrender to the impulse to throw yourself into his arms, almost lean into his cupped hands and burning caresses.

“I owe you. From Paris. You can use it, just this once.”

He scoffs. “I won’t use your toothbrush, darlin’. It’s alright.”

But you’re indignant. You already have every other part of me, don’t you? What’s one more? Just fucking –

“– use it. I swear I don’t mind.”

Joel’s head tilts, conceding. “Alright. Come get ready, then.”

Martha’s at her desk when the two of you wander back into the office. “Wait!” she calls, clicking around her desk as you pass by. She twirls a blue envelope between two glittery nails, holds it out to you.

Joel takes it, examining the childish scrawling of your names. “Nice, but – your calligraphy needs a little practice, Martha.”

“Hilarious,” she drones, sitting back against the desk.

You drift over to your own, dropping your back over the back of your chair, and shrug the coat from your shoulders.

Joel’s voice draws nearer as he speaks. “He have a good time?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Martha replies, and Joel sits the card from Henry by your monitor, “barely saw ‘im the entire day. Thanks for comin’. For his gift, too – y’all really…You ain’t gotta do that.”

“Was all my idea, wasn’t it?” Joel asks, smirking to you.

An airy laugh pushes from your chest, loose with nerves. “Som’ like that. Glad he had a nice birthday.”

Joel saunters back toward his office, hands in his pockets. Fucking casual, like the world isn’t crumbling beneath your feet. Like the walls aren’t closing in, the sky lowering by the hour, the sun being steadily eclipsed minute by minute. He nudges the door closed with his foot, leaving you, Martha, and an awkward mist of realization between you.

“Your idea,” she muses, once you’ve plucked up enough courage to face her again.

You pick up Henry’s card, staring at the smudged handwriting to mask the horror peeling its way across your face. “Thought it was easier that way, y’know?” You gulp. “Don’t make it into anythin’.”

She grunts, something shaped like Ha. Her arms cross over her body, her eyes flitting between Joel’s office and you. “I sure as hell don’t remember me ‘n Alan ever doing something like that before it meant anythin’.”

“What are you saying it means?” you ask, rhetorically, dryly – a little meaner than you want it to sound. “What’s…?”

Her plucked eyebrows lift, forehead creasing. “Nothing, sweet. I’m just saying – you two are close, now. It’s nice.”

“We were always close.”

She holds her finger up. “Uh, no. Not turn up at my son’s birthday party together, leave together, then turn up at work the next day also together close.” Her eyes narrow, and you almost believe she might’ve been hidden between the trees last night – hell, for a second, you believe she might’ve been that scrawny kid wiping down the windows of 7-Eleven.

“I’m just saying,” she continues, when your throat closes around your nothing answer, “if something’s happening, I’m rooting for it.”

It shoots from your jaw like a bullet. “Nothing’s happening.”

Martha’s just as quick. “Okay,” she says, sweet and light. Breezy.

And then she shuffles back to her chair, resumes focus on some email. Twists the dial on her radio and fill the tense silence in the office with some smooth seventies song which lifts the hairs on the back of your neck the same way it did in that Parisian hotel. The dark suite, his eyes black and seeking. His hands on your body like he knew every curve and dip already.

Didn’t you believe that he might? That his hands were sculpted to fit the space below your ribcage? The plush cushion of flesh above your hips. The hinge of your jaw between his fingers.

Didn’t you think, for one fleeting moment, that maybe he was made just for you? As if you were so fucking lucky. As if anyone might stick around long enough to earn that label. Yours.

You settle back into your chair. The bubble writing on the front of the card stares menacingly back at you, the shapes seeming to swell and shrink in size the longer you stare at them. A bad trip, you think, this whole thing is just a bad trip. I’m gonna sober up any second, and I’m gonna be in bed, still dizzy after that night at the bar.

And none of it’s gonna be real. It’s not fucking real.

But then – lying on the opposite side of your computer, delicate and tiny, sparkling in the sunlight from over your shoulder: your ring. Your ruby ring, two euros in a gumball machine by the Seine. Like it’s winking at you, the accent rhinestones a taunting smirk. And the sight of it slings a thin wire around your heart, tight tight tightens until you’re sure you feel the tissue slice in half.

You take the ring in two shaking fingers, eyes bleary with sleep and salt. Blinking the dispersed light away, red rays bleeding all over your vision as you tilt the plastic. Joel’s voice muffles against his office door, like fists echoing against the flimsy walls of your little daydream. Time’s up. Hand him back over. It’s not fucking real anymore.

You roll the prize back onto your desk, letting it scatter shards of ruby until it hits the keyboard, the rattle echoing around your ears as you pace over to his office door. Your knuckles drum once, twice, three times against the wood before he opens it, and then he’s –

Staring down at you, breath shallow between slack lips. And he reads it all over your face, the panic and the words swimming around the tears in your eyes, and he steps back, and you step forward, and then the door’s closing again, and you’re settling against the arm of his couch.

“Ken? Hey, Ken?” Joel strides back over to his desk, hastily reaching for the phone. The voice from the receiver doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. “Ken. Can I –? Jesus Christ.” He lifts the handset and drops it less than a second later, cutting Ken’s fucking droning, cutting the only sound in the room, cutting your blood short in your veins.

And then – “Alright. Talk to me.”

You don’t reply. He seems to tense up. Moves almost robotically over to you, lifts his hands to hold your shoulders. And when you lift yours to push him away, he almost flinches.

“Baby.”

Your jaw shakes once. You wrap your arms around yourself, squeezing the breath from your lungs.

“You’ve been actin’ off since yesterday,” he mutters, giving you some space. He’s moving slow, like he’s afraid you might lunge for him. “You gotta tell me. You’re scaring me, now.”

You haul your gaze from his open arms, his broad chest, the idea of letting him pull you in and calm you down. Your eyes land on his monitor. The text of that email flashes before you again. And your shell hardens.

“Is there anything you wanna tell me?” you ask, staring at the Apple logo. Your voice sounds timid, sounds so little that you swear you see Joel catch the words as though they’re made of glass.

His head tilts. His eyes narrow. It’s genuine confusion, you think. The penny hasn’t dropped yet. “…What?”

It pisses you off. Seems to shatter that glass into fifty angry shapes, brittle and sharp. The shards cut like a knife through the air between you. “Nothing you think I oughta know?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No, baby, I don’t…”

Your glare finally lands directly on him. Piercing straight into his eyes. But your jaw locks shut around the words.

“What the hell are you about to accuse me of?” Joel asks, mirroring your stance. Pulling his arms over his chest, jaw tight. “Cheating on you?”

Your chest jumps with a tiny laugh. “Why would I accuse you of cheating on me?”

“Sure sounded like that’s what you were thinkin’ last night.”

“No. I don’t think you’re cheating on me.”

“Then what is it?”

The gun fires. Gates open. Thunder rumbles. A fire lights in your stomach, blazing through your entire body.

“When were you planning on telling me about Jean-Marc?”

He goes quiet. Still. Realizes exactly what you mean in almost an instant. “How did you…? Where did you –?”

“I saw the email. On Friday. Gave me your phone to look for Alan’s Twelfth fucking Birthday, didn’t you?”

His face drops; a broken sigh falls from his lips. He looks up to the ceiling, something of a disbelieving, disappointed, fucking dismayed laugh loose between his jaw. “I wasn’t,” he eventually concedes.

“You weren’t?”

“No.”

You can’t believe him. You actually can’t believe him. Fists balling to hold your nerve, to hold the tremble in your voice steady, you ask, “Why?”

Joel’s body twists, rolls like some awkward wave as he readjusts, searches the surrounding room for an explanation. “There’s – there are a number of reasons why.”

“Start with the first one.”

“Alright.” He grips the wooden desk either side of his hips. Meets your stare, and it’s almost fucking admirable, the bravery with which he’s walking into this. You don’t scare him at all, not yet, anyway. Not even in the midst of a standoff in his office – guns loaded, eyes never blinking.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and then lifts his arm, waving his palm like he’s swatting the image of the Frenchman away. “He’s…He freaks me the hell out.”

“He freaks you out,” you repeat, voice flat. “Really, Joel? Big guy like you?”

You can’t help yourself. This is so fucking insane, it’s laughable. You’re like a snake shooting sharp shots at the ankles of a bear – and it’s too easy to take jabs when you’re still in disbelief at what’s fast turning out to be the truth.

“He’s sleazy, and inappropriate, and he doesn’t respect boundaries.” He counts them with three steady fingers. “Not mine, certainly not yours. I don’t like him, darlin’.”

“You like him enough to go have two meals with him in one weekend. Fly all the way to fuckin’ France for ‘im.”

“That was business. At least, the lunch was. The breakfast was a mistake.”

“What’s the second reason, Joel?”

He licks his lips. You can’t tell if it’s anxiety or anger. “You’re too good at your job. I didn’t wanna lose you.”

It’s simple enough. It’s more believable than six-foot-two Joel being afraid of five-foot-two Jean-Marc. You accept it a lot quicker.

“Any more?”

His expression drops. Yeah. There’s one more. And he doesn’t know how to say it.

“Joel.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Got that one.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. Expression unmoving. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

You suck in a deep breath, chest wobbling as your lungs fill. The snake retreats from the bear, jaw slackening. Your eyes sting, Joel’s figure blurs a little, and then you rein it back in.

“I didn’t want you to go. That’s all,” he offers, plainly. “Just…wanted you to stay here. With me.”

“’n what if I wanted to leave?”

“Then…” Joel’s arms lift again, gesturing to nothing, “…then we’ll work something out.”

You lift your chin, some sick expression pushing your eyebrows up. “We’ll work something out?”

He nods.

“Who’s we?”

And it’s the first time you see him falter. The first time he has to catch himself. “You said it yourself,” he says, “you ‘n me. This.”

You shake your head. No no no no. Not this. Not now. The snake coils up, preparing to strike again. “What, us sleeping together?”

“That’s…What?”

“You don’t think there are plenty other women you could be sleeping with here, ‘n plenty other men I could be sleeping with over there? You really want me to stay here just so you got someone to fuck?”

Joel’s lips fall apart. His grip loosens on the desk. “That’s all this is to you?”

“Uh, yeah. Last time I checked.”

You don’t believe yourself. You know you don’t. You don’t believe a fucking word being tossed out of your mouth. You’re being an asshole, deliberately being a dick to him, and you can’t stop. There’s a wall being built at rapid pace, shutting him out. Shutting you in. Bricks made of angry words, each one separating you a little more, hiding you from his view.

And then his mouth closes. Lips form a thin line. Brows lower, blocking any of the light you’re so used to seeing from his eyes. Dark, cloudy, angry. “Got it,” he snaps. “Anything else?”

“Huh?”

“Do you need anything else? Or are you just in here to piss me off?”

You lift from the couch, arms loose, hitting your hips with a slap. “Fuck off, Joel.”

“Oh,” he nods, “right. Fuck off, yeah. Keep goin’, baby. Tire yourself out. ‘s all you’ve been doin’, ain’t it? All this time? All you’ve been using me for?”

Good. It’s good. You want him to argue back. You want him to hate you as much as you hate yourself right now. You want to see the bear’s claws; make all the hurt you’re dragging up through yourself, just to dish at him, worthwhile.

“You know what?”

“What?” he spits.

“I knew you were gonna do something like this, eventually. I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

Joel follows suit, pushing himself off the desk in one motion, and then the pair of you are chest to chest, squaring up to one another atop his five-thousand-dollar rug. “You knew what?”

“Knew there was something about him. Knew you couldn’t stand him. And this is why, right? All ‘cause he wanted to hire me?”

He turns away and laughs, almost recognizable as the same laugh you could draw from him with a silly look on your face – except sharper, colder. “Not even close,” he says, reeling back in. “You didn’t see the way he looked at you? The way he talked to you? About you?”

“Of course I saw it, Joel, I’m not fucking stupid.”

“Then use your good sense ‘n catch up, baby. You’re right: you’re not fuckin’ stupid. You were like fresh meat to him, and what? You reckon I should’ve let him just – sink his teeth deeper? Really?”

It lights something in the back of your mind; a memory flickers to life. Loops like a static radio message through your ears. “Right,” you nod, “right. Because you don’t like other people’s hands on things that belong to you, do you?”

His head jerks back, face warped with confusion and…disgust. “The hell are you talkin’ about?” he demands, voice muscled with anger.

“Martha said it once. You don’t like people playing with your toys, or whatever.”

And that seems to hit him low in the stomach. Seems to knock the wind from him.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks, and you swear his breath cuts in his throat. “That’s what you think?”

No, you think, it’s not. You know him better than that. But admitting that you know him better than to use you as some little plaything – something he had any control over, some accessory to wear on his arm – would mean admitting that the problem lies elsewhere. Lies with you.

And that’s not something you’re prepared to do right now, either.

Maybe before you found that email. Before you found out he’d been keeping you on some invisible leash. Maybe when he had you in his arms, kissing you so soft you thought you might die right then and not even notice.

Maybe when he looked at you, twirling chopsticks clumsily in his fingers, face lighting in a grin when you giggled at him – and three words floated through your head. Dared to dance over the tip of your tongue before you caught them and hissed, What the fuck are you doing here?

But – no. It’s all fucked up now. And you can’t break the tightness in your jaw to admit any different.

“You don’t think there’s a chance I actually care about you? That I – Jesus, that I respect you? Are you this goddamn hellbent on convincing yourself that everyone’s out to hurt you?”

“Joel,” your voice says, and it’s not you controlling it. Some gravely, pained thing. A shriveled part of yourself, cowering from the light. You’re recoiling, physically backing up from him.

“Darlin’, I can’t –” He reaches for your wrist.

You whip it away. “Stop.”

“I am trying to understand you,” he pleads. “I’m tryin’ to figure you out. Why won’t you let me –?”

“I don’t want you to.”

A laugh ejects from his throat and plummets straight to the floor. “Yes, you do,” he says. “You don’t do everything we’ve done unless you’re in it.”

“In it?” you seethe. “In what? What are we in?” You pinch your fingers: air quotations around the words, or possible claws digging four more wounds into the same chest you wept into last night.

Your head shakes rapidly as you speak. “We were just sleeping together. We were just having sex. That’s all. We were just having sex,” you repeat under your breath.

“I wasn’t,” Joel says. Matter-of-fact. Like reading from a contract. He takes a deep breath, and then repeats, “I wasn’t.”

The words splinter painfully from your tongue. “Well, I was.”

And though your eyes are pinned to the buttons of his shirt, though his expression sits just too north for you to see the way his face pulls – you notice his head lift. Know that there are creases digging between his brows at the same rate cracks appear across his heart. You feel the warmth of his gaze slowly cooling. Freezing over.

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding a shaky palm out. The fear begins to sink in, plunging through ice water. He’s beginning to bargain. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should’ve, I should’ve told you ev–”

Your body moves as the words ricochet, refusing to let him finish his plea. “Glad we got that cleared up, Joel,” you say, near-leaping for the door.

But he’s faster. He steps in front of you, blocking your exit path. “Please hear me out. Please listen to me.”

Your body writhes under his gaze, twists like some little creature under a microscope. He waits for your go ahead before he continues. You toss your head, acquiescing.

“I just – I couldn’t stomach it. I couldn’t sleep at night thinkin’, what if you went for it? What if he managed to swindle you into taking him on? I wanted to get you the hell outta that penthouse the second he laid eyes on you.”

“So why take me in the first place?”

Joel scoffs. “I ain’t in control of you, baby! You had to figure him out on your own – and I thought you had. Christ, one minute you want me to step back ‘n let you make up your own mind, next you’re askin’ me why I took you somewhere? The hell am I supposed to do here?”

Read my mind. Don’t let him near me. Don’t let me go.

And at the same time –

Mind your fucking business. Let me make my own decisions. Keep your hands off me.

The truth is: you want him to go back in time. Take you back with him. Never touch you, never look at you any more than to ask for a coffee, or thank you for fixing up his office. Never make your heart skip that first beat, never set your skin on fire with that look in his eyes.

You want him to go back in time, and undo every knot he ever tied in your body. Let go of every string of your heart he has his fist around, every nerve which undoubtedly belongs to him, now.

Undo it all, so you might have a half-decent reason to hate him.

In the deepest, darkest parts of yourself, echoing around the caves you were always too frightened to explore yourself – you want him to tell you why he kept it from you. The real reason. And you want him to grab your wrist and pull you back into the room, back into his arms, when you inevitably flee at the sound of his reasoning.

Because you fucking know why he didn’t tell you. It’s scrawled on his face right now. And even though Jean-Marc is all of those things – sleazy, inappropriate, a scumbag in thousand-euro moccasins – that only makes up for part of the reason.

There’s a bigger piece to the puzzle, and you both know what it is, only neither of you will turn to face it. You’re simply cast in its shadow, playing blind chess under the silhouette of something you both refuse to acknowledge.

“You’re supposed to be my boss, and nothing else.”

He just stares at you. As if he’s waiting for you to say, Kidding! and laugh. As if he’s waiting for what you really mean to shove what you just said out of the way and tell the truth. It hurts all the more.

After a few seconds of awful silence, his breath falls from his lips in the form of a sigh, staggered with a laugh of disbelief. “I don’t…I don’t get it.”

But you’re tired now. You feel drained. You’ve less fight, energy gone to waste before you could make it to the real contest. Kicking his door down and yelling at him over Jean-Marc was the pregame show.

“What don’t you get?” you whisper, slumping back against the arm of the couch.

His answer terrifies you more than anything.

“You.”

You sigh, eyes falling closed in time with the drop of your head. Your breathing labored, your heart pounding. Fear. Adrenaline. Anger. Fear. Fear. Fear.

“You never let me in, did you? All that stuff you told me – your dad, your ex – like you want me to know. Like you’re lookin’ for me to do somethin’ about it. And then when I try, you slam the door closed again.”

“I don’t…I don’t want you to do anything about any of it,” you cry, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes.

Lie number one.

“Then what do you want? Tell me, pretty girl, ‘cause I’m – I’m at a loss here.”

“I want you to – fuck, Joel, why can’t you just –? I want you to back off.”

Two.

“I can’t,” he whispers, leaning closer. “’s the thing. I care ab– I lo– I…”

He rubs his eyes with his palms. Maybe his head hurts as bad as yours does. Maybe the office is becoming too bright for him to look, too.

“You think you’re broken,” he mumbles, “you think all that stuff makes you – I don’t know, what is it? Unlovable?”

There’s a spotlight creeping over you – bright white and burning. Lighting every inch of you up, every dark shadow uncovered. The monsters and the phantoms and the six, eight, twelve-legged beasts scuttling off in search of refuge.

Jeers and cackles from an audience behind him as he cranes the neck of the lamp and positions it right on you.

“Don’t –”

“…Worth nothin’? I don’t know, angel, but I can’t do anything about it if you won’t let me, and –”

“Joel –”

He’s not listening. He never fucking listens. He’s still going on, but your ears are ringing, and your vision is whitening, and your chest is constricting, and your throat is dry and your lungs are closing and your skin is hurting and your –

“What the fuck did you even expect?” you hiss, before your brain catches the words.

Joel halts. He finally stops talking. The room finally dims again. You can hear cars on the street. Your phone is ringing at your desk.

You repeat your question, quieter. Heavier. “What did you want from me?”

He’s frozen. Looks concerned. Looks…afraid of you. “I never wanted anything from you,” he says.

“No? Sure sounds like you wanted something.”

He doesn’t say a word. It gives you time, you think – time you know you should put into backing up, thinking it through, not saying it. But you don’t do any of those things. You fucking say it anyway, don’t you? You are your father’s daughter. The anger is woven into your skin, ivy around your bones. The fire behind your eyes isn’t love, or passion, or determination.

It’s rage.

“Is this what you did to Avery? This why you didn’t wanna marry her?” And then, steeling yourself, gritting your teeth: “What secrets were you keeping from her, Joel?”

He still doesn’t bite. Avery’s not the sore spot, and you know it. There’s a different weakness to him, now. Newer. She’s stood right in front of him.

“I mean,” you scoff, incredulous, “what did you think – that we were gonna end up married or something? AC/DC first dance? Big wedding in Italy, three kids and a fucking prenup to save your ass ‘n your millions?”

You swear you hear the crash from here. The bear hitting the ground, or the door of the Toyota slamming shut, or Joel’s heart falling apart, maybe. He gathers it up, sweeping it into his hands with what little dignity you’ve left him with, straightens, and –

He’s angry. Looks it, sounds it. Feels it. A way you’ve never seen him before – not directed at you, anyway. Accounting, when they fuck up the budget for the year. Jean-Marc, when he flirts with you too much. Never you. He’s never this mad at you.

Like kids in a playground, coming up with the worst, most poisonous insults to throw at one another – your words swing fast, and he only just manages to swerve them, hitting straight back with a punch made up of his own.

“Naw, you’d probably say yes to my face ‘n then break it off two days later, wouldn’t you?”

It’s low. It stings. Shocks the life back into you, once it’s looped twice around your ears.

Joel knows it. Sees the glint in your eye before you have the chance to clear away the tears. Hears the tiny gasp that escapes your lips. The bear just stepped right on top of the snake.

“Fuck,” he says instantly. As soon as the sentence leaves his mouth, he’s undoing it. “That wasn’t – I didn’t mean…” He’s stepping forward, trying to wrap his hand around your arm. “Baby, I’m so sorry –”

Your wrist slips from his grasp. “Don’t – don’t touch me. Don’t.”

“Hey,” he says, almost cooing, almost trying to fan the burn with light breaths, “look at me. Please look at me. I did not mean that, alright? I was just –”

You shake your head, staring off past him. “It’s fine, Joel. No, I knew exactly what you meant.”

He staggers backwards, running his hands through his hair; almost growling into his palms when he drags them down his cheeks. “Darlin’,” he says, and leans in again. He speaks slow and seriously. “I would give you anything. There is not a thing in this world that I wouldn’t do for you. I would do anything. In the whole damn world. This is – It’s not –”

“Anything?” you ask, your stone-set gaze refusing to meet his.

He mirrors your curious expression, his own brows lifting. He can’t believe you’re even asking him. “Yes. Anything. I care about you more than anyone in the fucking world.”

He probably says more to convince you. Probably promises a load of stuff, apologizes a couple more times. Probably says sentences that would lodge themselves between your vertebrae and paralyze you with fear, if your hearing weren’t muffled and your mind elsewhere.

Your shoulders tighten. Jaw ticks. When you pull your eyes to finally meet his, you nod. “Alright,” you interrupt, pursing your lips, “okay.”

“Okay?”

Another nod. Yeah. You’re about to do this. Father’s daughter aren’t you just your father’s daughter always running out always running off –

“This is over. It’s done. You don’t look at me, you don’t touch me, you don’t talk to me unless it’s somethin’ in your job description or mine. Hell, even then – see if Martha can do it before you ask me. We’re done.”

It wipes him clean. Every thought, every desire, every motivation – gone. Dissolved, by the venom seeping from your fangs. No more bear. He stares back at you, eyes glossy, lips trembling. He flattens them against one another, steadies himself. Angry, upset, fucking – heartbroken.

“Is that what you want?” he asks. His voice breaks. It sends a blade through your chest.

You hesitate. Your eyes are searing. Between your tears and the nauseating tilt of the room, you can barely see him.

The third lie rolls from your tongue like a marble.

“Yeah. It’s what I want.”

And you know it, better than anyone: you’re lying through your fucking teeth. The way you have been this entire conversation. Pasting over wounds and scars, bricks laid over sodden sand foundations. But you’re petrified – stood on your own, fighting your own corner. The only person who ever managed to make you feel safe, calm you down, lower your gloves for you – now stood opposite with his fists up, too.

Joel nods. Anything in the whole damn world.

“Fine,” he says, eventually. “Fine. We’re done.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #fic: sex on fire

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localicecreambiter · 1 month

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beware the yappening

if you saw me post this, no you didnt

I hate tumblr mobile

IF IT WASNT CLEAR BY THE SPIKE IN FOUR SWORDS CONTENT ITS BEEN ON MY MIND LATELY!!! so obviously that means the obligatory redesigns >:) I tried not to play too far into the stereotypes (not that there's anything wrong in indulging in those!!... i did throw in headcanons tho, like heightened and dulled senses... ill explain dw)

we'll start with shadow since I kinda forgot to draw him initially, lol. sorry buddy 😥 I gave him a shard of the mirror as a means of being able to exist. he can still float around and slip into the shadows and all, but he's not as powerful as he was when the mirror was full. (his ego definitely still is big though) he's not fond of chainmail despite the rest of the four and Link wearing it. his tunic mirrors what links would've looked like. any triforce motifs appearing upside-down and little swirl on his belt backward since he's from the Dark World and all that jazz. silly stuff. I kept it relatively simple since I doubt Link is very over the top, and Shadow has no sense of bodily autonomy at that point (he would so have an over the top outfit, let's be real) Obviously he gets along well with Vio, but he and Blue banter quite a bit. Sure, both mistakenly get offended sometimes but it's all in good fun! His hair looks a little more rounded here, but it's usually more flowey and sticks up every which way. unruly hair for an unruly boy. shadow loves quality time!!! what could be better than hanging out with those you love and burning down towns??? okay, void the town burning.

Red's design is also fairly simple: longer skirt, exposed chainmail, sleeved tunic, and a rounded collar. he has a rounder shape language (not that I paid too much attention to it, obviously) his hat curls up where the elemental stone is at. no one understands how it does this. Red thinks it's some knick knack he stored in there. UNNATURALLT WARM. like. concerningly warm. He's their magic user, preferring to use his magic rod over his sword (honestly, probably could wipe the floor with the other three if given a good magic item, but don't tell them that)(and yes im calling it a magic rod cuz it shoots fire and ice) Poor Red got the short end of the stick with poor hearing but great taste buds. He's a foodie at heart and it's obvious why. His hair is a lot fluffier and rounder than the other three, matching his soft and bubbly personality. Not a pant wearer. Obviously he has the magic rod and slingshot, but i also gave him the Bombos medallion since its an item in the FSA game. Green suggested they split the loot evenly. No. He's not allowed to use it. Yes, he's accidentally blown up a lot of things with it. That's why hes not allowed to use it. definitely a physical touch kinda love language guy. you know exactly why. impulsive spender. has quite a few burn scars from learning to use the fire rod. most of his tunics are a little singed, but he keeps some neat

ah, Green, the resident insomniac. usually that's Vio's role, but you cannot tell me this guy didn't get Link's terrible sleeping habits. he constatly looks sleep deprived in some compacity, but he's getting better! sure, it usually means someone has to hold him down until he sleeps but hey! better than nothing! his tunic matches most Links with the sleeved overtunic and collared undershirt. he uses he sword quite often, having the most finesse with the weapon out of the group. occasionally he'll bust out the boomerang. sort of the unofficial leader, keeping the group on track, but is always open to suggestions from the rest of the Colors. I gave him the Pegasus boots, since I'd assume they all don't get the loot they would've picked up along the way. His element is wind, so it felt the most fitting he had them. his hair is a little messy, and sure he sometimes has a stick in there, but he does his best to keep it combed. Despite his drowsiness, he's got sharp eyes (the best in the group, as a matter-of-fact!) Unfortunately, his sense of smell is lacking (but clearly he has it a lot better than Red does. I mean, seriously, id take hawkeyes over tasteaholic any day). Hes a little shit when playing Ispy; typically picking really tiny things and reveling in the fact no one can guess it. his elemental stone is attatched to his belt even though its a place it can get easily lost. somehow he has yet to lose it. the back problems arise from Link, mostly, though his isnt as bad as Vio's (maybe because hes not slouched over a desk half the time, but i digress) Typically level headed and focused, keeping the group moral high with Red (aka, keeping Vio and Blue's moral high because they tend to be more pessimistic) (well, Vio considers himself a realist and Blue is Blue)

since i dont consider Shadow that much of an idiot, Vio probably had to actually stab Green to make it look convincing. While the scar isn't big, there's once on his lower abdomen from the Four Sword. They didn't have any health potions, so they had to go back down the mountain to get him help. Green holds no resentment, knowing Vio did what had to be done to gain the enemies trust. the cheek scar is from the pyramid cuz there aint no way he got out of that unscathed fighting against Valenzuela. more of a words of affirmation guy, but enjoys quality time like the rest of them.

Vio is obviously their whittier member. honestly, if he were to be described in DnD stats, he'd have a high intelligence and a medium wisdom because man is this man stupid sometimes. he's not as outwardly arrogant as Blue, at least, not as loud with it. his clothes are usually wrinkled, being more focused on bookwork than much else (this pisses Blue off to no end, being the neat freak he is) despite this, his room is the definition of organized chaos. he knows where everything is, and if you move something, he will not be happy. also not a pant wearer, his tunic has a longer skirt than the others and his sleeves are a lot looser. his hair tends to droop into his eyes and somehow this has yet to get in the way. he prefers to pick off enemies from afar as the team's bowsman. amazing aim and a very steady hand. while he doesn't have as big of a magic reserve as Red, he can still use elemental arrows (probably in the same way as in WindWaker) strangely bad at math (simply because i find it amusing) and is pissed that Blue is good at is (again, because i find it amusing. it freaks Blue out) Vio is more of an acts of service kind of guy, but like everyone else enjoys quality time. especially when it's quiet quality time. impuslive spender, mostly on books. everyone else insists he uses the library, but he argues its different when you own the book. impecible hearing, cannot taste shit. it makes eating rations easier, but sadly cannot enjoy the nicer foods in life, so he tends to choose things based on texture. Got the brunt of the back pain, but makes it worse with how he sits and for how long he does. honestly has a weird complex where he thinks of himself as superior to the rest in a way, yet also manages to struggle to fit in and hates himself for it. not explicitly touch avoident, but hes not one to seek out physical affection often and tends to be one of the first to push Red off (other than Blue) his stone is pined to his bow holster since he tends to always have it on him, he wont lose it that way. the fact that the rest have theirs in such irresponsible spots upsets him. refuses to sleep until he's done something he considers productive.

last but not least: Blue! my favorite guy!! god what a prick, i hate him. his design is a lot more knightly with more chainmail and a brutish sort of look. he's intimidating alright, even at his 4'11 stature. look. hylians are short. his hair is spikey like his personality and his hat is more angular (mostly cuz he folds it everynight. theres permanent crease marks in it) ends up with the most scaring thanks to his irrisponsible sparing and little use of healing potions (yet despite this, he's the group medic) the nick in his ear was from some random enemy camp that he just ignored for a while. I never said he was a responsible medic when it came to himself. hes mean, sure, but hes trying. just a little blunt. okay, very blunt. very blunt and very angry. hear me out: mom friend. if that mom was divorced and had anger issues. he knows the others are fully capible of handling themselves, cuz if he survives, why shouldn't they? despite that, he still worries. I know that it says his left eye is blind, but he can still see some color, its just reaaal blurry. does anyone know that? only red. will he tell anyone else? not unless he has to. does he run into shit when hes not paying attention. sometimes, yeah. to top it off, he - like red - got the short stick with shit vision but a heightened sense of smell. he can smell a monster camp from up to a mile away. impressive, right? dont tell him that. this boy has a lot of injury issues, being as reckless as he is. the knee injury was from a particularly nasty moblin (possibly the same as where the eye scar came from. who knows? he wont tell) and got worse as it got ignored. look, when you're the medic, you gotta make sure everyone else is okay before you. at least, thats how Blue sees it. not to even mention the nerve damage from being frozen for god knows how long. I don't know about you, but (assuming it was a Wizrobe) being magically frozen has its side effects. so what hes a walking icepack (exaggerating, but he's cold enough outwardly that you can feel it) and so what his hair grows in a few shades lighter than everyone elses? they don't gotta know why or when or how or even that it happens. the hair dye is stashed under his bed and he will die if anyone finds out. it reeeally fucked with his magic, seeing as hes associated with the water element.. do green and vio know about any of this? nope. red was sworn (read: threatened) to silence. probably the most physically fit when split, and makes sure to take good care of his body. he likes to push himself, hence the ankle weights. always has to be doing something productive. hes their financial guy, somehow having the least impuslive spending habits. will typically only spend on necessary things. gets mad at the others for buying egregiously expensive recreational shit. (that umbrella shadow has? yeah. expensive as hell. he was not happy) the most touch avoident of the bunch. unexpectedly, blue is a gift giving guy. he gets embarassed about it when you question it, or even when hes giving it to you, but yeah. he likes giving things to people and then will throw insults at their face. not in a mean way. in a "im embarassed and you suck so shut up" way. quality time is something he enjoys as well, liking to spar with his brothers often. can easily master a lot of melee weapons, its impressive, but cannot for the life of him make anything else work. his stone was made into an earring, and despite vio's complaints, he usually knows when its missing.

#the legend of zelda #my art #loz #four swords manga #red link #vio link #green link #blue link #shadow link #fsa #return of the nerd book #ref sheet #tldr i yap #chat thoughts on he/she blue #Four Swords #Four Swords Adventure

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bubblybloob · 9 months

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Whoop I finished my reverse Damsel idea. I briefly discussed her in two other posts but I’m going to go further into her here with a better grasp on what she’s about

Pretty long ramble below, so watch out.

Basically, instead of warning her/resisting the Narrator in chapter 1, you, thinking you can’t overpower him, attempt to slay yourself. The Princesses stares at you in horror as you cut into your own neck (this is the route where you don’t initially bring the knife so she’s the more sympathetic version).

She attempts to wrench the blade from you because she has no idea why you’re doing this and doesn’t want you to die. Whether or not she gets the knife though doesn’t matter, because it’s too late and you die.

(Still am stuck on what sort of voice I want. Had a lot of suggestions on stuff like a Martyr sort of voice or one similar to the old Meek voice but the problem mostly stems from characterizing them in a different way to the other voices, which is something I can’t figure out given the situation).

Chapter 2 is titled “The Fae”.

The main room is primarily made of stone, with many unidentifiable chiseled metals and rock, but you don’t stay here for long, nor get given the option of taking the blade, as choosing to approach the blade or the basement will activate a trapdoor that will send you falling to your death. Just as you’re about to meet your demise, something grabs your palm. Looking up, you see the princess, swinging from the ceiling with you in hand.

The Fae is strange, originally she was going to be similarly shallow in nature like the Damsel, but I would compare her uncanniness more to the Razor, with a constant smile, eerie stare, and maybe an off putting voice.

She’s pretty blunt on what she wants, the satisfaction of saving you from this awful cabin and leaving together! Despite her more than ginger attitude towards you (she acts like you are made of glass), she’s actually quite egotistical, with her occasionally praising herself and puffing up whenever she receives applause from you.

She makes unintentional jabs at your incompetency and reminds you “it’s not your fault you’re not cut out for this, really! I’ll get us out of here my handsome corvid!” and sort of talks down to you and always acts like she’s the smartest in the room (and she probably is depending on what voice I make up for the route). She’s also weirdly fixated on your safety and goes above and beyond to protect you from even the smallest splinter, she’d act like you were dying if you got so much as a scratch.

(All of her traits are exacerbated to a worse degree in chapter 3).

Edit: I forgot to mention all of her behavior is inspired by the fae. I forgot that some people aren’t as well versed in fae lore. Fae are, from what I have heard, pretty selfish, manipulative, and possessive all while being downright ethereal, so I gave her a dose of all of those traits and toned it down a smidge.

Her appearance is also meant to be slightly unnerving. She has long elf like ears and eyes that are surrounded by shadow, with large black pits in the center of her eye that are impossible to tell if they are part of her pupil or not. She also gives off a very faint, white light, it’s almost imperceptible but it’s there.

Her dress is more of a skirt than anything with a sash that has long ribbon like ends that are every length all at once at any given time. They easily wrap themselves around objects even if it shouldn’t be physically possible, and she uses them to swing from the ceiling (spider princesses). Her “crown” is made up of a few translucent butterflies that seem attracted to her like magnets, occasionally they flutter about but usually they sit on her head.

I like to think that there are hints to the fact her butterflies aren’t real, just extensions of herself. They might flicker in and out of existence if she’s upset with you or stressed about something.

Another thing of note, like with some other princesses like Nightmare or Thorn or something, she has no chain. (Maybe there’s some creepy dialogue option where she reveals she broke it with her teeth or something more crazy).

Anyway, the princesses states that everything is fine and that this time around she’s going to be the one to rescue you. She fully intends for both of you to escape, and for you to just follow her lead, because she’s going to make sure you’re alright and that nothing will hurt you.

If you follow along she will save you from the dangers ahead, the basement of the cabin has been increased in size and there are rooms with rolling boulders, pits of spikes, etc. These sections aren’t too long, there’s probably like five explore options along with two or three choices you can make per room and there’s only like three of said rooms.

At the end she literally carries you out of the cabin and swings you around all like “We did it! I’m out and you’re safe! Not even a scratch on you, didn’t I do a good job?” Before mentioning how cold it is and getting taken to Ohio by the Shifting Mound.

There is another way this can end however. There are two potential ways to get to this I think.

If you keep questioning her when shes says something’s wrong at some point you get killed by some random trap while you’re distracted. You get killed and probably end up with the Skeptic.

If you don’t let her do the work and instead try to do too many things yourself you also eventually get killed by a trap and probably end up with Stubborn or Contrarian depending on your actions.

There might be a different third chapter that you can get to from another princess but idk what it would be so I’m sticking with the more direct continuation chapter.

You still don’t get the knife here and fall through another trapdoor. This time she doesn’t catch you and instead has already prepared something beneath where you fall to catch you. It’s probably just a plush room, somewhat reminiscent of the Stranger route’s soft stairs, but less existentially horrifying.

Here the princess thinks that maybe leaving the cabin with her is why you keep dying and so tries to convince you staying is the only option and that something bigger is trying to kill you off when you try to leave with her (she’s not wrong that there’s something bigger at play but she isn’t exactly right either). She’s too selfish to just let you leave without her even if her weird logic states that you’d be fine as long as she doesn’t leave with you, so all protests are shut down and she tries to force you if you complain.

If you got Skeptic there is the option of actually convincing her and that no matter what you’ll listen to her every word and you’ll escape together. She’ll listen and similar events to last time will play out, only this time the traps are deadlier but are made much more traversable due to the fact that she gives no fucks and will destroy every obstacle with ease. This time you actually leave and once again Ohio comes and gets her (I like to imagine The Narrator pulls the locked basement door trick and here she just punches through it and stares expectantly at you to turn handle from the other side with the newly created hole).

If you have Stubborn you can attempt to fight her. It probably won’t work at first because she’s the literal fae. But the Narrator, knowing you’re trying to fight now, will make the blade magically fall from the same trapdoor you fell from. And its iron touch can sizzle faerie skin. She doesn’t necessarily want to fight you, but if she has to rough you up some to get you to see things her way, she’ll do it. If you fuck up you’ll probably break something that you need to move or attack with and lose the fight, and she gets taken. If you don’t fuck up and win, same result except she’s got a knife in her chest when the mound comes and nabs her.

With Contrarian you choose to stay with her because funny boy wants to mess with the Narrator. I think maybe one of the traps somehow ends up infiltrating whatever “safe room” you’re in (probably because you’re thoughts spiraling on the thought of not actually being safe and dying again because that’s all you’ve done so far, so your perception kills you. Not sure what trap would kill you, maybe the rolling boulder crashes through the roof or something idk) and ends up fatally wounding you, making it the third time she couldn’t protect you, she stands over your body because “I had this planned, you should’ve been safe, how could this happen???” Before Ohio comes.

Whatever ending you get, she will make for a courageous heart.

I like to think you can kill her with Contrarian and get stuck with her with Stubborn, it’s just that they’d prefer and encourage you to do the opposite. The Skeptic is the only one where you can actually try to leave with her, again you can do the other options but having him is the only path where you can try to escape in the 3rd chapter.

I do have a 3rd chapter design in mind, but I’ll probably need to work on it some.

#slay the princess #stp the princess #art #my art #The Fae #this was a long one wow #I took well over an hour typing all of that #because I’m insane

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kanmom51 · 6 months

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Missing Jikook today

Not that I don't miss them every single day, but just saying...

youtube

@wonsummernight Miss your edits!!!!!! I know there isn't any new Jikook content just yet, but if there was a time we were in dire need for some heart wrenching Jikook edits, this is it!!!

Basically, this is me telling you "PLEASE COME BACK". 💜💜

So, I came today to cry a little, you know commiserating together with others takes the edge off a bit (note to self: keep telling yourself that, and you might start believing it too...), but also to remind y'all that SM is crap, a viper pit, a cec pool, where all the miserably unhappy ignorant assholes tend to flock to (this is about the assholes that have turned sm into such a place), either to create drama that will get them some much needed attention they aren't getting elsewhere, or to create a parallel universe where their dreams and wants come true, even if they have zero standing in reality. Oh, and I forgot those that are there to make some hard cash, by all means.

And why am I mentioning all of this, you may ask?

Well, because for some reason my hopes and dreams for a fandom cleanse are being shattered as we speak.

As you may already know, I've taken a step back lately. mainly distancing myself from SM, as it's been going downhill for ages now, but has become an even uglier place to visit in the past few months, I'd say ever since it's been known that JK and JM are enlisting TOGETHER and will be serving TOGETHER, basically being in each other's close vicinity 24/7 for 18 months (even if not sharing exact same duties within the unit) and spending off time together . And to clarify once again: Same unit, same posting (base), different duties within the unit.

You'd think that 3 months in, and after the initial shock, reality and truth would set in (even with the most delusional) that these two young men CHOSE to enlist together (free choice and steps taken by both of them to achieve this). And once again me reminding they are the only ones in the group to decide they want to do this and the only idols to ever do so.

But no. Who am I kidding? Probably wishful thinking on my part. You know, that these people will either wake up, smell the roses and just cope with reality, or plain and simply piss off (that's probably me being delusional at this point).

Point being, it's gotten even worse. Like who would have believed that would happen? Yeah, probably should have seen it coming though. When you have cult behavior, when you have those that profit off it (monetarily or otherwise), I should have known it would go this way. The need to dive even deeper into the filth of this earth, to create even dumber narratives, to, of course, spew even more hate towards either of them (depending what delusional team you are on).

Should have seen it all coming.

Sadly, instead of just leaving, tail between their legs, they are doubling down on their utterly delusional beliefs regarding these young men. Not without pain, I may add. Pain, that a small part of me, someone that tries very hard to be nice and good and positive, is now relishing (I lie... not that mall of a part after all). Their twists and turns, their made up shit to compensate for whatever shit JK, JM or Tae are throwing their way... kind of priceless. I mean, if they aren't going anywhere, should we not at least enjoy their demise?

Does that make me a bad person?

Honestly, I don't think so.

And Jikook being away from most of this, lighting the fire and walking away leaving their haters behind to burn, was a nice touch.

Now we just sit here silently wait for our little travel show...

💜💜

#Jikook #Kookmin #Minkook #Jungkook #Jimin #JM #JK #Youtube

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boulevardofpizzadreams · 7 months

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the lads boys as your high school classmates

A/n: not sure if anyone else has posted this idea already but it just came to me before i went to bed. also i mainly focus on rafayel in the game but i've seen enough of both xavier & zayn & hope i do them justice. c:

these are literally just late night thoughts and observations and such that i've had while playing. (cannot WAIT until chapter 9 is released omg)

please be nice - let me know your thoughts ^^

XAVIER

• always want to eat lunch with you

• sometimes falls asleep during class. you know that he doesn't want to ask anyone for their notes so you usually send them via e-mail.

• offers to be your study buddy. you two had been paired up for a lab and ever since, he assumes that you'll be his study partner from now on.

• doesn't like being called on but always has an intelligent response

• only considers joining a club if you join too

RAFAYEL

• always wants to see your sketches and projects for art class

• rarely worries about deadlines

• is usually seen eating an apple or sucking on a lollipop. sometimes, he'll ask you to peel the apple for him but he'll tease you for your "technique".

• tries to avoid school events at all costs, way too crowded. he likes the attention and has always been used to receiving it since he was a child. but he'd rather stay at home or hang out with you instead.

• always steals your pen but gives it back if you say "please."

ZAYN

• always make sure you're studying, turning in your assignments on time and asks how you do on your exams

• can be found in the library often

• worries about your sleep schedule and eating habits. sometimes he will pack extra food and a water bottle because he knows that you forgot.

• ignore basically everyone but you. he doesn't really initiate a conversation with anyone in the halls or in class, but always gives you the time of day without hesitation.

• will offer to walk you home/give you a ride

#love and deepspace #headcanons #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #zayn love and deepspace #otome #otome game #love and deepspace x reader

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kpopfanfictrash · 9 months

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The Ten Days of Ex-Mas (Teaser)

Posting Date: Tuesday, December 19th, 7:00 PM CT

Creative Collaborator: @kithtaehyung FOR THIS AMAZING BANNER!

Genre: Holiday / Second Chance!AU / Hockey!AU

Pairing: Jimin / Reader (F)

Length: One Shot

Synopsis: Three months following the worst break-up of your life, you finally feel ready to start moving on. The world, it seems, has other ideas when you pick up the phone and find your ex-boyfriend calling.

Jimin Park, star right winger of the NHL and (until recently), the love of your life, has a very large problem. Despite the courage he regularly shows on the ice, in his personal life, Jimin is kind of a coward. When you broke up this fall, he could barely admit it. Not to his neighbors. Not to his friends. Not even to his family, who are expecting him home for Christmas. In a desperate plea for more time, Jimin begs you to pretend you’re still dating – and to his surprise, you agree. Faced with a second chance, Jimin is determined not to squander it. If only fixing a relationship were as easy as falling in love.

Author’s Note: Part of the Jingle All the Way collaboration!

Estimated WC: 45K (... whoops; this will probably be multiple parts)

Rating: 18+

Preview: 2,141

Y/N POV

You should have known better than to trust Namjoon with your dating life.

Yoongi never would have put you in this situation. The more level-headed of your two best friends, Yoongi approaches matters of the heart with the same rationality he does everything else. Namjoon, on the other hand, is a great guy – who is notoriously bad at reading other people.

The number of times you’ve been forced to step in and save him from phone scams is astounding. It’s not his fault, really – Namjoon trusts too easily, which doesn’t serve him well in this world. He’s always willing to give others the benefits of the doubt, which gets him into trouble.

And now you, by extension, having accepted the blind date he proposed.

Mike Davis moved into Namjoon’s building two months ago, and Namjoon has been adamant since the start that you two would hit it off.

“He goes to all the same conventions you do,” he assured you last week on the phone.

“Which conventions?” you asked, squinting hard at the wall. “I know you’re not big into nerd culture, Namjoon, so as an FYI – not all cons are considered equal.”

Namjoon rattled off a few you’d attended, impressing you enough to agree despite the initial disinterest. This agreement may have been spurred by tonight being the three-month anniversary of the worst break-up of your life.

Almost as soon as you sat, you realized your mistake. While you may have reached a point where you don’t cry every time your ex’s name is mentioned, the prospect of dating someone else is an entirely different matter. Getting dressed up felt strange, as did traveling to the restaurant and waiting for Mike at the bar.

The fact that Mike called this place a ‘restaurant’ should have been your first clue, as Hat Trick is most definitely a sports bar – specifically, a hockey bar. Had you known (really, you should have known), you wouldn’t have gone, but you were nervous and trying to make a good impression. Upon arriving, you arranged yourself awkwardly on a sticky bar stool and waited seven minutes for Mike to walk in.

Nearly an hour later, you find yourself regretting coming at all. Mike excused himself two minutes ago for the bathroom and as soon as he left, you sagged with relief.

He’s a nice guy, you suppose. Good looking, with light brown curls and dark eyes. You can see why Namjoon thought he might be good for you – Mike is the exact opposite of your ex in many ways. Constantly frazzled, he arrived late to the bar, only to immediately duck outside because he forgot to pay the parking meter. Jimin was the type to unpack his suitcase immediately after reaching the hotel and brought several chargers in case one of them died.

Once the meter was paid, Mike sat down and immediately launched into his entire life story. You suppose you should have been happy about this, since lack of communication ended your last relationship but instead, found yourself overwhelmed.

Mike finally paused for breath once your drinks arrived, allowing you a moment to answer his questions. The moment you said you ran a pretty popular cosplay TikTok, Mike instantly shifted from arrogant to insecure.

“I can’t believe you came,” he exhaled with a shake of his head. “When Namjoon showed me your picture, I said no way would you go out with me. You’re way too beautiful.”

Somewhat awkward, you laughed. “Don’t try and get me to leave, now, Mike.”

His eyes widened, not catching your sarcasm and it took several moments to get back on track. Everything since has been downhill, so when he excused himself for the bathroom, all you felt was relief.

Digging through your purse, you pull out your phone and swipe to the group chat.

Y/N: Namjoon, WHAT possessed you to set me up with this man [7:46 PM]

Yoongi’s reply comes immediately.

Yoongi: told you it was too soon [7:46 PM]

Namjoon’s ellipses join in.

Namjoon: what! Why? What happened?? Mike didn’t try something on you, did he? [7:47 PM]

Y/N: no, no – nothing like that [7:47 PM]

Y/N: he just keeps saying how *amazing* I am and how he doesn’t know why I’m on this date at all [7:47 PM]

Yoongi: dude [7:48 PM]

Y/N: EXACTLY [7:48 PM]

Before Namjoon can respond, the bartender changes the channel and an all-too-familiar name blares over the speakers. Slowly, you look up, and all thoughts of Mike fade, faced with NHL coverage.

Nope, no – absolutely not.

Leaning over the counter, you lightly tap the bartender. “Hi.” Brightly, you smile. “First off, could I have another glass of white wine? And then, maybe… could you change the channel?”

Glancing around, the guy shakes his head. “Yes, to the wine, but no, the channel,” he says with a shrug. “Half the people in here came to watch the game. Pre-show coverage is part of that.”

With an apologetic nod, he grabs a rag and disappears. Sinking back in your seat, you stare at your hands, clasped tightly together. Your spot at the bar puts you in the unfortunate position of hearing each word the announcers say crystal-clear.

“Well, Josh, what chance do you think the Blackhawks have tonight?”

The silver-haired man beside him bobs his head. “Steve, I’d say their chances are pretty darn good. You’ve seen this team’s early games. Their first line is strong, especially now that Park’s back.”

“Oh, absolutely – Jimin Park has been crucial in the last couple of games. He was sorely missed last season.”

“Ha! You can say that again.”

Trying to hide your wince, you clasp your hands tighter as a fresh glass of wine is set down. “Thanks,” you mutter, downing half in one gulp.

Immediately, your plans for later tonight shift to accommodate another bottle of wine. Movement catches the corner of your eye, and, despite yourself, you watch the montage of star right winger, Jimin Park, tearing his way down the ice. Shamefully, you recognize every shot since, although you broke up in September, you continued to watch every game.

“One of the most talked about moments last year in hockey was the late check on Park by Blues player, Brent Howard,” continues the announcer, Josh. “His helmet came loose when he hit the boards, and he went down hard on the ice. Park suffered a sprained knee and herniated a disc in his neck. A complicated surgery took him for most of the season, only starting to skate with the team again over the summer.”

Hearing the trauma recounted with such callousness, you find yourself gripping your wine glass tighter than before.

“I don’t think anyone ever expected Park to play again,” agrees the other announcer, Steve. “It’s a damned miracle he’s back on the ice – but to return and be this good? Park has always been one of the best right wingers in the league, but I’d say he’s the best offensive player on the ice right now.”

“A bold claim!” laughs Josh. “But I might just agree. Even Jungkook Jeon on the Rangers hasn’t been matching Park in assists.”

“Exactly! I mean, look at the numbers. Last year, the Blackhawks barely made the playoffs and now, they’re first in the Western Conference.”

“Truly amazing, given the nature of his injury last November. I don’t know how familiar you are with herniated discs, Steve, but –”

Mike slides back onto his stool. Grateful for the distraction, you turn fully to face him. Having already lived through the injury once, you have no need to reminisce. Replacing your phone in your purse, you smile gamely at Mike.

“So,” you say, attempting to save the conversation. “Namjoon mentioned you like conventions? What fandoms are you a part of?”

“Oh.” Mike loosely shrugs. “I doubt you’ve heard of any of them.”

At his dismissive tone, you stiffen. Your experience with the male side of fandom is always a toss-up. “Well, there are a lot of them. Any that are more mainstream?”

He considers. “Marvel?”

Stunned, you blink once or twice. Marvel has to be one of the biggest fandoms on the planet, let alone in the country. Even if you weren’t deep in the convention circuit, you’d have heard of Marvel.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “I think I’ve heard of that.”

“Cool, cool.” Mike nods. “Namjoon said you do cosplay – and showed me your TikTok! You know, you’d make a great Wonder Woman.”

You can practically feel your jaw tighten. “That’s DC, not Marvel. But thanks.”

Silent, you add for nothing. While you love Wonder Woman and have, in fact, cosplayed her many times, men usually only request her for one reason and that’s the skimpy outfit. Whenever you cosplay as circa 2010 Wonder Woman in pants, they’re decidedly less interested. By now, you’ve learned only to pick your characters based on personal interest.

“Have you ever cosplayed?” you ask.

Unbidden, your gaze slides to the TV. Commercial break. Stifling your twinge of disappointment, you refocus on Mike.

“Nah.” His nose wrinkles, and your stomach sinks further. “I don’t do that stuff.”

“Stuff?”

Hearing your tone, his eyes widen. “I mean, it’s cool for you. I saw your TikToks and you look amazing. I’d just look dumb,” Mike says, attempting a laugh.

Sweetly, you smile. “I don’t know. My ex used to cosplay with me, and no one ever laughed at him.”

Admittedly, this is something of a low blow since your ex-boyfriend is Jimin Park, but either Namjoon didn’t tell him, or Mike doesn’t care. Which – if that’s so, maybe Mike deserves more credit than you gave him.

“Ah.” He nods, taking a sip of his beer. “Have you ever thought about cosplaying as Wonder Woman, though?”

Your smile vanishes. Then again, maybe you’ve given him exactly the right amount of credit.

“I have,” you say. “But more recently, I’ve been cosplaying Dimension 20 characters. It’s kind of niche, but my last character was Sundry Sidney from A Starstruck Odyssey. You know – giant machine gun arm, roller skates and a mechanical eye. Oh, and a ‘fuck erotica ann’ button, of course.”

Mike’s smile freezes. “Why… would you dress like that?”

“Because it’s fun.” Finishing your glass of wine, you toss a few bills on the counter and stand. “Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Mike, but I think we’d be better off as friends. Don’t you agree?”

Even with the answer right there in the question, still he looks flummoxed.

“I…”

“Or acquaintances,” you add, pulling on your pea coat. “Or nothing at all. Whatever you prefer.”

Slinging your purse on your shoulder, you wave at the bartender and start to leave. You only make it several steps before Mike mutters something beneath his breath – loud enough that you hear.

“Stupid,” he mutters. “This is why you don’t date women like her, Mike.”

You come to a stop. Really, you should keep going. Common sense – and Namjoon’s HOA – depend on you being the bigger person and walking out. But your therapist has said you need to work on communicating, even when the message is something the other person won’t like.

Turning around, you tap Mike on the shoulder.

He glances upward, surprised – and then reddens, realizing you heard.

“Yep, I heard,” you say shortly, retracting your hand. “Was your muttering supposed to be secret?”

Mike opens, then closes his mouth, like a fish.

“What did you mean, ‘women like me?’” you demand, folding your arms. “Ones with self-respect? Or hobbies? Women who know more about a subject than you do?”

Behind the counter, the bartender snort-laughs, rising in your esteem despite the whole TV channel thing.

Mike stares at you, stunned. He seems to grow a pair in that moment though, straightening to face you on his stool. “Women with sticks up their asses,” he blurt.

Stifling an eye roll, you lean closer. “Listen, Mike,” you say, placing one hand on the counter. “If you think you can hurt my feelings – think again. Someone broke my heart three months ago, so nothing you say now will remotely compare. Do you really want to know why women like me won’t date you?”

The furrow between his brows deepens, and you take this as a sign to continue. Leaning even closer, you lower your voice.

“It’s because you’re insecure,” you say softly. “Giving someone a compliment and putting yourself down in the same sentence isn’t nice, it’s awkward. Not to mention, you’re sexist,” you add, watching him stiffen. “Telling me – a two-time Comic Con trivia champion – that I wouldn’t know Marvel is wild. Oh, and you’re a snob. Tabletop games are awesome, and cosplay is fun. Have a good night – I paid for your drink.”

With that, you turn around and march out the door to a smattering of applause from your new favorite bartender.

[ TO BE CONTINUED ]

#bangtanarmynet #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #jimin fanfic #jimin fanfiction #jimin au #bts au

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aizawasbrazybaby · 9 months

Text

❥𓂃𓏧 If you let me

𖦹Warnings: fem!reader, p in v sex, smoking, mentions of sex work, pet names (ex. Baby) , Dom!Yami x sub!Reader

𖦹Word Count: 1.4k

🫧: Hope everyone had a good new year🫶🏾sorry for the late post and any errors

Summaryᐕ Captain Yami walks in on the crews biggest prude trying to please herself…

“A bit scandalous, no?” you muttered.

Your eyes fixed on the figure in the mirror. A pink long sleeved shirt, that happened to be snug enough to accentuate your large breasts, wrapped your torso. Below, a white and pink plaid flounce skirt stopped inches above the knee.

“Scandalous my ass!” Vanessa shouted, “you’re a black bull not some fuckin child librarian it’s okay to show some skin. Live a little.”

Turning your back to the mirror you gasped quietly. Heat rushed to your face and just as swiftly your hands covered your ass that poked out too much.

“Absolutely not!”, you pressed your back to the mirror checking that none of the guys were around, “this is far to risqué! I need a cardigan better yet I’ll just put on my usual attire.”

Noelle scoffed with her arms folded tight, “the dark corduroys that make you look like an old hag not happening. You need to loosen up and stop being so modest.”

“M’not,” you said more to yourself.

“Really? You had us wait almost an hour when we took a trip to the beach last month because you didn’t want to put on a bikini,” Magna spat entering the room with Yami. His eyes roamed your body as he listened to his junior. By then your face nearly stung from the heat. You held onto your shoulders as if shielding your exposed breast from his hungry eyes. More self aware and self conscious than before.

“What Miss Vanessa had to offer was no more than a mere pile of jumbled up string and cloth patches not swim wear.” You spat through gritted teeth, “I would have stayed with the novels in my chamber if I knew this was what I was walking into.” Putting out an old cigarette the captain pushed the burning side into a black ashtray that had the logo. You stopped mid march back to your part of the hideout at his assertive tone. His words smashing bits of your heart.

“You could use an upgrade. You walk around here lookin like a grandma who gave up on herself. The least you could do is change your wardrobe.” Yami grunted with a chuckle. The whites in your eyes blackened as they narrowed in on him. With that he knew to drop the banter. Knowing there would be no financial benefit in having yet another “accident.”

“The hell do you know old man,” your voice was like venom.

The heavy door slammed behind you locking automatically. Your knees hit the floor of the bedside as a sob ripped through your body. Cries muffled as your face shoved into the mattress and your hands caressed the cotton sheets. Aching echoed in your chest as it always did when he made those snide remarks. Those stupid fucking jokes.

Too sensitive, too rule abiding, too by the book, too much of a goody two shoes to even notice

You were so sick of hearing it all but you couldn’t go back to the way you were. Before the Black Bulls. Before the grimoire. He knew what you were. The things you did to survive yet he still sang those hurtful words. At one point you were convinced he actually forgot about your past and why he really recruited you.

Tap tap tap

“Screw off!”

Yami was the only person to use his fingertips instead of knocking like any normal person would.

“Why do you always take shit so personal?” He sighed.

Silence.

“I know you’re in there, don't ignore me.”

Again there was nothing from your end.

“Speak or I’m coming in, that's an order,” he hand tightened around the door knob.

“Leave me alone captain,” you said hardly above a whisper. You didn’t bother lifting your head from the initial spot.

“I’m sorry.” A genuine apology. His footsteps echoed from your door down the hall until they disappeared behind his. It felt like hours passed by at lightning speed. The sun that once sat in a blue sky left it in a variety of pinks and orange. You dared to peek over your arm to adjust your vision to the lights in the bright room. The clothes you wore were cautiously peeled off.

Eyes gawked at the sight in the mirror. Wearing the borderline non-existent undergarments the girls gifted for your birthday. Cranberry red thongs made of pure silk with a matching push up bro that covered no more than the tip of your areola. There was only one way you knew how to drown the pain.

With pleasure.

Toys of different varieties, sizes and uses dropped on a pillow. Choosing two you lubed up the flame printed butt plug and inserted it. A low hum vibrated in your throat. Something you received from your favorite client. The sweet stretch reminding you of the first time Fuegoleon’s thick cock barreled its way into you. How he introduced you to anal play.

“Fuck,” you swore plopping down atop the clear dildo. Trying to remember how sex with another human felt. Imagining that it was Yami’s pretty cockhead you were screwing yourself on and not some stupid piece of silicone. Alas it didn’t work. Not this time nor last time or the time before that. Masterbation was a skill set you never mastered. As someone who used to get railed for money you relied on others to give you orgasms.

A growl of irritation rumbled in the room as the back of your head sunk in the pillow. Legs still spread wide open.

Why was it always so hard to please yourself?

You plunged the toy back in your pussy thinking of him, the captain's name spilling from your mouth repeatedly as the excitement pulled to your core. So close, your walls fluttered around the thing.

“Ready to talk-” Yami stood in the door frame wide eyed. His cigarette fell to the floor from between his lips. The door automatically shut behind him from any other onlookers. “Is this why…I heard you calling for me..”

Pure humiliation. That’s the only way to put it.

“Yami,” you searched your brain for words, “please.” He knew what you meant. Knew you’d been avoiding sex like it was the plague. Avoiding any man who showed you the slightest bit of interest. Knew you felt dirty for wanting to be touched.

“I can’t do it alone,” you whispered, “but I, Captain..”

“You did what you had to,” his fingertips trailed up your legs stopping between your thighs making you shudder, “it doesn’t make you a bad person.”

His fingers replaced the dildo and you swore for a minute you saw stars. Moans found their way out. “When I found you all bloody in that alleyway I knew I had to take you in,” his fingers made contact with that spot that had your eyes rolling back. And when his thumb rubbed circles on your clit, “I had to protect you.”

Your release was beyond shattering. Causing you to clench around his fingers, loosen up and clench once more.

“You deserve to be loved too,” his lips met yours as he climbed over you, “loved on.” He said lowly nipping at your ear.

“Yami..please,” was all you could muster. Hands unbuttoning his tented pants. His cock sprung to his belly button upon release. “Need you now.”

“I know baby I know,” he fixed himself between your legs thrusting inside you. Just sex you told yourself. He just wanted sex.

He didn’t.

It was always you he wanted. Got himself off too. Pictured bearing his offspring. Even if you did have an awful sense of style to blanket your promiscuous past.

He pulled back excruciatingly slow driving his hips back into you. “You feel so good,” he kissed your neck, “look so pretty.” He fucked into you harder and the sounds of your cries only confirmed he had you getting closer to cumming.

Yami threw your legs over his shoulders thrusting uncontrollably. Only slowing down when you tightened around his cock leaving your cream at the base of it. Rocking his body into yours until he pulled out sliding between your thighs as he nutted on your stomach.

His thumb grazed over your bottom lip. Blush pouring over his face and chest. You watched his lips move as he mumbled your name and your heart skipped a beat at what he said after.

“Yes.” You answered with a smile creeping across your mouth.

#black clover x black reader #black clover x poc reader #black reader #Yami x black reader #Yami x poc reader #yami x reader #black women #brown skin #dark skin #light skin #poc reader #black clover #captain yami

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evvlevie · 9 months

Text

I basically shifted again.

hi, hello, it‘s me: your favorite shifting blogger Evie 😼❤️

ever since your girl Eves has had the time and motivation to focus back on shifting, she has been on fire 👀

I suppose that if you guys are seeing this right here, you have probably read my most liked / reblogged / commented post about my first shifting experience already. And in case you didn‘t …

➡️ G O C R A Z Y R I G H T H E R E ⬅️

This one is going to be as detailed as possible once again, so in case you are one impatient mother-lover: I am sorry <3

🍎 MOMENTS BEFORE 🍎

🔆 I am telling you this time was very different from the first time for one very very important reason: I didn‘t fucking try to shift. Last time I was actively trying methods and visualizations, I actively tried to keep me in the right mindset and I don‘t want to say I was forcing it, but I was definitely concentrating on shifting. 🔆 Ever since I started embodying the energy/the mindset I was describing in this exact post, I never even methodically tried to initiate shifting. All I ever did was rely on the universe to basically let me meet my DR as soon as it deemed me ready for it. 🔆 However I was following a certain routine for the last week when it came to shifting and I suppose that was very crucial. Each night before falling asleep I would take my melatonin spray and I would very consciously and with clear intent say with each spray I took: „This is my shifting spray, and now I will shift tonight.“ I always take like 4 sprays and then I would lay down to sleep and just imagine one certain scenario tied to my DR and nothing else. I wasn’t even actively trying to feel every emotion, or sensation like I used to do it when I attempted shifting, I was just playing the scene over in my head and basically just enjoyed the moment for myself. 🔆 Last night tho, I did not take any melatonin and I didn’t even imagine my little scene because i laid down to sleep so late at night I actually forgot to try basically. But since I was so used to my routine and this was so imbedded into my brain my subconscious was very aware of my shifting-intent. Since I was not actively trying to shift, I was not monitoring any feelings or signs or symptoms and everything just happened naturally which is the key here. I did mention in this old ass post, that when you are too aware of you shifting you basically sabotage yourself and keep yourself from shifting.

🍎 THE MOMENT 🍎

🔆 I distinctively remember how I was in the middle of falling asleep, and suddenly I felt like I was floating. And when I say suddenly I mean from one second to the other I suddenly felt like there was no mattress under me anymore, and I was just flying around in the fucking universe or something. 🔆 even if I didn‘t open my eyes somehow everything I saw was a white light swallowing me and everything around me was white 🔆 As weird as this may sound now but I was very aware of the fact that I was between realities in that moment and that I was basically swirling round the universe in order to land in my DR. 🔆 In my imagination my DR-Day starts with me waking up on a bed, because I am in a luxurious hotel in Bali and it‘s my wedding weekend (I‘m having a How-I-met-your-mother-season-9-kind-of-DR) . I always had a very specific hotel room in mind when visualizing me waking up. And even if I wasn’t really conscious of anything I just know I was swirling around trying to do a front flip onto that damn DR-Bed in order to land there. 🔆 I know how fucking idiotic that sounds but you guys need to understand that I am just that weird sometimes, that it is really like me to front flip into a different reality😭

🔆✨ the most interesting part about all of this, is that just like last time where I was feeling myself getting pulled into a different reality, I was able to physically feel all of my flips, just like when you go on a roller coaster and that fucker is turning you upside down a lot and you are starting to get sick. I could literally feel my stomach turning upside down.

🔆✨ before any shifting denying people want to comment on my post that I have psychosis again: I am a legal adult that has lived two decades, I can very much distinct between a dream and physical sensation, I have encountered enough situations in my life that allow me to make a pretty spot on differentiation here. I fucking know I was not dreaming.

🔆 I fucked up a little when I started becoming too aware of what I was doing and accidentally grounded myself in the CR again (like last time goddamn it)

🍎 ADVICES ?🍎

➡️ 📜 ⬅️ this ancient advice is going to be the best one I can give you. (dare to click that old ass looking paper emoji) Trying to control how all of this goes down, will only drive you insane I promise. Just like the last time, I shifted when I wasn‘t actively in my shifting-mindset. Last time I called that a Mini-shift because well I didn‘t end up really spending time in that other reality but this time I am confident enough to say I shifted. I was experiencing exactly what has proven me again that shifting is not only real, but that it is definitely a feeling you have to get used to.

I am so excited that after my nearly year long shifting break I am not only back, but evidently on the right track and stronger than ever

I Hope this post was able to help y‘all in some way or another, and don‘t be too shy to ask questions ❤️

Yours in every reality,

Evie <3

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ottosbigtop · 3 months

Note

if you have any crumbs to share... about aac raz/lili/bobby dynamic pleeeez ramble to me i want info i'm so into this concept T_T

oh my guy I have so many crumbs for you. These guys have resided in the back of my brain forever but I was usually too embarrassed to say anything about it outside of a couple joke posts. But this is my house so I’m choosing to thrive and frolic.

Also a doodle of the aforementioned three before I enter my tangent :) rambling under the cut

the initial dynamic of these three goes something like

-Lili & Bobby - can’t stand his fake ass. She remembers having to deal with him at whispering rock and clearly is not very good at letting go of grudges from when she was ten. This is, in fact, Bobby’s worst nightmare. He was terrified of working for the psychonauts partially because he didn’t want to run into people he used to know. Surprise! They don’t like each other.

-Raz & Bobby. Raz has the complete opposite problem he literally barely remembers this guy. They interacted for maybe a collective hour one day when he was 10 years old, he only recalls him because Lili clocks him and reminds Raz. Bobby mostly hadn’t thought about him since camp, but did build a little (lot) bit of a resentment after seeing that weird little freak from camp pop up on different True Psychic Tales covers. That on top of Bobby now having to intern under this guy makes their relationship kind of spotty to start, for sure.

-Raz & Lili. Theyre having fun :) After having fun “dating” as real young kids they fall out of touch during their teen years when Raz goes to travel with then circus again to try and reconnect with his family (whole other can of worms for him.) They meet back up during the late teen years and sort of pick up right where they left off, dating off and on for a bit and “officially” dating long term for a little over a year now.

Both their relationships with Bobby evolve over time, naturally. Bobby and Raz have a whooole fucking thing that isn’t fully conceptualized and Is way too long a concept for me to share but their intern/mentor relationship does help them learn to get along with each other. And of course them getting along means Lili having to deal with being around Bobby more often and so it begins.

The whole ~ feelings ~ aspect mostly starts with her and Bobby I think, funnily enough. They hate each other, they want each other dead so bad, but eventually they have to learn to get along for Raz’s sake if nothing else. So they learn! Try to, at least. They’re both really bad at it.

but the “i hate you i want you dead” manages to evolve into that more friendly insulting banter some people have. “I hate you i want you dead” (complimentary.) It gives Raz a headache because it takes him a while to process that they’re usually joking when they’re arguing with each other now.

Lili doesn’t like when she starts to have Feelings about that shitty little freak (tm.) I think she’s somewhere on the Aro spectrum and when Raz wasn’t around she really never. Felt any sort of desire for romance with anyone else. Girl just kind of forgot about it for a bit until he showed up again. Which caused a lot of emotions. And then got used to that until Bobby is introduced into the equation and slowly she starts to feel things toward him that aren’t Rage and Disgust. Which causes a lot of emotions.

Raz I think is entirely oblivious of having any feelings toward him for the longest time. While Lili is a slow “oh god oh fuck” buildup, he’s just really happy he and Bobby are getting along at all that any sort of progress in affection toward him just feels like another big win for friendship. I think it hits him all at once late at night on a random Tuesday and he just sits up in bed and stares at a wall about it.

The whole Raz and Lili communicating abt the concept of polyamory would make this insane post already twice as long and it’s not a part of it all I’ve thought about anyways so we’re going to shelve it for now. But once they do reach the conclusion that they saw this guy from across the bar and they liked his vibe, they both proceed to trip over their own feet for the next however many weeks.

You see, “woman who does not process her emotions” and “guy who needs a twelve step plan for everything” is a prime combination for two people who are pulling some mad scientist shit to try and talk to this guy rather than just inviting him out to eat sometimes. And Bobby is convinced for a little bit that they’re planning to dissect his brain or something because they keep doing that ^

On Bobby’s side of this whole equation the evolution is just his own little torment nexus for a few months.

he initially discovers he’s got a thing for Lili after they start getting along more and it sucks for him. He enjoys their flirty little threats of violence but he’s also close with Raz at this point so I think it just kind of makes him feel . Gross . Like man am I flirting with my friend’s girlfriend I think I am. Oh he’s probably going to hate me. Help.

and that concern for Raz is also a guy in the back of his brain knocking on a door very loudly trying to tell him he’s bisexual but he’s not quite arrived at that conclusion. Give him a few more missions where Raz grabs him while he’s falling to his death and he’ll get there probably.

there’s so many words. These are so many words. I’ll be honest the wacky schenanigans of the “before relationship” era are so funny to me that I’ve not really had any conceptual ideas for them getting into + Being In a Relationship yet. But I hope that you like this at least! This insanely long ass post goes out to you and the one other guy who’s a fan of these three (hi)

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kishdoodles · 5 months

Text

Treebark Week 2024 - A Post-Mortem

Hi! If you haven’t seen, I have released seven (7!) videos for Treebark Week 2024! This wall of text is my behind the scenes and also post-mortem thoughts on the project, which I found worth documenting.

Even if you don’t end up reading the text, I appreciate every comment, tag, and view my videos get. I did it for the fun of it and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t do it for the attention. I did, because I think these videos are the funniest things I’ve ever released. Shoutout to @thefluxqueen for being my partner in crime and confidant for these. You saw my vision.

I wanted to do something for Treebark week but admittedly I had noooo idea. So this whole gimmick was a fun set up for me to stretch my creativity in. What started as “I’m just going to do everything in mspaint with a mouse” spiraled to “I think it’s going to get boring if everything’s in the same style, so I’m going to have to do something different everyday.”

The important factor to me throughout all of this is earnesty.

Even if its life started as a joke, this project is a love letter in every respect. This is what I grew up on, this is the YouTube that is precious to me. Capturing this era of time in 7 videos is all at once easy, yet surprisingly laborious.

First I planned the songs. Fitting the songs with the prompts was a brain scratcher, but once we (me and Spain) had a few in the rest slotted in pretty easily. Common thread was, of course, any popular song from the mid-late 2000s.

The first confirmed song was Sugar, Sugar for Sweet (Day 2) courtesy of Spain, given the Eddsworld video. We had a few songs for Burn (Day 3) or Infernal (Day 4) which we threw out (Elli Goulding’s Burn, 2NE1’s Fire, Steam Powered Giraffe’s Fire Fire, etc.) I ended up digging through my old playlist and listened to 20% Cooler, which after a realization I immediately slotted it for Frost (Day 1). Spain brought up the Heat Waves parody (Cold Spells) for Frost too, to which I realized I could just do regular Heat Waves, so that became what I did for Burn.

Bring Me To Life was brought to my attention (I forgot how, maybe Youtube recommendations?) and with the lyrics, it became the song for Blood (Day 7). The all time classic, Angel with a Shotgun, fit in nicely with the prompt of Divine (Day 4), so there was no contest. Another classic, Everytime We Touch, was harder to fit but I eventually reasoned through the prompts enough to fit it with Lips (Day 5) (the everytime we kiss part).

At this point, nothing I’ve found fit Day 6 (picnic/garden/strawberry) at ALL. So I decided the only way I knew how. RANDOM CHOICE!

Mad World won but that was a trap, for I have biased myself toward Animal I’ve Become at that point and it almost won, so I went with that instead. This is a lawless land.

The actual video ideas really came to me in piecemeal, so I’ll explain how I got each idea as I cover each day in order of when I completed them.

20% Cooler (Day 1) was the most straightforward of the days. It was done in 1 hour and 30 minutes and I was purposefully being extremely literal about the lyrics. I already had the vision for what I want, and I didn’t want to care about quality all that much, so it came together really fast.

For my process, I lined with mspaint brush and then bucket tooled with default colours. I took advantage of the new layer system mspaint added for some scenes, but otherwise it was as simple as just drawing. (Pictured, 3 layers for 2 scenes.)

It was really easy to just quickly edit in Windows Movie Maker 6 too, I just dragged the pictures in, slapped effects, roughly timed everything and it’s done.

Programs used: mspaint, Windows Movie Maker 6

Sugar, Sugar (Day 2) was an honest effort at avoiding any complicated animations. I initially thought of doing an animation similar to the original video that inspired the song choice, but eventually scaled back because. I don’t want to animate.

Thus came the decision of subject matter. I ended up settling on the demon roleplay because I thought it was the campiest thing in the world. And it was a sweet reunion, no? The lyrics just fit the vibe, and in a moment of brilliance (hitting the showers) I thought to make a visual novel. One reflective of old flash games and like the visual novels of cultural zeitgeist at the time.

I’ve known about Ren’py for quite some time now, but I’ve never properly learned how to use it. For this my task was simple. Find out how to change sprites, backgrounds, and move people into the scene.

Sprites and backgrounds were easy, so those were the first things I did. Ren’s sprites were inspired in design by Demon Hunters in the Warcraft world, mostly because I was playing a lot of Hearthstone and liked the idea. Martyn’s sprite style was inspired by early 2000s anime visual novels, like Higurashi (though I’ve personally never consumed it nor do I actually recommend consuming this piece of media (neutral) its ripple throughout the anime community was felt. Notably, parodies of the anime’s opening were very popular.) I toned back the stylizations, but trust me when I say that Martyn’s hands were purposefully big to be yaoi hands. It didn’t end up that big, and I did not give him the dorito chin here so, immense self control on my part (or cowardice?). False and Joel were just my regular style. For all this I used my tablet instead of my mouse.

The programming part was a little troublesome, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t google, so it got done pretty fast. There’s other small bits, like how I mismatched the background sizes, the sprite sizes (with each other)(minorly) but for the most part it came together pretty quick. Once the VN was done, it was just about recording it. So I put on the song, and danced along.

[You can download the VN here]

Programs used: Ren’Py, OBS, mspaint, After Effects (just to move the scene over at the beginning)

So I knew I wanted a classic style AMV, so that eventually became Everytime We Touch (Day 5).

The pictures mostly come from a discord server I’m in (hi [redacted]!!!!) and I thought of it like a nice homage to the insanity we had in there. Bless all of you guys, you guys were the ones I wanted this series to be made for the most.

Not much to say beyond that, besides me just editing it all on movie maker as usual.

Programs used: Windows Movie Maker 6

Angel With a Shotgun (Day 4) was the last to be planned for. I predicted it was going to be the easiest to make on the fly (it was) and just kind of winged it. I wanted a unique style still for it though, and the idea of drawing their cubitos came pretty late.

I was not exempt from this trend in my youth (my art in mspaint, age 11, me and my sister)

The rest was history. Just kidding, I really wanted something to do with the shotgun thing so I literally searched “shotgun” in Curseforge and got MrCrayfish’s gun mod just for the shotgun. I loaded up the 3rd Life world I had from my Broken Lives animatic (it’s a custom made world using the seed) and just got to work with FreeCam and OBS (it’s my first time with FreeCam too!)

A rejected clip I didn’t use because of skin consistency / continuity.

Programs used: Minecraft, mspaint, Windows Movie Maker 6

Heat Waves (Day 3) acquired a pixel art style as an homage to its original lyric video. People have said it reminded them of Homestuck, which I honestly don’t mind. It fits the era and I did grow up with it. It kinda looped back in on itself that way.

I blame this frame, here's it as a gif which lies unused.

For the video, the more I rewatched bits of Last Life for it (it’s been a while!) I realized it had a lot more potential than I initially thought. Though I doubt most of it didn’t come through in the final product (I limit these videos to a minute or less, if possible, excepting credits and allowing few more seconds over the minute mark so long as it felt warranted), I tried to cram in what I thought fitting to the prompt the whole time.

The watch tower burning was an easy pick, a classic Treebark moment you might say. For the rest of it, the nuance laid a lot in how Martyn presented the Shadow Alliance. “The Dog, The Shadow, The Roots. We make this place burn.” Under the eyes of the moon, it witnessed this pact form, and its resolution for the server. The moon is included in multiple frames because of this, as a stand-in for the eye of the Watcher(s) I included at the start, watching Martyn through the series.

In a lot of ways, how Lizzie and BigB turned red I also found fascinating. Lava and explosions you could argue are an extension of burning and fire, and an explosion was also how Martyn left the series. Ren, from the start of this alliance, inexplicably committed to and saw through what ultimately rips the people he was loyal to away from him.

Martyn on the other hand, I drew in the later portions quite aware of the position he’s in, hence only his eye in the frame with the last 4 folks. This to me starts a path for him toward where he goes in the later serieses (notably in Limited Life). This is all very “vibes” and instinctual kind of “trust me on this” sort of read on c!Martyn honestly.

On missed opportunities, I’m almost upset at how I never brought up the moment Martyn buys a love crystal from Scar (never used, it got blown up) which I (and a lot of other) may have delusionally thought it was for Ren. Besides that, I never had a chance to desaturate the colours in the video leaving only red (which Ren did upon the encounter of the establishment of the Moon Cult)(it really emphasized Martyn’s lips!), I tried just plain desaturating, but ended up ditching it since it never felt like it jived well with the rest of the video.

All that aside, I finished this one really late (for me, which was past midnight on the day it was going to be posted), so I’m glad it was out on time. It’s the one I put in the most effort for, and I’m glad to see people enjoy it.

The eye on its own, which reveals the Watcher symbol I accidentally did in the wrong orientation. Oops!

Programs used: Aseprite, After Effects

Animal I Have Become (Day 6) was thought on for a while. Eventually I have my eureka moment and I thought it was a nice shout out to the Bannedstory community who I’ve followed in my early days, where I’d watch animations of people’s custom OCs (original characters) made with Maplestory sprites animated to audio clips that I really wasn’t supposed to be listening to at the time lol. That, and all the online games and the like I grew up with on the early internet. I personally didn’t partake in it, but roleplaying on those was a common sight, and I found it endearing.

My partner in crime for this day in particular was @thefluxqueen, because I really can’t be bothered with character customization for a lot of these games (I respect the craft but I lack the patience), but I knew who LOVED doing that. He really knocked it out of the park, helping me do the Gachalife, Club Penguin, and the characters for Animal Jam and Ponytown. For the latter, they handed me the account information and we just went to town.

A Treebark stream in a just world.

I can’t tell you exactly how I assigned the lyrics, but I definitely assigned the animal sections during the chorus so it was a surprise (and so it also fit the lyrics). I did have fun recording and we had a fun time in Ponytown. We were shown where other mcyt fans are by a Grian pony (Hermit Hill) and then we hung out there sitting down while we workshopped the Bannedstory segments with both our sonas together. All in all a great time.

It took a few takes.

Programs used: Bannedstory 3 (I would’ve loved to use 4, I grew up with that!), Gachalife, Club Penguin, Animal Jam, Ponytown, Windows Movie Maker 6, OBS

For Bring Me to Life (Day 7)... I ended up getting more attached to the thought of it the longer this project went on.

I wanted it to be the end all be all, go out with a bang and everything. I kept thinking and thinking, how do I end Treebark week? After a week of homages, how do I make the last one?

What’s beyond my childhood? It was just growing up. But it’s not like I had to let anything go. My artistic endeavors are influenced by all of my experiences. I saw good reason to bring it all home, do a callback to the styles of the entire week, it’s my victory lap.

And why not call back every instance of Treebark through the entire series then? This evolved into me learning more about Martyn’s lore because I want to be informed! I want to make this as someone who earnestly loves the narrative of these characters, and the stories they’ve told.

From a story perspective, it felt like Martyn was always doomed to tragedy. Suppose the life series always does end tragically, but Martyn’s Vtuber in relation to all this has its own inherent tragedy to it. In my eyes, this roamer of cyberspace constantly has to live through different lives with familiar people. The people he loved and cared for in one world will always be ripped from him, and he knows that.

Amongst everything the Unguided Hand gets me the most. In the video I drew the Ren he chases as a shadow. He’ll never get the Ren he knew then, back. Even if he meets another Ren in another world, it's never going to be The Red King. To me, Limited Life is the snapping point, a point of selfishness above all else in the comfortable knowledge that he wins, without ever needing to experience the same closeness and loyalty he had in lives past. The realization that this is what the game was about. Winning at all costs. I wanted the progression to reflect that.

Deep down, maybe he yearns to be saved from all that. The song echoes that sentiment. I tried to match the lyrics to how I saw the timeline of events as close as possible for that to hit. In this, Ren is his anchor, someone that he gets drawn to no matter the incarnation. The tragedy is that Ren, even if he knows about what Martyn’s going through, can’t join him in this journey. Martyn will always be alone in this experience, and Ren can only be a short comfort before the cycle starts anew.

I quite liked the pixel art I did for LimLife!Martyn

From a meta perspective, this video (and by extension, the whole series) is about art and creating. I have been obsessed with art for 14 years now, and as time goes on I’ve grown fond of every way that we, as people, have evolved our storytelling. The multitudes of mediums that we have developed to express ourselves and share narratives will continue to fascinate me endlessly. Cringe be damned, there is a universal desire to create and enjoy stories of all folds. From the smallest story told from painstakingly typing chat boxes for little custom-made characters to say, to the highest production play put on for multiple hours in a game of Minecraft.

And at the beginning of my journey lay paper and pencil. Bring Me To Life is an elaborate pun on my end, yes, but also a reflection of my roots. I started my journey as an artist endlessly doodling the adventures of tiny magical girls fighting demons, drawing fanart of costumes in MMO games I found cool, and sharing them with my friends at school. I find myself still drawing, still creating, for hundreds, if not thousands of eyes to see. Still I get inspired by the stories others tell, and I create in turn. In appreciation, in love.

Bring Me To Life as a song, is a slate that, to me, reflected what I saw in the relationship of Treebark. Bring Me To Life is also a demand, of a piece of art that I had a vision for, that I wanted to bring to life. I struggled at how to end it for a while. Closing the book became very straightforward. It’s the end of this video, this saga, and another way that me, as a Watcher myself (as what they’re originally meant to represent) exercises control over stories in my own unique way. Creation is never limited to a select few. I think everyone should keep getting inspired by the things around them, and keep making art in turn.

To the people who’ve made it til the end here, make art, keep creating. Do shitty doodles, write whatever you want, make sounds and crafts and keep living. That’s all I really want, and this was what this whole series was about.

Programs used: mspaint, Aseprite, Blockbench, Bannedstory 3, Pencil and paper, After Effects

#art #writing #mcyt #treebark #treebarkweek #treebarkweek2024 #inthelittlewood #rendog #itlw #kishdrabbles

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