#for so many different reasons i will fight anyone on this

[bellherald]

Dressrosa was incredibly important for a number of reasons—obvious ones include the formation of the Grand Fleet, the abolishment of the Warlords, and the downfall of Joker and the underworld imploding. But it was also important for reasons more personal to Luffy. It directly validated the timeskip, showing not only that it was necessary but it worked.

You know how Luffy has to chase people down to make them accept his friendship and kinda forces himself on people. I find it fundamentally intriguing that instead of Luffy extending the hand first it was LAW who reached out. He was not thinking of it that way but Law unironically was unlike so many people by doing that and I think that he really played himself so hard there. We know Luffy hates being alone more than anything and often he’s the one chasing down the people he likes to make sure he has his nakama. Then here’s the awesome guy who saved his life and didn’t need anything coming back two years later asking to be friends. Luffy already thought he was a cool dude, he introduces Law to his crew as someone who saved his life just like Jinbe. Luffy introduces him in the same category as a beloved friend and future crewmate before the alliance was even offered.

Not just that, but so often Luffy’s people try to run away to protect him and only endanger themselves(Nami, Vivi, Robin, Usopp kinda, and especially Ace in this moment.) He has to actively fight to be able to help them because Luffy knows he is a strong fighter and can help beat up his problems. But Law asked for his help. Law came to him knowing he’s strong and can help fight his problems.

Luffy had all his specialist boy neurons activate there LMFAO

Ace and Law both isolate themselves from their crews in order to chase down revenge. They’re both on a collision course that will result in them caught and dead. Ace and Law don’t want anyone else involved. Both come across the Straw Hats by chance while pursuing that vengeance—Law doesn’t see Luffy as someone who needs protecting but instead a peer, an equal. He asks for an alliance to take down an emperor. I don’t think Luffy cared which emperor beyond it not being Shanks. Law was asking for help here and Luffy could clock that no matter how he tried to dress it up.

Flash forward to Dressrosa. Law is face to face with his enemy and loses. He loses hard directly in front of Luffy. Luffy is once again locked behind a seastone prison as Law gets taken away just like Ace was. Having to cross an island to reach him again and drag him out of his situation. Luffy refuses to leave him be, ignoring the protests from a chained up Ace/Law and going to fight this battle even if he wants to be left alone. He’s going to be there this time when the fight happens and he’s going to win.

We find out both Law and Ace faced discrimination for their birth, that people thought the world was better off dead and they were angry boys struggling in a world that hated them. They’re seeking revenge for loved one that got killed by a brother (whitebeard sons, donquioxte brothers). They don’t want other people to die for the sake of it and tried to isolate because of it. Luffy doesn’t let Law get away though, refusing to break the alliance and literally dragging him along.

Luffy couldn’t save Ace. Luffy could save Law. Gear 4th being how Luffy took down Doflamingo and the fact that he saved his clan this time directly validated the entire time skip by showing us exactly what Luffy trained for all that time. The power to protect his nakama. Timeskip Luffy could’ve saved Ace but he only existed in the first place because he couldn’t.

Luffy took on everyone’s burden and wills onto his own shoulders. There’s a reason no one died in Dressrosa, it was to show exactly what those two years have lead to. Things are different now. Luffy isn’t weak anymore. The world won against Luffy before—but not now, not this time.

Dressrosa was a turning point that the whole globe took notice of and now the Straw Hats are not only back but they’re going to change everything, whether the world is ready or not.

[tinytownn]

the weight on my shoulders –

pt. iii - gossip girl (no...like please go piss girl) series masterlist

[post-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader]

word count: 12.5k

summary: joel gets caught in trouble, forcing him to flee the boston qz. a few days into his trip, he takes refuge in an abandoned shed where he finds you–scared, starving, and struggling to survive. despite his better judgement, he takes you with him on his journey.

content: violence and descriptions of death, pretty much no actual tlou lore (except the infected, joel's outbreak day events, and jackson), u and joel fight again (not sorry), age gap (27 and 49), slow burn??, mentions of abuse???, no use of y/n

a/n: so...after a month i return!! this chapter is pretty long, but very lightly edited. sorry about that...if i looked at this piece any harder i would have just scrapped it again. it's kind of all over the place and i hate it but i have better parts coming so i just need to truck thru

August 3rd, 2025 -

Something within that tiny corner store on the outskirts of New York softened something between the two of you. Conversation flowed, as much as it could for someone like Joel, his thick and gravelly voice something you became accustomed to. Occasionally, if you caught him on a good day, you would be able to pull a small laugh from his lips that he’d quickly brush away with a pensive hand. 

Your arguments, however, were still as harsh and unforeseen as the last. The proximity of your opposing personalities sometimes drove a wedge between you–Joel’s anger and distrust for the world mixed with your hopeful innocence led to some differences.

He tried to be patient though. 

Instead of resigning to his usual bids of silence, leaving you anxious and bitter for days, he would attempt to reason with you. He opted to explain his discernment, never going into great detail, but sharing enough to know he’s lived enough life for the both of you.

So, slowly throughout the following months, you began to trust his judgment, and followed his lead more than you already had. He had done more than enough to prove he knew his way around–hunted and scavenged for food, knew the best routes to avoid infected, and was strong enough to handle anyone you encountered. 

You had willingly put your life in Joel’s hands from the beginning, but now he fully had your trust too.

The journey hadn’t been all smooth sailing though. Joel seemed to be in a better mood–whatever had happened before you met slowly began to slip off his shoulders. However, the change in atmosphere didn’t dull his survival instincts. Each person you passed, while not many, immediately received a scowl from Joel. He was distrusting, almost hostile, towards anyone you passed. 

Sometimes though, it was for the better. 

Ducked low in the forest, somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania, it was a dull and dreary day, rain pouring down from above. You both walked, hunched through the trees, trying to gain whatever coverage you could. 

Suddenly, a rustling echoed through the forest. Before you could react, an arrow whizzed past your head, digging deep into the trunk of the tree beside you. You gasped, ducking to the side, and Joel’s arm instinctively pulled you to his side.

“Stay close,” he whispered, words barely audible over the downpour. “Be ready to run.”

It was the same simple words he always said. A short ritual of shared heartbeats and sweaty palms. Tense shoulders brushed against each other, sending a shiver down your spine, while you both carefully crunched through the leaves. 

Then, like a flash of lightning, a spark of navy blue rustling fabric shot out through the trees. You whipped your head to catch more than a glimpse of the stranger, but Joel was already ahead of you. His arm left your side, already bounding for the shadowy figure weaving through the brush. 

The sound of a windbreaker wooshed past branches, the fabric snagging and tearing, leaving behind a trail for you to follow. You were ways behind the two, Joel nearly catching up on their heels. Just as the person was about to take a turn, Joel lunged forward, tackling them to the ground.

There was a scuffle in the leaves, stray pine needles and mud sloshing beneath them. Staggered grunts and heaved breaths were the only thing heard from the two men wrestling on the ground. 

As you neared, attempting to catch your breath, you finally got a look at the stranger. Long, blond hair cascaded down the back of his neck, face covered in a messy scruff, and balancing on his nose was a crooked pair of glasses, the right lens cracked.

Joel loomed above him, heavy hand and a firm grip pinning him to the dirt. It was obvious that the crash had already taken a lot out of the men, but Joel persevered, pulling back his arm and following through with a swift punch to the cheek. The man wriggled defenselessly, only movements being an attempt to get away from Joel’s radiating anger.

“Motherfucker,” Joel growled, arm recoiling for another punch. “Why were you watching us?”

“I wasn’t,” the man gasped, eyes squeezing shut, awaiting Joel’s fist. “I swear! I was just passing by! I don’t want any trouble, please.”

“Bullshit,” Joel seethed, fist cracking against the man’s jaw. “You fucking shot at us!”

The noise made you cringe–knuckles against bone. A crack rang out, a cry and helpless whimpers leaving the man’s lips.

“Joel,” you said softly, afraid to disturb whatever beast had awoken in him. 

He didn’t move, knuckles turned white underneath the staining crimson. He gripped the stranger’s shoulders violently, like they would snap if he squeezed any harder. Pure rage flowed off of him, rendering the man underneath him speechless–even before his jaw hung slack from Joel’s punches.

“Joel,” you said more confidently this time–voice firm. “You don’t need to kill him.”

He didn’t even turn to you, a low growl leaving his lips. “Why shouldn’t I? A few inches to the left and that arrow would’ve shot you dead. I’m not leavin’ this bastard here still breathin’.”

Your eyes flicked between your shoes sloshing in the mud and the limp, whimpering body in the leaves. For just a second, your eyes met his, a deep, pleading stare piercing through your skull. Suddenly you felt nauseous, the sight of his mangled jaw and bloodied face too much to take in.  

“Joel, he doesn’t even have a bow,” you yelled, your feet bringing you towards him before you could even think. “I’m sure he’s learned his lesson.”

Hands outstretched, you pushed your palms into his steady shoulder, his hold on the man unyielding. You did little to move him physically, but your efforts snapped him out of whatever trance he was in.

He rose to his feet, the blood and mud caked heavy onto his clothes. Taking a look at the man beneath him, he saw that you were right. The only thing around his chest was the tattered windbreaker and stained white tee–no sign of a bow.

Guilt panged his heart for a moment, his brain leading him to wonder how cruel this world had really made him. But then, another arrow sliced through the air, just barely missing Joel as he stood up. 

Deeper in the woods, hidden behind a thick tree, stood a woman crouched in the shadows. She held a bow shakily in her hands, the quiver lazily strung across her back. 

Bang!

The familiar click of Joel’s gun rang out and your eyes shot to him. Before you could even blink, he pointed the gun to the ground, the man from before still laying in pain. Pulling the trigger, blood painted the forest–and your shoes. 

Your mouth hung open, there was such a deafening ringing in your ears, you didn’t know if you screamed or not. The man, now corpse, lay lifeless in the slush, the hole in his skull gushing out spurts of blood that made you sick. The same thick liquid–a mixture of mud, blood, and rain–covered your boots, oozing underneath them and sticking to the soles. 

Shock having taken over, Joel was far out of your sights before you could tear your eyes away from the scene. Another deafening gunshot pierced the air, your stomach dropping at the sound. 

Then, from through the trees, Joel emerged. Bloodied, but unscathed, he jammed the weapon back into his jeans pocket, wiping some blood off onto the denim. You stood frozen, unable to process everything that had just happened. 

It was all so quick–Joel pouncing on the man, the sound of his jaw cracking, and then as it all seemed to be ending, the moment of betrayal left Joel with one choice, and shockingly no hesitation.

You had always known him to be a man of action, but the icy stare the moment that second arrow shot out scared you. His jaw untensed, breaths evened out, and brow unfurrowed as if this brought him some sort of serenity–a precise, tactical rage that was both deadly and terrifying.

“Here,” Joel muttered, pushing something into your palms.

In your daze, focused on the corpse’s dead weight sinking into the earth, you didn’t notice the weapon in Joel’s hands. 

The sight sickened you.

In his bruised and bloodied hands he held a bow and quiver–the same one that woman held in her trembling hands. He pressed the leather strap of the bag into your hand, outstretching the weapons towards you.

“Figured you could use a weapon,” he said in response to your silence.

You took a step back, adjusting the straps of your backpack. “I figure I’ll be fine,” you mocked, a bite of anger in your tone. “Plus, I’m no good at shooting one anyway.”

That was a lie. In this world, you needed a weapon just to be able to fall asleep peacefully at night. But each glance at the bow repainted the picture of the previous owner cowered in fear as she met what could only be a nightmare inducing scowl from Joel.

“I don’t know what your fucking problem is,” he spat, slinging the bow over your head. “But I just saved your life. Now I’m not expectin’ no thank yous, but droppin’ the attitude would be nice.”

A tense silence filled the air. The same kind that always happened just before one of you and Joel’s arguments. The few moments while you questioned if you really wanted to push his temper–you always did.

“He was running away.” Thunder cracked out from above, rain pouring down even harder now. “You didn’t even bother to see that he had no weapons!”

Wiping a hand over his beard, he groaned, reaching for his backpack long discarded in the leaves. 

“Well his friend did,” he said, grunting as he pulled the arrow from the tree. “Or do you not remember this almost going through your skull?”

Harshly tugging the quiver at your side, he tossed the arrow inside. The bag thudded against your hip, the quills scratching against your arm as you struggled to match Joel’s quickening pace.

“You didn’t even try to talk to them. You just pounced on him…like one of those things.” 

Your words, laced with venom, made him freeze.

“If you want to go around making friends,” he paused for a moment, then resumed his steps to create some distance. “I’ll just let you get killed next time.”

This time it was you that froze. Rain fell heavy like bullets onto your skin, stripping away your flesh until you stood there completely vulnerable. 

Those words alone were like a death sentence. It wasn’t like you couldn’t fend for yourself, medical knowledge and basic survival skills became an ingrained part of everyday life in this new world. It was your innocent naivety that would be your demise–something that Joel didn’t have.

He kept you on a good path, having a sixth sense for danger and every corner it loomed. He had the confidence to know that he could protect not only himself, but you as well, without needing the help of others. He knew other people were far more dangerous than any infected could ever be.

And without him you probably would have been dead tonight.

August 16th, 2025 -

The following days had been painful. 

Despite the beginnings of opening up in the bodega, Pennsylvania had shown to be bringing nothing but bad omens. The state was filled with people, most of them looking for trouble, and after your first encounter in the woods you begrudgingly decided to let Joel take the lead.

Still, you slept with one eye open, not leaving the events of that night behind. Something about it stuck with you, that almost mechanical-like need to kill that filled him in that moment. The image of the man’s face–jaw unhinged, glass from his lenses piercing into his skin–stayed in your mind even in your sleep, dragging the days along slowly.

Joel noticed your shift in energy towards him. You honestly expected him to say nothing about it, taking your retraction as a blessing and bidding his usual vow of silence. The first week was awkward, Joel trying to fill the space with small talk and forced conversation, but the effort was there. Still, your anger raged on–mostly in some unrecognized way of being cautious. 

You figured after a week of brushing off his attempts at talking to you he would give it up. The next morning however, he woke you up with a gentle shake.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” he grinned slyly down at you, something held in his hand hidden behind his back.

The nickname made you huff out, both in embarrassment and frustration, wiping the sleep from your eyes. As usual, your makeshift pillow of sewn together tattered clothing left you neck stiff, a shock of pain only adding to your annoyance.

“I thought we were staying for another day?” you groaned, facing the man with pouted lips.

A few days ago, the two of you had settled in a small town. It was void of any life, or infected, the perfect spot to stay for a few days. Joel had decided the location of the town’s cinema–the most intact building. 

So, the two of you sat on the stained, red carpet of the grand entryway. The velvet ropes that usually formed that line were wrapped around the door handles–something that took Joel too much effort to cut through. Stale popcorn sat in the warmer, butter caked on the glass, and the drink machines reeked of mold and mildew. Above the lonely hallway where Joel had inspected each branching room, hung a black board filled with tattered lettering of the last movies played before the outbreak.

‘Fin ing N mo - 7:30 pm - Ro m 5’

‘Lord f th Rin s - 8:00    -  oo  7’

‘Hulk -  :00 - Room 3’

Reading the names washed a wave of nostalgia over you when you had first walked in, remembering each movie in vivid detail.

“That’s one thing I miss the most.”

Whipping your head around, Joel was behind you, watching you read off the film names. He had been off checking each theater, both for supplies and any lurking infected–you hadn’t expected him back so soon. 

“You liked movies?” you said, a slight surprise in your tone.

“Loved ‘em.” A slight smile twitched at his lips, a distant memory clouding his eyes.

It was odd. Ever since that night in the woods, Joel had been more avid than ever to start conversation. Whether he popped out from within the shadows, filled the empty space while you walked, or spoke to the darkness while you fell asleep, Joel would try to piece together some sort of conversation starter. It was mostly superficial, occasionally hinting at bits of his past life, but always quick to cover it up with rushed steps and a pensive hand across his chin. 

The way you met had put you both in an odd position, but the way Joel had acted throughout the months of knowing you was even odder. 

When his actions towards you were on the softer side–tending to your wounds, providing for you–his words were nothing but cold, his stares icy. But now that you had seen this side of him–violent, impulsive–it seemed like each word he said was calculated, smoothed over with honey. Like he was trying to give off a certain impression, convincing you, and himself, that he wasn’t a monster.

So now as he shook you awake, hands more gentle than ever, you didn’t buy it. If this was his true character, then he should have shown it to you before, not in some cruel attempt to cover up his actions with faux smiles and sappy nicknames.

“We are,” he said, voice low while he cautiously brought his hands from his back–the blood-stained bow now cleaned in his hands. “I just thought I could finally teach you how to use this thing. I’d feel a lot better sendin’ you out with a weapon in your hands.”

He stayed crouched beside you, shoulders tense, awaiting your response. 

The bow in his hands looked cleaned–brand new almost–like it had been rid of everything it had been through. The quiver laid on the ground behind him, the quills peeking out behind his boot, like a tempting wave.

His effort tugged at your heart, a softness in his gaze that almost seemed too real to be an act. You imagined him, deep in the night, washing away the blood, probably splintering himself in the process. 

Since he had first slung that wretched weapon around your shoulder you swore you could smell the stench of death wafting from it–although you knew it was impossible. But he had noticed and taken the time to try and scrub away the memories that haunted you–and unknowingly himself too.

“Sure.”

That was all you gave him with a simple nod as you rose to your feet. You didn’t take the bow from his hands, if you were even able to, just the sight of it made you uneasy. 

Joel stood alongside you, palms splayed across your back as he led you down the hallway. The red carpet grew more stained in the shadows, popcorn and drink cups strewn about, while he ushered you into theatre number seven.

The trip down the walkway was silent. You had fully expected him to bring you into the woods, shooting at some bottles on stumps, or some birds in the trees, not lead you into the depths of a dark and grimy theatre. As you rounded the corner though, a sliver of light caught your eye. A couple lanterns sat posted in the corners of the room, doing a decent job at giving the room a warm, comforting glow.

A display of cardboard cutouts and movie posters were placed at different heights along the torn screen in the front of the room. Jack Sparrow and his pirate crew were plastered in the middle, a cutout of Buddy the Elf standing proudly in the corner, and the shark from Nemo staring dauntingly from the bottom corner–barely visible.

You couldn’t help the laugh that left your lips, “What is all this?”

His lips curved into a playful smirk, once again offering you the bow.

“Target practice.”

“You’re kidding,” your tone was flat, but your face was anything but–a childlike smile on your face, eyes wide.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.” He lowered his head, removing the quiver from around his shoulders. “Pick a target and shoot. We’ll work from there.”

He walked towards you, closing the gap you had been purposefully creating for days. Carefully–almost as if he was waiting for you to push him away–he hung a wary hand near your head, the strap of the bag balancing on his forefinger. Then, when you didn’t flinch, he gently wrapped the leather around your shoulders, adjusting the quiver until it fit snugly against your back.

You couldn’t help the soft blush that warmed your cheeks as he worked–his soft breaths against your ear, arms wrapped around your body, fingers grazing your waist. It was a casual movement, one that didn’t come with much thought from him, but that didn’t stop your find from temporarily racing.

The fear, embarrassment, frustrations–every emotion you had towards this man crashing down on you in that one simple moment. You didn’t know anything about him–nor did he know a thing about you–but the months you had spent by his side were enough to pick away the important parts of him. You felt like you had some understanding of him, and in this moment you realized it was the same for him.

That discomforting feeling in your chest, the one that bubbled each night with crippling fear, you had thought it was fear of Joel at first–his rough demeanor and harsh words were nothing but unkind. But you had soon come to realize your fear and unwarranted anger towards him came from the harsh reality Joel faced you with: that you weren’t ready to survive in this world on your own.

“When did you do all of this?” you asked in awe, taking an arrow from the quiver.

Stepping to the side, Joel leaned back, taking a full view of your figure. You felt small beneath his gaze, uncertain in your movement as you clipped the quill to the string, pulling it back with all your strength.

“Took me a couple nights,” he mumbled softly to let you focus. “Those cases up front weren’t too difficult to crack open. I was afraid I’d wake you up gettin’ them open.” He let out a small chuckle, eyes still focused on your poor form. “You slept like a rock.”

Your fingers let go of the string, a burning sensation brushing across as the thick cord released. Aiming for the center of Johnny Depp’s face, your gaze never left the tip of his nose–where you hoped to hit–until the arrow plunged into Keira Knightly, all the way on the left.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath.

“I take that’s not what you were aimin’ for?”

Your gaze fell to your shoes, embarrassment creeping in. 

“It’s pretty bad isn’t it?”

Softly, you heard Joel's heavy footsteps creep up behind you. His hand, warm and calloused, gently took hold of your arm that held the bow. His chest was pressed firmly to your back now, his beard tickling the side of your face as he leaned down to see your view. Cheeks flushing a deep red, you were glad he couldn’t see your face, but his cheek pressed so closely to yours, you were sure he could feel it.

“Better than when I first started,” his voice, deep and gravelly, sent shivers down your spine as he encased your hand in his. “You just have to steady yourself.”

His boot tapped the inside of your ankle and your breath hitched at the contact. 

Typically tailing feet behind him, the image of Joel in your mind was usually his broad shoulders, boots trudging in the dirt, occasionally reaching a hand up to scratch through his peppered hair. Now, the proximity gave you a glimpse of the man you had never seen before–the scent of cigarette smoke and some earthy undertone flooded your senses, his skin a roaring fire that burned with each touch, and the coarse hair scratching against your smooth skin.

You widened your stance at his request, his foot planted firmly between yours. 

“Take a deep breath.” He lifted the bow with you, sliding his arm around to place an arrow between the fingers of your other hand. He held that one too, fingers entangled with yours around the thick rope. 

“Hold it as you pull back.” Steadily, he pulled back, allowing you to do most of the work, but keeping you still. “Don’t breathe until you release.” 

Then, his hands left yours, taking a step back and leaving you with an unexpected chill. Releasing the bow, the arrow slicing the wind, it struck into the center of the poster. 

A gasp left your lips and the bow dropped to the ground as you jumped in excitement. 

“I did it!” you squealed.

Joel leaned back on the wall, amused at your enthusiasm.

“Not too hard now is it?” his said, hands once again secretly hidden behind his back.

Taking another arrow from the bag, you took it in your hands, inspecting it proudly.

“I could get used to this.”

He smiled. “That’s what I want to hear.” Pulling his arms out from behind him, a small plush polar bear sat in his hands. “You keep up the good work and this is your prize.”

Turning the figure in his hands, you saw it comically had a red sweater and a slushie–the iconic ICEE bear.

“No way,” you gawked, immediately going to snatch the toy from his grasp, until he held it from your reach. “Not fair! Where did you find that thing?”

It was tattered, the sweater gained a few holes during his stay in the rubble filled theatre, but the nostalgia he brought you was more than enough. You jumped up, even balancing on your toes to try and tear it from his hands.

“He was behind the counter.” Joel laughed–a real, hearty, genuine laugh. “I thought he’d be a good motivator. Looks like I was right.”

September 17th, 2025 -

“Keep in the shadows,” he mumbled, voice low and even–he was serious. “Don’t know what’s out here.”

Your feet trudged on the broken sidewalk of what used to be a town somewhere in Ohio. With your leg healed, you both were able to cover more distance than before, a partial reason for Joel’s lift in spirit. 

As you strayed behind him, pace steady, a familiar feeling began to build in your lower abdomen. Crossing your legs and quickening your pace, you tried to fight the feeling, but it persisted.

‘Fuck, not right now.’

Biting your lip, you debated telling Joel. You knew he’d be annoyed by the inconvenience, but he would be even more upset if you slowed him down with your constant leg shuffling. 

Each step had you on your toes, wobbling side to side trying to ease your pressing bladder. You tried placing your focus on Joel’s heavy steps ahead of you, attempting to replicate them. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Joel’s stern whisper caught you by surprise, earning an especially tight press of your thighs.

Legs crossed and movements jittered, you shamefully refused to meet his piercing gaze. You could feel this patience thinning and knew the truth was the only thing getting you out of this. Supplies had been running low, Joel taking the lesser half had left him particularly exhausted and agitated the past week. His eyes–encompassed in dark clouds, lids hung low–were only a further demonstration of that.

Hands awkward clasped behind your back, you spoke in a barely audible whisper. “I think I have to pee…”

His grip, tight on your wrist, caught you by surprise. A low groan left his lips at the comment and embarrassment panged in your chest.

“I told you to go before we left,” he growled, words sharp. “Go back there. And make it quick.”

You stumbled deeper into the alleyway. Broken glass crunched underneath your feet and bits of plywood and garbage practically made you unable to see the ground. A rotting, rusted dumpster sat in the corner, its presence dismal and grimy. It wasn’t an ideal place to use the restroom, but it was the only cover you had from Joel who kept guard at the entrance.

His back was turned, his broad shoulders and thick muscles flexing through his sleeves as he surveyed the area. He kept a tight hold on the small gun you had found on a previous supply run. There were minimal bullets left, but Joel knew to use them well and sparingly. 

Fingertips fumbling at the waistline of your jeans, you struggled to undo the button. You danced on the tips of your toes, your bladder threatening to burst at any second. Your fingers restlessly worked at the worn button that was sloppily resewn, mumbling silent curses to yourself. 

Then, a low groan rumbled through the depths of the alley. Your entire body froze, tensed in fear. Pupils dilated, desperate to adjust to the shadows, you kept your wide eyes focused on a pile of wood pallets and trash where the sound erupted from.

Not taking any chances, you took a careful step backwards. Too terrified to tear your eyes away from the corner, that low rumble still vibrating off the walls, a stray piece of trash caught your foot. Stumbling backwards, you regained your balance with a yelp. Shooting your head back towards the pile, a hand crept out from the rubble, anchoring a spongy, rotted body from the trash.

Without hesitation, you started your way towards the light of the street. Feet carrying you as fast as they could, you grabbed ahold of Joel’s gray sleeve, tugging him towards you.

“Joel, run!” you screamed, hands travelling down to get a more secure hold onto his arm, nails digging into the skin.

It had been a while since you had encountered any infected, let alone a clicker. The groups you stayed with hid deep in the woods, far from any wandering infected. Most patrol groups were led by the men, leaving you to tend to things back at the camp–not that you minded. All your close calls and encounters with infected were at a young age, leaving traumatic, scarring memories of their reeking flesh inches from your face.

Just simply seeing the decaying, fungus flesh rise from the rubble struck an unfathomable fear within you. Joel had sworn to protect you and you never had any doubts in him, but you had seen what those things could do.

Joel was quick to match your pace, instead taking your arm in a firm grasp, dragging you behind him as he began to outrun you. He didn’t bother to question the situation, the deafening clicks that rang from the alleyway were enough to piece things together. 

You had only seen him like this a handful of times–jaw so tense it might snap, every muscle tensed so harshly a sweat formed at his brow, and nails dug so deep into your skin it bled. Nothing was on his mind except whatever last second escape plan he had formulated in his head. Despite the thrumming heartbeat you could feel in his wrist, his body oozed an unmistakable confidence as he twisted through corners and ducked under fallen signs.

Your panicked scream, combined with the persistent creaking of the berserk clicker had attracted a swarm of runners from a nearby building. The group had at least five infected, arms outstretched, croaking out horrific sounds as they hurled themselves towards you. 

Each time you would sneak a glance over your shoulder, you would stumble over your feet, Joel harshly tugging you upright. 

“Focus,” he huffed, voice breathy and ragged.

Firing off a few hurried shots, Joel widened the distance, striking the clicker until only two bullets remained. The rest of the infected shrieked at the sound, their pace slightly staggering at the sudden shock of the bullets ringing out.

His chest heaved, shoulders tense from the tightening of his lungs as he pushed himself to keep running. The deeper he ran into town, the more buildings and obstacles he could use to lose the band of runners. Their animalistic howls and slobbering grew more distant, but he didn’t dare look back just yet.

Then, as you reached the center of town–a large bell tower in the middle and four surrounding buildings–Joel brought you up the stairs of the town hall. Four grand, white pillars stood proudly at the entrance, allowing enough coverage for you to hide behind them. 

The windows of the building were boarded securely, a contrast to the rest of the town that had been scoured through and destroyed. Even the door was securely shut, something that was rare nowadays–most doors blown to bits, or the lock busted off. Instead, the two stately doors, knobs still golden and glistening in the sun, stood proudly as if the very town it stood for wasn’t in shambles.

A deafening silence filled the air. The only sounds came from your thrashing heart and Joel’s staggered breaths. His hands on his knees, he tried catching his breath, the sound of the runners finally having subsided. 

The peace didn’t last long though, a rattling of chains echoed from behind the door, the metal eerily scratching against the wood. Joel was quick to react, sliding from his place behind the pillar and slinging an arm around your waist, the other reaching for the gun in his back pocket. He pulled you so close you could hear his heart beating almost in time with yours, his breath fanning on your ear as he whispered strict instructions.

“Whoever is in here–do not trust them,” he warned, gun steadily aimed towards the entrance. “Let me do the talkin’.”

You nodded, the lump in your throat keeping you from responding–as if you had any time to. The doors groaned open and you held your breath, hoping for a kind face, some water, or simply any refuge from the infected that were surely still roaming the streets. 

A low creaking rumbled the porch beneath you, the doors opening slowly with wear and time. Behind them, stood a couple. A man was in front, maybe in his late thirties, with a thick head of brown hair in a bowl shape on his head. The woman looked much younger–even younger than you–her long, blonde hair cascading down her back. Both were dressed in an unusually put together outfit. Her ankle length dress seemed almost untouched and a simple gold cross necklace lay delicately on her collarbone. He was in a tucked in polo, unscathed khakis, and matching silver cross.

“Get inside!” The man waved his hand, ushering you both towards the door. “Quick! Before they track you here.”

At first, you didn’t hesitate, the fate of whatever was in store for you inside seemingly better than the horde of infected on your trail. But then, in a firm grip, Joel took your wrist and pulled you back towards him.

Brow furrowed, you turned to face him. 

Was he crazy?

You had pretty unfriendly encounters with people before, but surely this situation called for an exemption of Joel’s typical distrust. The two figures in the doorway looked like they would blow away if the wind blew hard enough, there was more chance of taking them on than the group of infected.

Back pressed to his chest, you could feel his hesitance seeping into you. His breaths were heavy, the groaning sounds of infected coming closer left him with little time to think, and you knew he was trying to come up with something, anything, to not have to enter a house with strangers.

Unexpectedly though, he held you close to his side, but still taking the lead as he walked through the doors. The couple promptly shut them behind you, a series of locks being wrapped and chained shut.

“Are y’all crazy?” the man huffed out, his southern thicker than Joel’s, almost incomprehensible. “I ain’t ever seen a group of those things that big and y’all still waited to come inside! You two musta met some real crazy folks hestiatin’ on an offer like that.”

The arm wrapped around your waist tightened, his fingers digging deeper into your side, bringing you hip to hip. Looking up at Joel, there was a clear scowl painted across his face, trying to give off an intimidating air. His other hand had a careful hold on his gun, fingers curled around the handle–and trigger–ready to shoot at any moment.

“It’s a dangerous world out there,” was all Joel muttered, eyes burning holes through the man’s skull.

“Couldn’t agree with you more.” Seemingly unfazed, the man stuck out his arm to Joel. “The name’s Samuel and this here is my wife Liz.”

Samuel lowered his hand when Joel only nodded in response. 

In a slight effort to ease the tension, your gaze fell upon the petite woman, almost cowering in her husband’s shadow. Liz’s hands gently clasped in front of her, shoulders slightly hunched forward as she bowed her head downwards, eyes focused on her shoes.

“Well,” Samuel continued, breaking the thick silence. “Liz and I have been stayin’ here for a while now and don’t mind y'all stayin’ as long as you need,” he paused for a moment, eyes suddenly flickering to you. “But I can’t just keep two strangers in here, now can I?”

“We’re not stayin’,” Joel said firmly.

He started towards one of the windows, trying to get a peek through the boards, but never fully turning himself away from the two. 

The scene outside had calmed, most of the infected had been lost in the chase, but there were still others staggering about. They dragged the worn soles of their feet across the pavement, gasped breaths and painful wails escaping their decayed lips.

“Well you can’t possibly be thinkin’ of going out there.” 

Joel’s shoulders stiffened and his eyes glazed over, probably scheming up some way to get out of this situation. 

“Just stay for dinner.”

Samuel offered yet another solution within Joel’s introspective silence. The offer was so casual, too casual even. Being invited over for dinners wasn’t something too common nowadays, most food being rationed and eaten in portions. Not only were they offering their valuable food to strangers, but ones that wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there.  

“Fine,” Joel caved, his hand dipping deep into his pockets, fingers curling around the hunting knife he always kept with him. “But if things clear up before then, we’re out of here.”

“Of course,” the man nodded, wrapping an endearing arm around his wife. “We wouldn’t want to stop ya from where you’re headed.”

The next moments were filled with a thick, awkward silence, only growing by the second. Liz stood stiff under her husband’s arm, eyes focused on her dusty mary janes. Not once during the conversation had her eyes lifted to meet yours–or anybody’s. Her retraction piqued your curiosity, such a contrast to the personality of her partner. Samuel had answered each question, invited you inside, and persisted you stay for dinner all while his wife stood like a statue.

Joel’s eyes were focused, not once caring to look your way, only caring about the potential danger in front of him. He still stood uncomfortably close, the hair on his knuckles tickling your fingers as they brushed past, ready to grab your wrist and run.

It was the same practice every time he sensed a threat, but this time it persisted. Usually Joel took you by the arm, dragging you away the moment he got uncomfortable, and leaving it at that.

This was nothing like those times.

Joel was trapped and he didn’t know what to do.

Like a caged lion he sat, waiting for his captor to strike, and then would tear him to pieces.

Then, his eyes flickered to you, sticking just a moment too long. You shifted under his gaze, his eyes panning uncomfortably low. It wasn’t until then that you realized the damp, sticky feeling through your jeans.

In the chase, your bladder must’ve let loose, the fear and adrenaline taking hold of your body. You were too focused on survival to notice, but now, the denim stuck to your thighs set a dark crimson hue to your cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t realize,” you stuttered out, voice cracking in embarrassment.

Eyes dropping to your shoes, you couldn’t bear to look at the reaction of those around you. Joel’s face kept replaying in your mind–those hazel eyes growing wide, unable to look away as his brow softened with a newfound pity. 

Instinctively, he shielded you, stepping in front of you to cover whatever dignity you had left. With his back turned to you, the worn soles of his shoes all that you could see, a slight weight was lifted from your shoulders knowing these strangers couldn’t see your accident.

“That’s quite alright,” Samuel laughed–not a teasing one, but a warm, almost comforting laugh. “I’m sure Liz has something you can change into. Right dear?”

“Yes, honey,” her voice was just as small as her, barely able to pick up on the words she said. 

“Perfect,” Samuel waltzed dangerously close to Joel, closing the gap with a hand to the shoulder. “We’ll help you get settled and how about you help me get the meat for dinner tonight?”

Joel stiffened, straightening his back to both shield you and try to brush off Samuel’s hand.

“Whaddya mean?” he asked suspiciously.

Samuel tightened his hand, pulling himself to stand side-by-side with Joel–too touchy for both of your likings. His other hand waved in the air, pointing towards a grand double staircase that stood in the middle of the room. 

“Ya see,” he beamed proudly. “We were able to get a generator and some fuel. To save power we only have it hooked up to the freezer downstairs, keeps all the meat nice ‘n fresh. I need your help connectin’ it to the kitchen so these ladies can get to cookin’. We’re havin’ a feast tonight!”

His voice echoed through the mostly empty corridor and despite his enthusiasm, Joel didn’t seem any more impressed–only more suspicious.

Finally turning back to you, Joel looked over to you with apologetic eyes–not something he gave very often. Sweat drenched hair clung to your skin, cheeks slightly flushed, but what his eyes stuck on was the streaks of red trailing down your arm. 

In his frenzy, Joel didn’t think about how rough he grabbed your arm—only that it was enough to keep you upright and running. 

Now, he didn’t waste time slinging the bag from around his shoulders, brushing off Samuel’s hand. Stepping away, he placed it on a nearby bench, fishing though for the pack of medical supplies.

“I need to patch up her arm first,” he muttered, knowing he was mostly stalling for time. “Then I can help you.”

Once again, Samuel stepped a little too close–this time to you. He took your arm, lifting it to inspect the wound. 

“Nothin’ my Liz can’t fix.” That same toothy smile plastered on his face. 

Taking your other arm, Joel had stepped behind you, gently pulling you towards him.

Between the two men, you felt minuscule. Joel’s intimidating presence had always made him seem so much bigger–stronger. But the vibe Samuel gave off was even larger, more discomfoting–demanding even. 

His constant proximity and physical contact took you back, it was almost like interacting with people from a distant time, before all of this had happened. Their pristine clothes, sunshine smiles, and glistening skin were all so out of place in this dilapidated home–but so were you with your urine soaked jeans, blood stained t-shirt, and the gruff man leading you around like a dog.

“I’d like to take care of it myself.”

Palms in the air, backing away in defeat, Samuel retreated towards the stairs. 

“A man wants to take care of his wife, I respect it.”

You opened your mouth to correct him, but the words didn’t find their way. Something about the way Joel took your arm in his hand, giving it an immediate tight squeeze as if to say keep your mouth shut. 

So you listened, too embarrassed to say a word even if you had the chance.

The couple made a slow retreat, Samuel with a teasing grin and directions to the kitchen, and Liz with a slight wave and soft promise to return with clothing.

“What the fuck,” you whispered, not even waiting for the two to fully ascend the stairs.

Cloth in hand, he dabbed the blood from your skin, the slight tinge of alcohol burning into the wound. His fingers curled tightly around your wrist, pulling you closer before he spoke.

“I don’t like how they’re tryna separate us,” he mumbled lowly, voice thick with concern and his stare sharp and intense.

Rolling your eyes, you flicked your focus to the interior of the building. It was all white with dark, wooden accents on the railing and support beams. The building was old for sure, but hadn’t cracked to time, the foundation was still standing as strong as ever. The furniture had mostly been cleared out of the room you stood in, but down a darkened hallway, you could make out the shapes of a library filled with bookshelves and papers strewn across the floor in some sort of barricade. 

The upstairs looked more put together from what you could see. A small bust statue intact at the top of the stairs and other historical paintings and documents sat faded on the walls. A low buzzing could be heard through the floorboards, most likely the generator Samule spoke about in the basement. Another staircase, this time more compact and discrete, sat hidden in the corner of the room, a little latched door covering the entrance.

“You don’t trust anybody,” you teased, finally meeting his gaze. “Surely me saying we’re not married isn’t gonna get us killed.”

He huffed at the realization you weren’t on his side–or that you at least wouldn’t be taking this as seriously as him.

“They don’t need to know a damn thing about us,” he warned, his voice even lower now–almost threatening. “If I can’t find us a way outta here in time, you don’t tell that woman a damn thing. You understand?”

His gaze kept shifting between you and the stairs, like he was waiting for Samuel to come back down and intrude. You knew he couldn’t help his distrust, the topic being a hot point of contention, but it still irked you. These people had shown you more kindness than most had given you in the years since the outbreak, and despite Joel’s attitude, still invited you to dinner.

“C’mon, they’re trusting us down here all alone and you can’t even give them your name?”

Still warily close, you noticed the way he stood on edge, like any misstep and the floor would crumble beneath him. In all the moments you two had been pressed against the wall–hordes of infected on your trail, the whizzing of bullets as Joel shot back at raiders–he always knew what to do, or at least acted like it. Now, it was evident he had no plan with how his eyes nervously shifted and each word you spoke made him bite the inside of his cheek raw.

As he wrapped the last of the bandages around your arm, he gave you one final waning stare, eyes sharp and intense. “We’re not doin’ this here. I don’t care about whatever little peace project you’re trying to pursue here, but we are not here to make friends.”

Instinctively, you opened your mouth to snap back at him, but his patience wore thin.

“We’ve already been over this. You’re stayin’ with me so you keep your mouth shut if you want to live. I’m not gettin’ a good feeling about these people.” His words were so hushed, you had to lean in so close his breath fanned your face. 

His paranoia had begun to seep through your skin, creating a deep pit of anticipation in your stomach. You began to grow uncomfortable under his stare–the alcohol dully buzzing on your skin, the way his fingers pressed onto your skin, and the darkened denim that awkwardly clung to your thighs in a moistened, clammy grip. 

Almost as if on cue, just as Joel was pulling away, his words still lingering in the air, Samuel pushed open the doors at the top of the staircase. His footsteps were heavy, clicking against the wood in hurried–almost impatient–steps. The ever-present smile on his face told a different story though as he looked at you over the banister, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I hate to intrude,” he sang, southern drawl thick and crisp. “With everyone tryin’ to get to Chicago, people’re in too much of a rush to get outta here. So, we usually don’t get any guests.” Samuel’s eyes flicked to Joel. “Can’t help but be cautious. No offense.”

Joel nodded warily. The distance he had created was slight, but still enough to grab you in a moment's notice. 

Since the stay in the old theatre, Joel had been more inclined to trust you to handle yourself. He seemed to fully trust you to protect yourself–and him if needed. The moment you stepped foot into this building though, the floor creaking and door groaning almost like some kind of call, Joel had been on edge. His distrust was a usual trait of his that annoyed you, but this proximity and paranoia was beginning to worry you.

Your shoulders stiffened as Samuel's gaze trailed back to you. Not wanting to abandon what little faith you still had in the world, you stood straight, trying to ignore the growing pit in your stomach. The feeling of something wrong was beginning to pile in your chest, a cold sweat forming on the back of your neck as the two men exchanged words muffled by your anxiety.

Although he was talking to Joel, when you regained focus you could see that Samuel was still looking at you–or maybe through you. And Joel had definitely taken notice. He tried to ignore it, brushing it off by urging conversation, now more keen to the idea of getting Samuel out of here–even if it meant being alone with him.

Joel had creeped slightly up the stairs now, leaning onto the railing, knuckles turned white as he gripped the wood. “How come I ain’t ever hear anythin’ about this group before?”

His words confused you, dropping into the middle of a conversation you were meant to be paying attention to. 

“I thought it was the Fireflies at first,” Samuel said, his long legs carrying him down the staircase. “But it seems like some other group that thinks they can save the world. Sounds like a lot of lies to me, but they had lots of people convinced. Whole group of ‘em came through here ‘bout a month ago talkin’ about some museum.”

Eyes thinning, Joel looked at the man skeptically. Although confused, you joined in on the skepticism, as many people as you had been around, you hadn’t ever heard of such a group.

“How come you haven’t joined them yet?”

Samuel shook his head, letting out a soft chuckle under his breath. “Like I said, I don’t believe in any of that stuff. All that genetic mutation and human trials they’re doin’ down there just ain’t human. It ain’t God’s way.”

The way those words left his lips, the sharpness of them, sent a chill down your spine. Throughout your stay, Samuel had been nothing but cheerful, that characterizing grin never leaving his face. Now, it was replaced with a deep scowl that spread across his entire face, his eyes melting into something darker.

Joel hesitated for a moment, the noticeable shift in the air catching him off guard. “Don’t sound like anything we’d be interested in either. Chicago wasn’t on our itinerary anyways.”

Almost as if nothing happened, that toothy grin returned to Samuel’s face. “Listen, I don’t know where y’all are headed,” his gaze was slightly more serious now, his voice having a deep, more affirmative tone to it. “But Liz and I belong to this group out west that I could really see you two havin’ a place in. I ain’t tryin’ to force nothin’ on y’all, but thought I’d make the offer before you left.”

Knowing Joel would protest, Samuel took a careful step forward, holding out a handful of clothes he had tucked beneath his arm. He took a glance over the pile in his hands, then one more analyzing look over your figure, and you instinctively shuffled your legs, trying to cover the stain.

“I was scared these wouldn’t fit,” he said, urging the clothes into your hands. “But lookin’ at you close up I think you’ll be just fine. Should fit like a glove.”

If you weren’t in the middle of the apocalypse–sweat clung to every inch of your body, standing with piss down to your ankles–you would have thought he was making some creepy attempt to hit on you. This unflattering situation though, just made his persisting kindness seem like pity and an unnecessary kindness you hadn’t been shown in a long time–not even from Joel.

So despite your intuition telling you something was off, you bathed in the short lived attention, graciously taking the fabric from Samuel’s hands. Unfolding it, you held a thin, cotton dress–something you hadn’t worn in years. You couldn’t remember the last time you had worn something other than pants or shorts, anything else seeming like a luxury of the past. 

The dress was a darker green with a delicate floral pattern threaded into the neckline. It was a similar cut to the one Liz wore, modestly spanning to your ankles, and the sleeves puffing around the shoulders with an elastic hem. A thick band of an even darker green wrapped around the waist, slightly cinching it, but the most noticeable feature was how spotless the whole thing was–like someone had spent hours caring for it.

“This is way too nice,” you shook your head, pushing the dress back into his hands. “I can’t take this–I’ll just ruin it.”

A deep, hearty laugh erupted from Samuel’s lips, taking both you and Joel by surprise. 

“Don’t even worry ‘bout it,” he chuckled, placing his hands on his thighs as he doubled over. “All that woman does is sew these dresses. She’s thrilled to finally have someone else wearin’ em.”

Nodding your head in appreciation, you clutched the dress to your chest. Each stitch looked professional, the entire piece beautiful, and you made a mental note to thank Liz later.

Turning back to Joel with a small smile, he gave you a slight nod of approval. For just a moment, his eyes flicked to the dress tightly held in your hands, followed by an even quicker glance to your frame, picturing how you would look in it.

Before you could catch him, the familiar creak of the door began to rumble through the floorboards once again. All three heads turned and a timid Liz peeked her head through the opening. 

Looking at his wife, Samuel’s lips curled into an even tighter smile. “Perfect timing, dear. Why don't you get dinner started, hmm? You can show our new guest around?”

Joel’s eyes met yours with a knowing stare–you were out of time.

You both would have to face the inevitable and go your separate ways.

Taking a few cautious steps towards the door, you didn’t dare look back at Joel again. There was something off about him. How instead of exuding confidence and an unwavering boldness, he now leaked fear from every pore and his brow knit with worry. And it scared you.

Even when running from the infected, you felt the fearlessness coursing through Joel’s veins, and your confidence in him was strong enough to give you the will to look back over your shoulder. Now, you felt nothing but uneasiness behind you and knew looking back at him would break you–and any hope you had.

Most of the upstairs was shockingly dark, curtains drawn and doors shut to most of the rooms down the hallway. A large kitchen and dining room stood openly connected, taking up most of the space of the second floor. To the right, slightly branching off from the two, was a half bathroom, a small flickering lantern balanced on the lip of the sink.

Her voice, light and airy, barely drifted its way towards you. “You can use that bathroom to change. I left a washbucket in there if you’d like to use it.”

You gave her a thankful nod and started towards the bathroom. It was dimly lit and you stumbled on the cracked tiles beneath you. On the floor next to the sink, sat an old wooden bucket filled with water that steamed up into the air. A patched washcloth sat along the edge of it along with a pair of washed undergarments, also adoring a few sewn on patches. 

Sitting on the edge of the toilet, the lid ripped from its hinges and lost somewhere, you balanced on the edge, careful to keep your belongings clean. You stripped off your clothing, the cool porcelain shooting goosebumps through your skin. Fingertips dipped into the hot water, longing to be able to sink your entire body within the bucket for a refreshing bath. Lathering a sliver of soap within the cloth, you brushed the suds across your limbs, massaging the bubbles deep into your skin.

Travelling with Joel meant sticking to the forests, rivers, parks–pretty much anywhere people weren’t likely to be roaming around. Supply trips were scarce and mainly for food, water, and medical supplies. 

“We ain’t got room for luxuries.” He would groan each time you tried to bring along a cracked lipstick tube, dried out nail polish, or anything that would give you even the hint of femininity. And apparently soap fell into that category for him as well.

There was one time you had found a half-full bottle of 3-in-1 and although the sight of it sent shivers down your back, it was better than nothing. That glorious bottle only lasted a month however, before your weekly routine of river showers and hair lathering were cut short by Joel’s outrageous overuse of product.

You let out a breath of air through your nose. A smile tugged at your lips, a memory replaying, your hair sopping wet, not bothering to have dried off before storming over to toss the empty bottle at Joel’s head.

Drying off with the tattered towel hung on the back of the door, you slipped the dress over your head, reaching around to clasp the back. The mirror was faded and cracked along the edges, but the middle gave a clear image of yourself you hadn’t seen in a while. One not caked in blood, nails free of grime and dirt, and in a handmade dress nonetheless.

Patting down the fabric at your hips, you smiled warmly at your reflection. Seeing Liz’s unscathed image, her skin silky smooth, hair unknotted, and clothes ironed and unstained, made her seem like a spectacle–an art piece in the middle of this broken down town. Now, for just a moment, you felt like that as you looked back at yourself.

Shaking your head, you placed your focus elsewhere, the reality of your situation striking that sinking feeling back in your chest. Folding the rest of your clothes neatly on the counter, you wrung out the washcloth until it was almost dry. Although you knew no one was looking, you couldn’t help but cautiously look over your shoulder before slipping the last sliver of soap into the rag and into your sock, hidden in your boot. 

It wasn’t the best hiding place, or the cleanest, but you knew Joel would appreciate it nonetheless. You could imagine the short nod of approval and softening of his face that would truly tell you he liked it–although his every word would say otherwise.

You could hear him now:

“Where’d you get this from?”

“You don’t need to be stealin’!”

“What’d I tell you about carryin’ things we don’t need?”

Each word that fell from his lips would be a front of denial for the bar of soap he would likely use all of in one singular shower. But you had gotten pretty good at reading Joel at this point and knew better than to pay attention to anything that left his mouth.

Finally ready to leave the bathroom, hoping you had stalled long enough for Joel to have returned, you took a cautious step out the door. Immediately, the smell of vegetables cooking and the lingering scent of garlic filled the air. Instinctively your legs, and your stomach, led you to the kitchen.

Standing on her toes, Liz was propped in front of the oven, stirring ingredients into a large pot. The lights were now on in the shared kitchen and dining space, the overhead lights filling the room with a warm glow, and the hood fan roared in the background. 

It had been a while since you had seen actual, functioning electricity, let alone a working kitchen. You stood in the doorway in awe, watching as Liz danced from counter to counter, chopping up vegetables and measuring mason jars of broths as if this luxury was an everyday occurrence. 

Turning to grab a knife from the block on the island, Liz noticed you watching. With a slight gasp, she acknowledged your presence, a soft smile pulling her lips into a childish grin. 

She waved, urging you towards her as she held out what looked like a grape held between her fingers. “Come here! You have to try these, they’re amazing.”

Without the two men around, Liz had really seemed to come out of her shell, that meek and timid crease in her brow replaced with an uplifted joy. 

Popping the green fruit between your lips, you couldn’t help but hum at the taste. The closest you had gotten to fresh fruit were canned peaches and the berries on bushes you passed–nothing compared to this.

Eyes wide, you peered around the kitchen, looking for more. “Where’d you get these? They’re so good.”

Liz giggled, a cute, giddy giggle that she covered with the edge of her cardigan sleeve. “We grow all sorts of things back at home. The freezer downstairs lets us keep all of it fresh so we can cook with it while we’re here.”

“Back home?” you raised a brow, placing all your weight on your elbows as you leaned back onto the island. “You two don’t live here?”

Before returning to the stove, Liz pushed a wooden bowl of grapes across the counter. 

“We’re from a camp back in Utah,” she started, that warm gaze sapped from her eyes the moment the words left her lips. “There’s a whole group of us at the farm, ten married couples just like me and Samuel…”

There was a tense silence that filled the air, the only sound coming from the bubbling of the pot beneath her. You could tell there was more to what she had to say, the words stuck in a lump that bobbed in her throat, so you stayed quiet.

“Samuel got into a fight with our church leader,” a short spurt of a laugh left her lips, but nothing on her face looked like anything was funny. “So he sent us out here to gather…supplies for the farm.”

Brow furrowed, your rolled grapes between your fingers, trying to piece together her story. 

“All the way out here? Aren’t we in Ohio?”

Liz solemnly nodded. “A few men from the group set up a few safehouses, like this one, across the country. Both so we can take longer supply trips, but also in case anything happens to the farm. We’ve got crops, animals, electricity, a lot of things people would come after us for…I’m glad we’re out here.”

You sighed at the thought of this farm Liz spoke about. Working electricity, food at your fingertips, and a stable roof over your head sounded like a dream. Samuel’s offer didn’t seem so daunting anymore. So why did Liz seem like she hated it?

“This place is pretty nice,” you bit your lip, trying not to pry. “I haven’t seen anything like this in years. A whole farm full of buildings like this is crazy…”

She shrugged. “It’s not all it's cracked up to be. This world…it changes people.” 

For a moment she paused, looking you in the eyes, neither of you knew what to say. You both sat in the weight of her words, trying to rethink the situation despite your obvious envy.

“Has your husband,” Liz started up again, taking every moment of this alone time to give into her curiosity. “Always been that way?”

You laughed, immediately catching onto her lack of subtlety. “For as long as I’ve known him? Yes.” Taking a sharp breath in, you pondered how much you should share–Joel’s warning still lingering in your mind. “And he’s not my husband.”

If it was even possible, Liz’s face grew even more pale. She turned back to the stove in a frenzy, trying to cover up her pupils that had blown wide, her warm brown eyes now focused on the pot in front of her.

“But Samuel said…”

Confused by her reaction, you straightened yourself off the counter. Her shoulders stiff and rigid, only moved to chop vegetables, the clink of the knife against the counter more intense and forceful than before.

“Well Samuel was wrong. Joel didn’t say-” you froze once you realized you mentioned his name. The casual conversation with Liz had made you grow too comfortable, forgetting everything Joel had warned you about, but still you carried on. “He didn’t say anything, but we’re not together.”

“How do you know him then?” Her words were quick and sharp, like she was running out of time.

“We just sort of…met,” you shrugged, popping another grape in your mouth. “He’s looked after me ever since.”

Reluctantly, Liz tore her eyes from the stove, barely making eye contact with you as she spoke. “Does he treat you right? I mean– I’m sorry, it’s just that– your arm. A-and the way he spoke…”

Eyes wide, you shook your head, arms outstretched in front of you. “No, no, no! It’s nothing like that, we were just in a rush, that’s all. He can be a little harsh sometimes, but nothing more than words.”

“You don’t have to put up with that you know?”

Snorting, you let out a genuine laugh, only to look at Liz’s deadpan expression and saw she wasn’t joking. 

Sure, from the few minutes they were in the same room, Joel hadn’t made the greatest impression. But to hint at the idea that was unkind–abusive–to you was just absurd. Almost a complete breach of boundaries.

“Jo-” you began, only to shake your head in frustration. “He isn’t like that. I don’t know what kind of idea you’ve got, but it’s the wrong one.”

A surprising surge of confidence exuded from the girl beside you, now staring into your eyes with an unforeseen intensity.

“I’ve seen cruel people in this world and he’s one of them,” her words were icy now, venomous, as she spat them in your face. “He has nothing but anger in his heart and it’s only a matter of time before that anger is towards you. I’ve seen it happen too many times. You need to leave before he kills you.”

Stunned, you stood shocked. Liz was beside you, gripping the handle of the pot, knuckles white as she shook with rage. Or maybe fear?

Placing your palms on the counter, you slightly grounded yourself. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Liz, but I think it’s time you stop.” 

Her words were sending an eerie chill down your spine, some unrecognizable force–maybe your intuition–telling you, for some reason, that she was right.

“I can see you care about him,” her words were more hushed now, but still that direct, cold tone. “But, that man isn't capable of loving anything. He may say he cares, but he only knows how to provide. So take your heart and run before he crushes it and kills you with it.”

That soft spoken voice from before, now shot holes through your chest with each word she uttered. Her voice was like a song, singing the lyrics to a hymn that destined your fate. Each word she spoke was certain, so sure. You had no choice, but to trust her somewhere deep down in your gut.

You’d never let her know that though. You had sworn your loyalty to Joel, a silent pact as you two parted on the stairs. An agreement made in that one, simple nod.

“I appreciate you for looking out for me, but he’s the only reason I’m alive right now,” you clenched your hands into tight fists at your side. Your mind went back to that fateful night, the thud of that granola bar against your chest, the exact moment you knew Joel was going to save you. “I’m sticking by him because I care for him as a friend and nothing more. We keep each other safe.”

Guilt panged your heart, like uttering those very words betrayed your entire being. You don’t know why saying those words made you feel the way it did, almost as if a veil had been lifted to expose your true feelings.

It wasn’t something you’d ever had much time or reason to think about. Most days were spent on the go, exhaustion and hunger ready on your mind, clouding any other thoughts throughout the day. Conversations with Joel had only really been apparent within the last month, some sort of unspoken guilt laced in each conversation since that night in the woods, so you didn’t think much of it. 

Each “affectionate” act from Joel just seemed like some sort of redemption plan. A way to earn back your trust each time it frayed. And although you played along each time and gave in, you knew the motive behind his actions. 

But that doesn’t mean it meant any less–the way he let his guard down, eyes slightly softened with anticipation of how you’ll react, and the self-assured grin each time you’d clap your hands in amusement. 

Your relationship–if you could even call it that–with Joel was complicated, but not for a second abusive. If you had feelings for Joel or not would be a topic to ponder on another day, because even if you did, all of the words Liz said about him would still be lies.

Before you could bite back though, the beginnings of an argument brewing in your mind, Liz spoke up in that usually soft voice. 

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, backing down, that surge of confidence from before puddling at her feet. “I shouldn’t have assumed…he just reminds me of someone I knew.”

For a moment you felt bad for raising your voice, even if it was slight. The sight in front of you was pitiful, the woman completely retracted back into her shell just as you had met her–shoulders up to her ears, head ducked down, anything to make herself appear smaller.

“It’s okay,” you assured, lowering your tone. “I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. He’s just…done a lot for me.”

Liz softly smiled. “I’m sure he has. He looks very capable–a lot of drive. Especially to get out of here.” She let out a laugh, eyes flickering to yours for reassurance.

You returned her laugh, honestly surprised Joel hadn’t come up here and dragged you out of here already.

“Yeah…he isn’t too good with strangers.”

Bits of small talk echoed through the kitchen, conversation flowing steadily between the two of you. You helped with the rest of the prep, preparing the rest of the dish while you waited for the men to bring the meat from the freezer. They had made the trek out back to connect the generator to the kitchen and start it up, but you hadn’t expected it to take this long. 

While you rinsed and peeled potatoes, you tried to distract yourself with a silent competition of fastest potato peeling. On the fifth swipe of your finger, the tip nearly getting plowed off that time, you decided maybe that wasn’t the best distraction and settled with sitting in your thoughts.

They were heavy, unpleasant. The plopping of potato peels in the sink was now the only relief from your anxiety as Liz left the room to grab seasonings from the pantry. 

Being alone left you with this dark, unsettling feeling that something was deeply wrong. Samuel and Joel had been gone for way too long now, the freezer only one floor below, and with dinner already being prepped you wondered what the hold up was. This was unusual for sure, and you felt that with Joel’s earlier urgency, he would be desperate to get back in your sights.

All of your worries were cast aside however, when your ear perked to the familiar rasp of Joel’s voice. The deep gravelly drawl stood out against Samuel’s cheery accent–the both of them laughing? The chatter grew closer, the door at the top of the staircase letting out that familiar creak, giving you a better listen to their conversation.

At first it sounded like just Samuel laughing, but underneath his over-the-top cackle, you could hear the bits of something familiar. You had only heard it a handful of times through your stay with him, but clear as day, you could hear that low, drawn out honeyed laugh of his–and it sounded genuine.

Something–anger, jealousy, sadness–struck you in the chest, freezing your every move as you eavesdropped on the conversation. Even your breath stayed stuck in your lungs, afraid that even the sound of breathing would distract you from this moment.

“Sounds like an unforgettable trip.” It was Samuel. “Wish I did somethin’ like that before everythin’ got turned around.”

“Tommy’d kill me if he knew I ever told anyone ‘bout that,” the last bits of laughter tugged at the edge of his words, waiting to burst again. “But that story was just too perfect, I’ll die laughin’.”

Waltzing into the kitchen, Samuel was the first to enter, a large box balanced in both of his hands. Behind him, Joel was smiling, the remnants of a laugh still on his lips. As soon as he saw you though, he stiffened, and his usual stoic expression returned.

He placed the box on the counter with a thud. You peeked over the edge to see pieces of chicken freshly sliced and defrosted.

So that’s what took them so long.

Nodding, you turned back to the stove, hoping to let the men carry on whatever friendly conversation they were having before. For someone who was so uptight and distrusting, Joel walked in the room the most laid back you had ever seen him–almost casual looking. 

He must have seen the soured look on your face though, because the moment he had noticed you, he was silent, only Samuel carrying the conversation now. 

“Smells great in here,” Samuel complimented. “Where’d Liz go?”

“Pantry,” you said simply, wanting Joel to hear your shift in tone–although you knew he would probably just roll his eyes.

He hummed in response and you could hear him sifting through the box behind you, most likely sorting things for Liz.

“What’d I tell ya,” his voice was laced with pride, taking a deep inhale through his nose. “My Liz is the best cook, Joel-”

Your head whipped over your shoulder, dropping both the peeler and potato into the sink. Samuel was oblivious, but Joel had already knowingly met your gaze–his eyes wide and guilty.

His words from earlier replayed in your mind.

“You keep your mouth shut if you want to live. I’m not gettin’ a good feeling about these people.”

Within the few minutes you were alone, he had made it a point to jam that point into your head until his paranoia seeped fully into your skin. All his worry must have fully bled into you, because he was now sharing names and stories with the man he was so distrustful of moments before.

Your lips thinned, a scowl painted deep on your face. Joel’s eyes were filled with regret and guilt, his face drooping with the heaviness of his heart. It took everything in him not to interrupt Samuel right there and make some pathetic attempt to redeem himself, somehow explain how things got here.

But you didn’t give him the chance.

Turning back to the sink, you peeled potatoes angrier than ever, replaying your conversation with Liz. Maybe her judge of character wasn’t as bad as you thought?

a special thanks to my taglist ♡ @anoverwhelmingdin @lowrisemiller @iamawkwardandshy @lanadelray1989 @worlds-we-write (message me to be added or removed)

[thorn-rosed]

The Skittles and how their life would be in WW2 (roles, relationships, storyline)

We all know that the death eaters are the wizarding-world-variant of the Nazis, and that therefore, the Sittles were Nazis too, so i took it upon myself to create an AU where the skittles actually live through ww2 in Germany.

(sidenote: I'm german myself, I don't want to glorify anything, I'm aware of the terrors etc (I've visited the concentration camp Buchenwald and saw relics irl), but this is all fiction and if you have a problem, don't read it. I also try to make more people aware of what happend, I don't think that many people know some of the cruel details about what happend in Gerrmany. (I think this era is extremely interesting) I've tried to keep the characters pretty canon, yet put my own interpretations of them into it, so don't complain if they're not pookie-babygirl-slay-queen to everyone)

jobs & roles in during the war

Evan Rosier is working in psychiatries as a doctor. (During Hitlers reign, mentally and physically disabled children, teenagers and adults would be put into psychiatries and their families would be assured that they got help there, but in reality they got starved and experimented on. I hope you know where I'm going with this.) He is experimenting on people, trying to get them to the limits of what a human can take. The reasons for this are both Evan's god complex and interest in "science", and fun is also a big part of it. He is feared, as he has no mercy on anyone, no matter their gender, age or illness.

Pandora Rosier's work is similar. She is working in the same psychiatry as her brother and also experiments, but unlike Evan's her methods aren't as cruel and for actual research. She managed to create different medications with the help of her experiments, even if seen as heartless. (Evan though she doesn't inflict as much pain on her patients as Evan, there is still an undeniable amount of it.) Also she writes fake post cards to families to assure them the health of their child/sibling/parent. (Because of the unhuman treatment in the psychiatries, family wasn't allowed to visit the patient, and to reassure the family, nurses would write postcards to them and make the patient sign.) Pandora is more liked then her brother, at least by female prisoners, because these are the ones that Pandora mainly doesn't touch.

Barty Crouch Jr. is positioned in a concentration camp. He is the kind of guy to torture inmates for fun. (Officers used to play a "game", where they took an inmates hat and throw it over the line between the camp ground and the fence. There was a zone, I would guess about half a meter big, where anyone that would set foot in it get shot immediatly. However, the irony of the situation was that every inmate that wasn't wearing their hat would also get shot.) Barty also shoots people who annoy him or aren't working properly. When he wants to have sex, he simply takes one of the better-looking women and rapes them. Frequently, they were in on it, but that wasn't the standart. All in one, Barty is cruel and heartless, however he has mercy on the children, because in his opinion, if they join and support the nazis later on, they're "freed" from judaism. This does not count for people of colour.

Regulus Black is a regular officer in civil after he was in the army for 2 years (everyone was obliged to go to the army for 1-2 years, which was "Wehrpflicht" (german for compulsory service)). He barely has any mercy with people, though he likes fighting at the front more, due to having to kill to survive and not shooting innocent people or putting them into concentration camps. The only people he helps escape from time to time are children or pregnant women. At the beginning of Hitler's takeover, Regulus was a big supporter of the Nazi's and their ideas, however, over time his enthusiasm got dimmed after seeing how innocent people got treated or his buddies died on the field. He later joins his brothers resistance group called "Antifa für Freiheit" (AfF), or "antifa for freedom" in english. (This was not an actual existing group at the time, but there were resistance groups like "Weiße Rose", "Kampf dem Faschismus", "Kreisauer Kreis" and many more. Some of them were religion focused, others weren't. There were also people working mostly alone, like "das Mädchen mit den roten Haaren" (the girl with the red hair), who operated with 2 sisters from a nearby resistance group. They saved jewish children by hiding them or getting them out the country.)

Relationships

Due to homosexuality being illegal, most of them had to keep up the facade of being straight, for which they had fake marriages or girlfriends. Their wives were in on it all and often members of Sirius' resistance group that Regulus had promised his brother to protect. With a member of the Nazi's on their side, they automatically seemed less suspicious to people who might suspect them to be part of the group.

James and Regulus meet first at a meeting from the resistance group, as Sirius' best friend James was naturally a lot around Regulus. When they discovered their feeling for each other, they immediately got into a relationship. Since James is a low rank officer, similar to Regulus, they work together from time to time and then go for a stroll or spend the night at each others houses after.

Evan and Barty met during their school time and been together since 9th grade. They don't really meet during their jobtime, except for when Barty makes routine visits at the psychiatry or comes to drop off/take patients with him. Their favourite bar is the same, so they often go drinking together in the evening and sleep at each others houses or have sex in the bathroom.

Pandora and Lily met through Barty. Lily is Barty's cover up wife, so she spends most of her time at their flat, and when the skittles all met up there, they got introduced. Lily is a teacher in the local elementary school which isnt very far from the psychiatry, so she often walks home with Pandora. It's pretty easy for them to go on dates, whenever someone asks about it they just say its a women meeting to discuss cooking recipes and their respective husbands.

Remus and Sirius are the only ones who actually live together without anyone questioning it. Sirius owns a motorcycle shop, one day Remus stormed in and asked Sirius to hide him, because he was jewish and wanted to be safe. Sirius gave him a new identity and a job in the shop, as well as the empty flat above it. Sirius himself lives in the flat above, so they can meet whenever they want without anyone knowing about it, due to living in the same house.

Storyline

> shortly after taking Remus in, Sirius decides to form a resistance -> he asked his best friend, brother, and trusted friends for help

> Regulus decides to spy on the SS for his brother

> for a few months the routine are weekly meetings and the resistance uses Regulus' information to make small attacks against the SS

> that's until Regulus and James fall for each other, Sirius' only condition of them dating is that no one will know except for him

> this brings attention to the fact that many female members get seen as suspicious due to not having a husband and/or children

> the resistance decides to keep each other safe nh going into fake relationships, Regulus carried the idea to the Skittles because James asked him if his friends could fake date two members (Marlene and Lily)

> it took a bit of convincing but eventually the Skittles gave in, through their "wives" they also got knowledge of the resistance

> because Barty and Lily were the only ones that actually got along and found each other attractive enough to sleep with each other and get pregnant (Evan agreed to the entire thing, he had no problem with an open relationship), Lily eventually convinced Barty to join their resistance

> although Barty liked the job he had at the moment, he really didn't care what exactly he did as long as it was fun, and if it made his friend happy, there were barely any negative sides

> Evan and Pandora heavily disagreed to the idea of joining, even though Pandora was Lily's girlfriend and loved her, she said if she'd join, she'd betray her family (Evan) and family is above everything else for her

> the only thing the Rosiers did agree to, was to make poisons and chemical weapons for the resistance that could be used against the Nazis and the SS

> they were loved and hated in the resistance, some people loved them for their brilliant minds and for making the fight a bit easier but most people hated them because they definitely did human testing for each of their poisons and because they were such cruel human beings

> in the end the Rosiers and the Resistance decide to form an alliance

> the resistance has a safe house of which the location changes every few weeks, but the Rosiers arent allowed in there due to not swearing their loyalty -> the weapons are transferred in hidden, unmonitored alleys or woods only, and in worst case Barty and Regulus can try to cover up

> each of the resistance's attacks gets documented, but Barty and Regulus always make sure to change the data a bit, mostly details that no one thinks of as important -> this makes it harder for the SS to find and/or kill members of the resistance

> one time they arrested Remus without knowing he's jewish, and Regulus managed to be the one questioning and transporting him, which is how he was able to make Remus escape

> towards the end of the war, the resistance was able to form contact with the Americans and could convince the Rosiers to join them because the Americans promised to get them their own laboratory

> The Rosiers didnt trust the Americans, they had no reason to, but Barty and Regulus said that if the Americans wouldn't keep their promise, they would do the lab thing undercover

> 1944 the Rosiers faked patients documents to get them out, much to their own disliking

> Reg and Barty also sneaked people out of concentration camps from time to time

> shortly before Germany fell Barty got caught and arrested and should get tortured for information

> ironically, the last four days, Evan was the one torturing him, which eventually turned into bloody gorey sex, and the wounds were convincing enough of torture that the Nazis didn't question anything.

[itsusernotfound]

Good morning, everybody. What a beautiful day. What a beautiful North Carolina day for a graduation. Incredible.

Thank you, President Wente, Provost Gillespie, members of the Board of Trustees and Katy Harriger, my faculty sponsor, for this precious Wake Forest honorary degree. I am honored and grateful to be with you today.

Good morning, graduates! A special shout out to our Reserve Officer Training Corps members who are going to be commissioned today in the service of their country today. Thank you so much.

Oh, this has been a challenging road. You have worked, you have worried and you have wondered if you could reach this day. I’m not talking about the graduates; I’m talking to the parents and the families.

Why are there so many people here? Because nobody got here alone.

First, a quick word of warning. I was reporting a story for 60 Minutes not too long ago, and I had a chat with a young astronomer. And I asked her, “So, what took you into astronomy?” She said, “Well, you spoke at my college graduation…”

And she went on and she said, “I was graduating with a perfectly sensible degree. But as I heard you speak, I realized my love was astronomy, so I re-enrolled. Now, I have a Ph.D. in astronomy and now I work on the Webb Space Telescope.”

So, if there is anyone here today who does not want to be an astronomer, this is the time to space out.

You know, if we were in London, we might be walking past Portman Square on a beautiful spring day. We would encounter the headquarters of the British Broadcasting Corporation, a nearly 100-year-old building from which Edward R. Murrow, the original CBS News correspondent, stood on the roof and broadcast back to America word of the falling bombs of fascism that fell on that free city month after month. If we walk a little bit further past the BBC, we will encounter another hero in the fight against fascism, George Orwell. He’d be standing there, frozen in bronze with his words carved in the side of a building: “If liberty means anything at all, it means something worth saying that some people don’t want to hear.”

I fear there are some people in the audience who don’t want to hear what I have to say today. But I appreciate your forbearance in this small act of liberty.

I’m a reporter so I won’t bury the lead. Your country needs you. The country that has given you so much is calling you, the Class of 2025. The country needs you, and it needs you today.

As a reporter, I have learned to respect opinions. Reasonable people can differ about the life of our country. America works well when we listen to those with whom we disagree and when we listen and when we have common ground and we compromise. And one thing we can all agree on – one thing at least – is that America is at her best when everyone is included.

To move forward, we debate, not demonize. We discuss, not destroy. But in this moment – this moment, this morning – our sacred rule of law is under attack. Journalism is under attack. Universities are under attack. Freedom of speech is under attack. An insidious fear is reaching through our schools, our businesses, our homes and into our private thoughts. The fear to speak. In America? If our government is – in Lincoln’s words – “of the people, by the people and for the people” – then why are we afraid to speak?

The Wake Forest Class of 1861 did not choose their time of calling. The Class of 1941 did not choose. The Class of 1968 did not choose. History chose them. And now history is calling you, the Class of 2025. You may not feel prepared, but you are. You are not descended of fearful people. You brought your values to school with you and now Wake Forest has trained you to seek the truth, to find the meaning of life.

Let me tell you briefly about three people I have recently met who discovered the meaning of their lives in moments of crisis not unlike what we have today.

Volodymyr Zelenskyy, president of Ukraine, spent his entire career as an entertainer on television. His first elected office was president of Ukraine. And three years ago, the Russian army came at him from three directions. He had a decision to make. And so he reached for the most lethal weapon in the Ukranian arsenal: his cell phone. 

He walked out of front of the presidential offices in Kyiv and made a video selfie. He told his people, “I’m still here and your army is still here, and we are going to fight.” He galvanized 44 million people instantly. Today, three years later, he is all that stands between a murderous dictator in Russia and the rest of free Europe. I asked him, “Where did that come from?” And he said, “Well, you look in the mirror and you ask, ‘Who are you’”?

Nadia Marad, a woman whom we at 60 Minutes found in a refugee camp in Iraq. Her family was murdered by ISIS and she had been sold for money into slavery. We convinced her to tell her story on 60 Minutes, which she did and she found her voice. Then she began to write, and then she began to speak about the crimes that women suffer in war. And a few years later, this young woman who we had found in a refugee camp won the Nobel Peace Prize.

Who are you?

Finally, Dr. Samer Attar, an orthopedic surgeon in Chicago and a professor of surgery at Northwestern who volunteers to do surgery in war zones. In Gaza. In Ukraine. In To save lives of innocent people by using whatever meager supplies he has at hand. I asked him, “Where does this come from?” He told me, “It’s not much, but it beats burying your head in fear and ignorance.”

Who are you?

What is the meaning of life?

Today, great universities are threatened with ruin. So what did President Wente and Provost Gillespie do? They spoke out. They joined other institutions signing the call for constructive engagement, a declaration of the relationship between government and higher education. It reads in part, “Institutions of higher education share a commitment to serve as centers of open inquiry where, in their pursuit of truth, faculty, students, and staff are free to exchange ideas and opinions across a full range of viewpoints without fear of retribution, censorship, or deportation.”

Who are you? What does this make Wake Forest in this moment? Well, I think we know.

Did you hear that phrase in the Declaration? “Pursuit of truth?” Why attack universities? Why attack journalism? Because ignorance works for power.

First, make the truth seekers live in fear. Sue the journalists. For nothing. Then send masked agents to abduct a college student, a writer of her college paper who wrote an editorial supporting Palestinian rights, and send her to a prison in Louisiana and charge her with nothing. Then, move to destroy law firms that stand up for the rights of others.

With that done, power can rewrite history. With grotesque, false narratives, they can make heroes criminals and criminals heroes. And they can change the definition of the words we use to describe reality.

“Diversity” is now described as “illegal.” “Equity” is to be shunned. “Inclusion” is a dirty word. This is an old playbook, my friends. There is nothing new in this. George Orwell – who we met on the street in London – in 1949, he warned of what he called “new speak.” He understood that ignorance works for power.

But it is ignorance that you have repudiated every single day here at Wake Forest University. Who are you? I think we know.

Can just speaking the truth actually work? Well, consider this day. This day. May 19. May 19, 1963. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail” was published for the first time. In that letter, Dr. King says, “The first thing that has to be done in the pursuit of justice is collecting the facts.”

Power was telling him in a jail cell, “Do not speak the truth because power will crush you.”

But consider that just months before that letter was published, Wake Forest University became the first major private institution of higher education in the South to integrate. In 1962.

The year after Dr. King’s letter –1964 – the Civil Rights Act is passed. And the year after that – 1965 – the Voting Rights Act is passed. Now today both of those are under attack. But can the truth win? My friends, nothing else does. It may be a long road, but the truth is coming.

Did you hear the other phrase in the declaration that was signed by President Wente and Provost Gillespie? “Without fear.”

That does not mean there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s an affirmation that you know who you are. That you know what you stand for. And that you know in the end – the long end – the Constitution will defend you even in the face of fearsome times.

In the words of one of your former Wake Forest professors:

“You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lies.

You may tread me into the very dirt, but like dust, I’ll rise.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear, I rise.

Into a daybreak that’s wonderfully clear, I rise.

Bringing the gifts my ancestors gave me, I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise.

I rise.

I rise.”

The poet Maya Angelou taught at Wake Forest. She saw the fear that power sought to impose, yet in her famous phrase, she still knew why the caged bird sings.

This university, old and wise, has seen worse. It has overcome existential threats before to our country. You are not alone. A legion has gone before you. And now it is the Class of 2025 that is called in another extreme time.

Will you permit me another word of advice? I think this is how I created at least one astronomer.

Do not settle. You only get one pass at this. This world is going to tell you no a thousand times, but listen to the song in your heart. If they can’t hear it, that’s on them and not on you.

In the 1980s, I was rejected by CBS News over and over and over again over the years. They told me at one point, “Please stop applying.” They really did. And at the time, I thought “What’s wrong with these people?” They couldn’t hear the song in my heart. Maybe they were smarter. Every time I was rejected, I got better. Maybe that was the plan. But I finally made them hear the music in my heart.

You only lose if you quit. Do not settle.

What is the meaning of life? Who are you? You are the educated. You are the compassionate. You are the fierce defenders of democracy, the seekers of truth, the vanguards against ignorance. You are millions strong across our land.

You might be sorry that you were picked by history for this role. But maybe that was the plan. Hard times are going to make you better and stronger. In a few minutes, when that diploma hits your hand, it’s not a piece of paper you’re holding. We’re handing you a baton. Run with it.

Why am I here today? I’m 50 years farther down the trail than you are, and I have doubled back this morning to tell you the one thing I have learned from Volodymyr Zelenskyy and Nadia Marad and Samer Attar and a thousand others: In a moment like this, when our country is in peril, don’t ask the meaning of life. Life is asking, “What’s the meaning of you?”

With great admiration for your achievements and with confidence that you will rise to this occasion, I thank you very humbly for the honor of being with you.

Thank you very much.

Ignorance works for power.

[clumsydolly]

Can you do obey me x Riddle rosehearts!reader? because I sometimes see crossover fanart between two series

Obey me x Riddle Risehearts!Reader

I love Riddle and his little anger and mommy issues! If anyone has any Twisted Wonderland asks I would love to get some!

Warnings!⚠️ Mommy issues, anger issues, neglect, and trauma! Didn't read through! Still have sucky banners!

Lucifer

Lucifer didn’t know whether to thank Diavolo for sending someone with such rigid propriety or to curse him for the same reason.

From the moment you arrived at the House of Lamentation, back straight, shoes perfectly polished, hair immaculately groomed, Lucifer could sense a kindred spirit. You walked as if the weight of generations pressed on your shoulders, and you wielded authority like a blade: sharply, precisely, and with zero tolerance for disorder.

He admired that. Truly, he did. Most days, he found himself cleaning up after his brothers’ chaos, so to meet someone who not only followed rules but quoted them verbatim was a strange sort of blessing. Your grasp of etiquette, your punctuality, your high academic standards, it all spoke to a discipline he knew well.

But then came the temper.

Lucifer had seen many outbursts in the Devildom. Beel’s hunger fits, Mammon’s panicked excuses, even Satan’s wrath. But nothing quite prepared him for your fury when someone dared sit at the tea table before the tea was poured, or wore the wrong color on a Tuesday.

“Off with your head!” you'd roar, magical energy flaring around you like a stormcloud laced with red lightning.

Lucifer had to intervene more than once, not to stop you, he secretly enjoyed watching the others squirm under your judgment, but to ensure you didn’t actually decapitate someone over a napkin placement.

“You and I both know the importance of order,” he once told you as you paced the drawing room in agitation. “But even we must acknowledge that not all battles are worth fighting. Not every crooked fork is an act of war.”

You’d glared, cheeks pink with frustration, but you listened. You always did when it came from him.

Perhaps it was because Lucifer saw what others didn’t. Beneath the proud posture and strict rules, he noticed the tension in your hands when you handed out critique. The way you stayed behind after group lessons to double-check your notes. The way you flinched at the mention of overbearing mothers or past mentors.

He recognized that kind of pressure. That relentless drive to be flawless, as if one slip might cost you everything.

So he surprised you.

Not with scolding or demands, but with quiet praise.

Your tea parties became something of a ritual between the two of you. No brothers allowed, just Lucifer and you, seated across fine china, surrounded by the scent of fresh tarts and spiced leaves. In those rare moments, you allowed yourself to relax. You spoke without quoting rules. You laughed, quietly, but genuinely, when Lucifer offered dry commentary on his brothers’ chaos.

“You hold yourself to impossible standards,” he said one afternoon as he poured your tea. “But you don’t have to earn your place here. You already belong.”

You looked at him like he’d spoken a foreign language. Perhaps, to you, he had.

Lucifer never pushed your boundaries, but he slowly, carefully, became a source of calm amidst your internal storm. He offered correction when necessary, but more often he offered understanding. Because for all your differences, he saw too much of his own reflection in you perfectionist, loyal, powerful, but deeply afraid of disappointing those who once held their hearts in iron fists.

And perhaps, over time, you saw in him not just a fellow authority figure but a quiet ally.

One who didn’t ask you to be perfect.

Only present.

Mammon

The first time Mammon saw you, he nearly tripped over himself.

Not because he was smitten not yet, anyway but because the aura you carried screamed authority.

It screamed Lucifer.

Commanding presence, aristocratic posture, crimson hair like a warning sign, and eyes that could slice through excuses before he even opened his mouth.

You'd barely stepped into the House of Lamentation before Mammon was muttering apologies for things he hadn’t even done yet.

“Oi, oi! I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong! I swear I didn’t touch your weird teacups!”

You didn’t even blink.

You just quoted some regulation about respecting others’ belongings and glared until Mammon practically folded in on himself. After that, he took to tiptoeing around you like a guilty puppy, flinching any time your voice got that clipped, commanding edge. Which was often. You had zero tolerance for mess, lateness, or Mammon’s "entrepreneurial ventures," as he called them.

But here’s the thing about Mammon under all the bluster, he pays attention.

He started noticing things. Like how you always sat alone during tea, despite arranging everything so perfectly. Or how your hands trembled just a little after an angry outburst, as if you regretted how far your temper went. Or how you stayed up late, redoing your homework even when it was already flawless.

Mammon wasn’t the brightest when it came to grades, but he knew what it was like to feel like you were never enough.

One day, after you'd snapped at him in front of everyone for skipping class, he caught up to you alone in the garden. You were seated on a marble bench, scowling into a half-eaten strawberry tart, the fork in your hand clenched so tightly it might snap.

“You okay?” he asked.

You stared at him, clearly expecting mockery.

Instead, he held up a bag with a little sticker that read “Strawberry Delight—Extra Sweet.”

“Thought ya might need somethin’. Ya know. Since you always look like you’re ‘bout two seconds from blastin’ someone into a wall.”

You blinked. Then blinked again.

It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t grand. But it was real.

Over time, Mammon stopped flinching when you got strict. He even started arguing back, though it was more playful than defensive.

“You’re not my boss—wait, no, don’t say it—I know, ‘Rule Number Forty-Seven: Defiance warrants discipline.’ Sheesh.”

But behind the teasing, there was care. He reminded you to eat when you got too focused on perfection. He shielded you when your magic flared uncontrollably. He even started helping with your tea parties, pretending it was just for the snacks when everyone knew he liked how your eyes softened during those moments.

You, in turn, grew to tolerate his schemes, some of them. You didn’t always understand his constant hustling, but you understood the fear behind it. The fear of being left behind, of never being good enough. You carried the same fear in your perfectly measured steps and your desperate drive to meet impossible standards.

Mammon never said it outright, but his actions spoke louder. He started looking out for you. Not just because he was scared of your temper, but because he saw someone who, like him, just wanted to be seen for more than their mistakes or their title.

“I think yer pretty amazing, ya know,” he muttered once, cheeks flushed as he stared at the floor. “Even if ya do threaten to decapitate me every Tuesday.”

You didn’t threaten him that time.

Instead, you invited him to sit beside you for tea.

And he did.

Awkwardly. Loudly. Grumbling about lace doilies and teacup handles.

But he stayed.

And for you, that meant more than perfection ever could.

Leviathan

Leviathan didn’t know whether to fear you or admire you.

The first time he heard your voice thunder through the halls with a sharp "Off with your head!" directed at a poor demon who dared forget proper tea etiquette, he nearly dropped his D.D.D.

You were terrifying.

But also... kind of amazing.

You moved with exactness, like a character from one of his favorite anime the strict student council president archetype who commanded a room with a single word. Except you weren’t fictional. You were real. And you actually lived with him.

Levi spent the first few weeks avoiding direct interaction with you unless necessary. You were too intense, too formal, and honestly too close to the kind of person who reminded him of authority figures he'd never impressed. But then he noticed something familiar in the way you froze after an outburst. How you stared a little too long at your grades, even when they were perfect. How you adjusted your uniform over and over before stepping into a room.

That self-doubt—Levi knew it intimately.

One day, while hiding in his room during a particularly dramatic lecture you gave in the living room, he muttered to himself, “They’re just like Hoshino from My Strict Student Council President Can’t Be This Magical! Except... way more terrifying.”

You knocked on his door ten minutes later, holding a strawberry tart and a question.

“What is My Strict Student Council President Can’t Be This Magically Cute!?”

Levi turned beet red. But he let you in.

That was the start.

He introduced you to his anime collection the ones with rule-following protagonists who secretly craved acceptance. You saw yourself in them more than you wanted to admit. And you introduced him to tea ceremonies, gently guiding his awkward hands as he tried not to knock over the porcelain.

He liked that about you. The way you took rules seriously, not to control others, but to give structure to the chaos you felt inside. You liked that he understood that perfectionism didn’t always come from pride it came from fear. Of failing. Of not being enough.

So when you both got closer imagine his shock when you didn't know how to play video games, like, at all. In games, rules had purpose. Expectations were clear. You didn’t have to guess what people wanted from you just followed the mechanics. And Levi was patient. He didn’t laugh when you got competitive or flustered when you lost. He just offered you another round and explained the rules again, slower this time.

Over time, Levi became your safe place.

When your magic flared too high and you were afraid of hurting someone, he would gently hand you a controller and say, “Wanna do a no-death speedrun? Just you and me.”

You’d nod, and the world would quiet.

He never mocked your "Off with your head" moments. In fact, he secretly found them endearing.

"Honestly," he admitted one evening, cheeks pink as he offered you a plushie from his collection, "I think it's kinda cool how powerful you are. Like... scary powerful. But also kinda cute. Don’t tell anyone I said that."

You didn’t.

But you smiled.

And for Levi, that was better than any S-Rank victory.

Satan

Satan noticed you the moment you entered the room—not just because of your striking red hair or commanding posture, but because of the way your voice rang out like a gavel in a courtroom.

Precise. Unyielding. Final.

"That is a clear violation of Rule Thirty-Seven. Apologize and correct your posture immediately."

You didn’t just follow rules. You became them. And to Satan, a being born from pure wrath and built on a lifelong rebellion against authority, that was endlessly fascinating.

At first, he thought you were simply rigid. Someone so bound by structure that they feared disorder. But the more he observed you, the more he sensed something else under the surface.

Every time your voice rose in fury over a broken rule, your eyes carried a flicker of something deeper. Frustration, yes. But also fear. The kind of fear that comes from failure. The kind that whispered you had to be perfect, or else everything might fall apart.

He recognized that fear.

You reminded him of himself, just mirrored in a different form. Where he lashed out to break free, you held tighter to structure as if it could shield you from unraveling.

"Interesting," he mused one afternoon in the library, watching you correct the placement of every book on a misaligned shelf. "How someone so devoted to order can carry so much chaos inside. Tell me, what exactly happens in your mind when someone breaks a rule?"

You glanced at him sharply. Ready to argue. But you paused.

No one had ever asked that before.

That was how it began.

Tea turned into debates. Lectures turned into questions. You'd sit across from him for hours, your teacup untouched as you unraveled the philosophy of justice, the origins of etiquette, the necessity of structure in a world that constantly threatened to fall apart. He challenged you. Gently at first, then with more boldness.

"Do you believe all rules are worth following? Even the ones you were forced to learn?"

That question stayed with you long after the conversation ended.

Satan never mocked your outbursts. If anything, he saw in them a kind of honesty he respected. And when your magic flared during one particularly overwhelming day your voice rising, the air pulsing with heat he didn't flinch. He stood beside you, calm and steady, and simply said:

"You don't have to be perfect for me to respect you."

You never forgot that.

He admired your intellect. Your control. But what intrigued him most was your vulnerability. The way you tried so hard to be what others expected, while secretly wondering if anyone would love you if you stopped performing.

With Satan, you didn’t have to perform.

You could argue. You could question. You could unravel.

And in the quiet moments between your battles of logic and law, you began to let him in.

He never told you to stop quoting rules.

But he did offer new ones. The kind you could make for yourself.

Together.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus was instantly enchanted. You walked into the room like a royal decree, every movement precise, your voice sharp yet refined, and your posture so perfect it could cut glass. He had never met anyone so properly poised and yet so intimidating.

"Darling, you are fabulous. That glare? That tone? The way you just corrected Diavolo's napkin placement? I’m in love."

At first, he thought you might be his kind of diva—commanding, stylish, and dramatic in the best ways. But it didn’t take long before he noticed the tension behind your eyes. The way your fingers clenched ever so slightly when someone interrupted your schedule. The way you overcorrected yourself even when no one was watching. The way you seemed to believe that if even one thing went out of place, it would all fall apart.

You were composed, yes. But barely holding together.

He’d sigh dramatically, drape himself over a velvet armchair, and say with that lilting voice of his, “Darling, you’re absolutely adorable when you're bossing people around, but when was the last time you actually let yourself breathe?”

You’d bristle at first, citing responsibilities, rules, and your meticulously color-coded planner.

So he adapted.

He invited you to spa days and framed them as part of a proper self-care regimen. He followed your skincare instructions to the letter and asked detailed questions about your favorite products, just to show he was paying attention. He suggested tea parties not just as frivolous social events, but as structured time to indulge in beauty and grace. And when you hosted them, Asmo would show off his perfect etiquette, making you smile despite yourself.

He respected your standards, but refused to let you drown in them.

When you spiraled, quietly and privately, Asmo didn’t smother you with attention. He sat beside you, let you rant, and gently reminded you of your worth without sugarcoating things. “You’re allowed to make mistakes, love. You don’t have to be flawless to be loved. Look at me—chaotic, emotional, impulsive—and still absolutely irresistible.”

He meant it. Every word.

He saw the way you held yourself together with a thousand little rules because the moment you let go, it might all come crashing down. So he offered you something rare space to fall apart safely.

You became his favorite contrast.

You, with your rules and rituals.

Him, with his spontaneity and sparkles.

Together, you found a balance.

He admired your beauty routines and you respected his intuitive understanding of people. He never teased you for quoting regulations, but sometimes whispered his own:

Rule Number One, darling. You deserve to be happy, even when everything isn’t perfect.

And under the candlelight of your tea parties, in the quiet moments between etiquette and affection, you finally started to believe it.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub wasn’t quite sure what to make of you at first.

You were intense. You spoke like every word was part of a royal decree, and your eyes practically sparked when someone dared to break a rule. When you shouted “Off with your head” at Mammon for sneaking snacks during your afternoon tea, Beel nearly dropped his entire sandwich.

He blinked slowly. “That seems a little extreme… but maybe you’re just really serious about tea.”

Still, even though the rules confused him and your temper startled him more than once, Beel tried. He genuinely didn’t want to upset you. So when you explained table etiquette, he nodded and practiced holding his fork the way you taught him. When you handed him a list of rules for attending your tea parties, he read it three times and kept it folded in his pocket.

And when you baked strawberry tarts, something shifted.

Beel’s eyes lit up. His usual quiet hunger turned into something else entirely pure joy. He took a bite and sat there for a long moment, expression soft.

“These are amazing,” he said. “Can you teach me how to make them?”

You blinked, expecting him to demand more or devour the whole plate without comment. Instead, he looked at you with such genuine appreciation that you felt your usual tension ease just a little.

Beel never mocked you for your rigid standards or scolded you for being too intense. When you lost your temper, he didn’t flinch. He waited until you calmed down, then quietly offered you a plate of food or your favorite tea. He didn’t try to fix you. He just sat beside you, solid and steady, a quiet presence that made the pressure of perfection feel a little lighter.

Sometimes you found him studying your etiquette books when he thought you weren’t looking. Other times, he asked thoughtful questions about why certain customs mattered to you. He never pretended to understand everything, but he always listened.

“Is it okay if I don’t get it right all the time?” he asked once, licking jam off his fingers.

You wanted to snap at him for the mess, but all that came out was a quiet, “As long as you try.”

Beel smiled.

He became your most loyal tea guest, your strawberry tart apprentice, and the only one who could gently pull you out of an anxiety spiral with just a warm snack and a soft look. You never had to explain your worth to him. He accepted you, rules and all, without needing a single regulation to tell him how.

And when he said, “I like being around you. Even when you're yelling,” you believed him.

Maybe perfection didn’t mean following every rule.

Maybe sometimes, it meant sitting across from someone who saw past the storm and stayed anyway.

Belphegor

Belphegor thought you were ridiculous at first.

All those rules, all that posture. Your obsession with order made his skin itch. You corrected people’s grammar mid-sentence. You lectured him once for yawning during a formal tea. The way you barked, “Rules exist for a reason!” made him roll his eyes so hard it gave him a headache.

He made a game out of breaking your rules. Leaving his shoes in the middle of the hallway. Skipping morning meetings just to hear you snap. Saying things like “Who died and made you queen?” because he knew it would set you off.

You’d shout. Your magic would spark. Your face would flush red with rage. And for a while, that was fun.

Until it wasn’t.

It happened one afternoon, when he caught you alone in the House of Lamentation’s garden. You were sitting stiffly under a rose arch, hands folded in your lap like a porcelain doll, but your shoulders were shaking. When you heard his footsteps, you sat up straighter and wiped your eyes so quickly it almost looked practiced.

"Don't start," you snapped. "I'm well aware this isn't the proper location for solitary crying."

That line should’ve made him smirk. It didn’t.

Belphie stood there for a moment, arms crossed.

“You know, you don't have to pretend like you're not falling apart.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look at him.

“I used to think you were just some control freak,” he continued, his voice quieter. “But... now I think someone taught you that the only way to be loved is to be perfect. Let me guess. Strict mom? No tolerance for failure?”

The silence between you stretched.

Then: “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Don’t need to,” he said. “I recognize the look.”

He didn't press the issue. He just sat beside you, not touching, not saying anything else. You didn’t speak either, but you didn’t leave. That was new.

After that, things didn’t magically change.

He still broke your rules. You still scolded him. You still flinched every time you messed up even slightly, like the sky was going to fall.

But he stopped doing it just to push your buttons.

And you stopped reacting like his teasing was an attack. Sometimes.

He’d nap in your study now and then, curled up on your pristine couch with no regard for your no-food-near-the-books rule. You’d scold him. He’d grin. Then he’d pat the couch like, “Sit down. Five minutes won’t kill you.”

You never sat. Not at first.

But one day, after a particularly rough encounter with Lucifer and a shaky voice note from your mother, you sat beside him and didn’t say a word.

You didn’t sleep. But you stayed.

And for Belphie, that was more than enough for now.

Diavolo

Diavolo was immediately enchanted by you. Your posture, your diction, your flawless etiquette it was like meeting someone out of a storybook. Finally, someone new have tea with at formal gathering.

"You’re a delight," he said cheerfully after your first meeting. "Truly, I haven’t seen anyone carry themselves so impeccably in centuries."

At first, you appreciated his respect for your decorum. He even followed your rules during castle visits, which impressed you more than you’d admit. But Diavolo was not a man easily boxed in. He laughed too loud, broke into spontaneous dancing during formal balls, and often declared the start of events without waiting for ceremony.

When you exploded at him the first time for ignoring a seating chart you'd spent hours arranging, he didn’t get angry. He laughed. Genuinely.

"You're serious about these rules, aren't you?" he said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "It's admirable. But tell me, are the rules something you love… or just something you've been taught to fear breaking?"

The question cut deeper than you expected.

You’d grown up with structure imposed on you like iron bars a mother who demanded obedience and excellence at every turn. Love came conditionally, through grades, behavior, and posture. You clung to rules because without them, you never knew who you were supposed to be. Or if you were allowed to be anything at all.

Diavolo saw that. Not immediately, but over time. He began inviting you to events not only for your impeccable manners but to gently challenge your sense of rigidity. He’d seat you beside demons who used the wrong forks on purpose. He’d serve strawberry tarts out of order, just to see if you’d protest and when you didn’t, he'd beam like a proud teacher.

“Look at that,” he’d tease. “Progress!”

You’d glare, but it was softer now. Less fire, more reluctant fondness.

He never mocked your standards. In fact, he admired how deeply you cared about doing things right. But he also wanted you to experience joy unmeasured by perfection. He’d take your hand during a stiff reception and say, “Let’s dance. No steps. Just movement.” You’d resist then, eventually, give in.

Your strawberry tarts became a staple at royal gatherings, to the point that Barbatos once asked if you were planning to dethrone the palace chef. Diavolo only grinned and asked for seconds.

You still quoted rules. You still arranged flowers with maddening symmetry. But slowly, Diavolo helped you see that breaking rules didn’t mean breaking yourself. Sometimes, it meant making room for something softer like friendship. Or even fun.

Barbatos

Barbatos noticed you long before you spoke.

The way you carried yourself perfectly measured footsteps, precise posture, the delicate but firm control in your voice reminded him of himself. Not many could match his devotion to order, but you didn’t just match it. You lived it, breathed it, held it like armor.

When you finally introduced yourself with flawless etiquette, Barbatos offered a rare, sincere smile.

"I see I am in the presence of someone who understands the sanctity of precision," he said, bowing in return.

Where others found your perfectionism exhausting or intimidating, Barbatos found it familiar almost comforting. You reminded him of long hours spent perfecting silver service and protocol, of the quiet satisfaction that came from making something exact. In you, he saw a kindred soul shaped by expectation and trained into excellence, not always by choice.

Your temper, however, was another matter.

He saw it early on the way you clenched your fists when someone arrived late, how your voice quivered with tightly held fury when rules were ignored. But unlike others, Barbatos didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh like Diavolo or backpedal like Mammon. He simply watched and understood.

“You are not angry because the rule was broken,” he said once, after you snapped during a castle dinner. “You are angry because when rules are broken, the world feels uncertain. Unsafe.”

You stared at him in silence, your throat tight. Because he was right. Again.

Barbatos became your calm center. He invited you for private tea lessons, where he introduced you to Devildom variations of brewing rituals letting you correct him just once before revealing that, actually, there was no single ‘proper’ method. At first, you hated that. Then… you didn’t.

He never forced you to change. He never teased when you quoted rulebooks or rearranged doilies six times in a row. But he would gently suggest, “This blend is more delicate if steeped a touch less. Would you like to try?” And you would. Because when Barbatos spoke, it never felt like judgment. Only care.

He understood the expectations carved into you by a distant, demanding mother. He never told you to stop striving for perfection he simply showed you that compassion was not failure, and structure could be paired with softness. That mastery didn’t mean martyrdom.

Over time, you began to invite him to your tea parties not because it was proper, but because you wanted him there. Because in his presence, you didn’t need to be flawless to be respected. You could just be learning. Healing. Becoming.

And when you sat beside him, porcelain cups between you, and he adjusted your hand just slightly to guide a smoother pour, you didn’t flinch. You smiled.

"Thank you, Barbatos. I’ll remember that."

And you did.

Simeon

Simeon noticed the cracks in your perfection the way a poet notices the silence between lines.

To most, you were all precision your words measured, your manners exquisite, your gaze sharp as cut glass. But to Simeon, those things weren’t just habits. They were shields. And behind them, he saw it: the trembling hands that never dared to reach out, the stiff smile that concealed the fear of not being good enough.

"You remind me of a rose bush grown with too much wire,” he said once, softly, as you bristled over a classmate failing to observe proper posture at the tea table. “Controlled, shaped... but never allowed to grow wild. And yet still, undeniably beautiful.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

Your temper swift and biting usually earned you space, if not fear. But Simeon never reacted with fear. He listened. When your anger surged, he didn’t scold or step back. Instead, he offered quiet questions: “What did that rule mean to you?” or “Were you protecting yourself just now… or something else?”

Those questions made your chest ache.

Simeon saw the ache in your perfectionism the ghost of a mother whose love came only when you were flawless, the years of chasing approval like it was air. And he never told you to abandon the rules. He just reminded you, gently, that love didn’t have to be earned like a grade.

“You don’t need to be the best to be worthy,” he told you during one of your spirals, as you paced and muttered citations from memory like a charm to ward off failure. “Even the Celestial Realm has fallen stars. And they’re still part of the sky.”

Over time, your tea parties became quieter. Not less elegant you’d never allow that but more... human. You stopped obsessing over the symmetry of sugar cubes. You began to laugh, softly, when things went slightly off-script. Once, you even let Simeon host and when he misplaced a serving spoon, you didn’t yell.

You simply smiled, a little crooked. “I’ll let it go this time. But only because you used the proper teacups.”

He grinned, warm and proud.

And when he offered you his arm during a walk through the garden, you took it not because it was the polite thing to do, but because it felt safe.

With Simeon, perfection was no longer your only language. With him, you started learning fluency in peace.

Solomon

Solomon was intrigued by you from the start not just by your command of etiquette or your strict devotion to rules, but by the crackling, barely-contained magic simmering beneath your composure.

You were a storm in a teacup. Polished, poised... until someone stepped out of line.

And naturally, Solomon couldn’t resist shaking the teacup.

“Oops. I think I just placed the dessert fork on the left,” he’d say with mock innocence, watching your eye twitch as your aura flared dangerously. “Fascinating. Your mana spikes almost exactly at the moment your patience ends.”

You threatened him with magical decapitation more than once. He took it as a compliment.

But under the teasing was real curiosity not just in your power, but in you. Solomon understood what it meant to carry the weight of expectation, the ache of not being “enough” no matter how precisely you performed. He just expressed it through rebellion instead of rigor.

And that’s what made him dangerous and healing.

“You keep enforcing the rules like they’ll protect you,” he said one evening after you snapped at a demon for breaking Devildom library protocol. “But who protected you when the rules were the thing that hurt you most?”

You didn’t answer.

Not that time.

But he noticed your hand tremble slightly when you served tea later, and he said nothing just poured it for you instead.

Solomon never asked you to abandon your standards. He just asked questions. Uncomfortable ones. “What happens if you break a rule?” “Who taught you this one?” “What would you be without all of them?”

With him, you began to examine not just rules, but the reasons behind them and which ones were really yours.

He guided you through experimental spells, always pushing the boundaries of your magic in ways that felt reckless at first... but liberating over time. You realized your power wasn’t just tied to order. It surged strongest when you were protecting, caring, daring to feel rather than control.

Solomon never flinched at your rage. He called it beautiful. He called you powerful. Not because you were flawless, but because you were real.

And slowly, his chaos became a kind of freedom.

Where others feared your temper, Solomon smiled through it and in his unpredictable, exasperating way, taught you that magic, like people, is most alive when it breathes beyond the page.

Thank you so much for reading I hope you enjoyed it! 🩷 As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated! Please send more asks!

[milflewis]

trying not to wail on the bus back home as a i read “you pierced my soul. i am half agony, half hope. tell me not that i am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. i offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. dare not say that a man forgets sooner than a woman, that his love has an earlier death. i have loved none but you. unjust i may have been, weak and resentful i have been, but never inconstant.” for the seventy sixth time

[giveamadeuschohisownmovie]

Ways I can think of that “DanDaDan” differs from other shonen series:

* Female MC is as important as male MC

* Canon romance gets consistent development through the series. I think that’s part of the reason why the MC ships with the rivals (Aira, Jiji) aren’t as popular with the fandom for once. The main ship is actually getting good development, so the fanbase doesn’t have to make up headcanons to fill in the space.

* Flips the found family trope on its head by having the main group despise new people whenever they show up and they even actively try to kick them out. The new people only end up staying because they keep lingering around to the point that the main group just gives up and lets them stay.

* The rivals aren’t emo or angst-ridden. Aira is a delusional tryhard popular girl while Jiji is a himbo drama queen. I’d even go as far to say that the MCs are the ones who are emo and angst-ridden.

* Supporting cast is more than just important, they become integral to the story. I’d say that the further you read into DanDaDan, the more it becomes an ensemble cast where everyone is a protagonist in their own right.

* World-building is all over the place, but in a good way. Most other shonen are pretty consistent with what kind of world their characters live in. MHA is superhero-based, Naruto is ninjas and magic, Bleach is spirits, and so on. DanDaDan feels like the author just throws whatever cool shit they can think of into the story. That’s actually the reason why I wrote in a different post that DanDaDan reminds me more of Marvel/DC than any other shonen series, it manages to capture the catch-all insanity of those comics.

* Doesn’t rely on hidden power-ups. The main characters either have to outsmart the villains or they have to train to get better with the powers they already have.

* The pervert comic relief guy is actually endearing for once. Not because of his pervert tendencies, but because he’s so oblivious to how socially inept he is that it’s kind of funny. This is gonna sound strange, but he sorta reminds me of Thor in Thor Ragnarok. Full of himself and oblivious to how dumb he can be. He’s Thor without the good looks lol.

* Flips the “nerdy outcast loser somehow gets a harem” trope. Instead of making Okarun cooler than how he actually is, the story emphasizes that the women who fall for Okarun are as weird as him. Momo is a weird outcast, Aira has main character syndrome, Vamola doesn’t understand how to human because she’s literally not one, Rin thought Okarun was a vampire (and wanted him to be).

* Flips the “elderly figure in charge of the teenagers” trope. I don’t really get motherly figure vibes from Seiko Ayase, I get more “cool wine aunt who is stuck with her niece” vibes. In fact, there was the arc where Okarun showed up to her in spirit mode to get her help with fighting off the alien invasion and Seiko’s response was, “Well, I’m not in the area and I have other shit to do, so you kids figure it out.”

* The series takes the piss out of the trope of mystical/magical items that the group acquired to get their powers. I mean…the main mystical MacGuffin in the series are Okarun’s balls.

* Okarun was about to go into an “I’m weak / I wish I was stronger / I want to get stronger for my friends” breakdown, but Turbo Granny told him to shut up and keep fighting.

* Not afraid to put the “cool girl” in as many funny situations as possible. Off the top of my head, the series built up Momo as this cool, tough girl who doesn’t take shit from anyone…then several chapters later, Okarun found out she got a job at a maid cafe.

(Feel free to add to the list!)

[dalishious]

The Sanitized Lore of Dragon Age: The Veilguard

Tevinter is the heart of slavery in Thedas. This lore has been established in every game, novel, comic, and other extended material in the Dragon Age franchise to date that so much as mentions the nation. But in Dragon Age: The Veilguard, when we are finally able to actually visit this location for the first time… this rampant slavery we’ve heard so much about is nowhere to be found. It’s talked about here and there; Neve mentions The Viper has a history of freeing slaves, as does Rook themselves if they choose the Shadow Dragon faction as their origin, for example. But walking down the streets of Minrathous, you’d never know. Because Dragon Age: The Veilguard, for all its enjoyment otherwise, has one glaring issue: It’s too clean.

The world of Thedas is full of injustices. Humans persecute elves, fear qunari, and belittle dwarves. Mages of any race are treated like caged animals in most places. The nobility is corrupt. Although, Dragon Age has not always handled these injustices well, mind you. Many, many times I’ve found myself frustrated with moments that just feel like a Racism Simulator. But what makes it worth it, is when you can actually do something about it. These injustices are things that a good-aligned character strives to fight back against, maybe even for very personal reasons. Part of the power-fantasy for many minorities is that this fight feels tangible. I cannot arrange the assassination of a corrupt politician in real life, but I sure can get Celene Valmont stabbed to death in Dragon Age: Inquisition, for example. Additionally, these fictional injustices can be used to make statements on real life parallels, like any source of media. For example, no, the Chant of Light is not real, but acting as a stand-in for Catholicism, through a media analysis lens we can explore what the Chant of Light communicates on a figurative level.

When starting Dragon Age: The Veilguard and selecting to play as an elf – this should be unsurprising to anyone who is familiar with my bias towards them – I was fully prepared to enter the streets of Minrathous and immediately get called “knife-ear” or “rabbit”. But this did not happen. I thought perhaps it was just a prologue thing, but returning to Minrathous once again, there was not a single shred of disapproval from any NPC I encountered that wasn’t a generic enemy to fight. And even the generic enemies, the Tevinter Nationalist cult of the Venatori, didn’t seem to care at all that I was a lineage they deemed inferior before now. This is a stark difference from entering the Winter Palace in Dragon Age: Inquisition and immediately getting hit with court disapproval and insults. Are we now to believe that Tevinter has somehow solved its astronomical racism and classism problems in the ten years since the past game? Or perhaps are we to believe all the characters who have demonstrated Tevinter’s systemic discriminatory views were just lying or outliers? Because it makes absolutely no sense at all for this horribly corrupt nation to not have a shred of reactivity to an elven or qunari Rook prancing around. But here were are, and not a single NPC even recognizes my character’s lineage. And because this is so different from every single past game, it feels weird.

As an elf, you have the option to make a comment about how “too many humans look down on us” in one scene early in the game. You can also talk to Bellara and Davrin, the elven companions, about concerns that people won’t trust elves after finding out about the big bad Ancient Evanuris… but this is presented as if elves don’t already face persecution. It’s all so limited in scope that it could be all too easily missed if you are not paying very close attention, and coming into the game with pre-existing lore knowledge.

All this made it easy to first assume that the developers simply over-corrected an attempt to address the Racism Simulator moments. And if that was the case, than I would at least give credit to effort; they did not find the right balance, but they at least tried. However, the sudden lack of discrimination against different lineages in Dragon Age: The Veilguard is not the only sanitized example of lore present.

In Dragon Age: Origins, Zevran Arainai is a companion who is from the Antivan Crows; a group of assassins. He discusses in detail how the Crows buy children and raise them into murder machines through all kinds of torture. The World of Thedas books also describe how the Antivan Crows work, echoing what Zevran says and expanding that of the recruitment, only a select handful of those taken by the Crows even survive. When you start Dragon Age: The Veilguard as an Antivan Crow, you immediately unlock a re-used codex entry from the past, “The Crows and Queen Madrigal”, that says the following:

“His guild has a reputation to uphold. They are ruthless, efficient, and discreet. How would they maintain such notoriety if agents routinely revealed the names of employers with something as "banal" as torture.”

Ruthless, efficient, and discreet. Torture is banal. This is what the Crows were before Dragon Age: The Veilguard decided to take them in a very different direction. The Antivan Crows in this latest game are painted as freedom fighters against the Antaam occupation of Treviso. Teia calls the Crows “patriots”. And while I can certainly believe that the Crows would have enough motivation to fight back against the Antaam, given that it is in direct opposition to their own goals, I cannot understand why they are suddenly suggested to be morally good. They are assassins. They treat their people like tools and murder for money. Even as recent as the Tevinter Nights story Eight Little Talons, it is addressed that the Antivan Crows are in it for the coin and power, with characters like Teia being outliers for wanting to change that. It makes the use of the older codex all the more confusing, as it sets the Antivan Crows up as something they are no longer portrayed as.

I personally think it would have been really interesting to explore a morally corrupt faction in comparison to say, the Shadow Dragons. Perhaps even as a protagonist, address things like the enslavement of “recruits” to make the faction at least somewhat better. (They are still assassins, after all.) Instead, we’re just supposed to ignore everything unsavory about them, I suppose…

We could discuss even further examples. Like how the Lords of Fortune pillage ruins but it’s okay, because they never sell artifacts of cultural importance, supposedly. Or how the only problem with the Templar Order in Tevinter is just the “bad apples” that work with Venatori. I could go on, but I don’t think I have to.

It is because of all this sanitization, that I cannot believe this was simply over-correction on a developmental part. Especially when there is still racism in the game, in other forms. The impression I’m left with feels far deeper than that; it feels corporate. As if a computer ran through the game’s script and got rid of anything with “too much” political substance. The strongest statements are hidden in codex entries, and I almost suspect they had to be snuck in.

Between a Racism Simulator and just ignoring anything bad whatsoever, I believe a balance is achievable; that sweet spot that actually has something to say about what it is presenting. I know it is achievable, because there are a few bright spots of this that I’ve encountered in Dragon Age: The Veilguard too. For example, some of the codex entries like I mentioned, and almost all the content with the Grey Wardens thus far. It is a shame there is not more content on this level.

Dragon Age: The Veilguard is overall still a fun game, in my opinion. But it’s hard to argue that it isn’t missing the grit of its predecessors. The sharp edges have been smoothed. The claws have been removed. The house has been baby-proofed. And for what purpose?

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[bejeweledinterludes]

givin’ it all.

OR touch starved ! dean, part 2. you ask, i answer <3

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read part 1 here!

「 pairing 」 : touch starved ! dean x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 5.9k

「 content / warnings 」 : late seasons sad n soft!dean, vulnerability to da max (again), emotions, emotions, EMOTIONS, past trauma, confessions?

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surprise! here is a lovely part 2 for the people that asked and in honor of my bday month starting! BUTTTT most importantly, this is a thank you for 600+ followers !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i hope all of you know that i appreciate every single one of you that enjoys and interacts with my writing! it means the world, truly. once again, thank you all so much for the continued and ongoing support + love! i hope you all enjoy this one! and special thanks to @emeraldcrs + @maddie0101 (even though i ended up not doing what i said i was going to LMFAO <3)

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dean’s touch problem was getting out of hand.

ever since that night in your bedroom, he’s wished he could be there again, laying next to you every night— he’d even actually got the courage to get out of his bed one night when he couldn’t sleep to go to your room, but he never knocked on your door.

he did, however, sit down next to it in the hallway until he got tired enough that he had to fight to keep his eyes open, then went back to his own room. 

you hadn’t even treated him any differently, either. you had still smiled at him when he walked into the kitchen that morning when you were already sitting with sam, like you always did— and you hadn’t said a word about the night before, when you held him like he’d always wanted to be held.

and god, did he want more. 

dean wanted everything, actually. anything you had to offer. he’d take a squeeze on his shoulder, a ruffle of his hair— but hell, you did that pretty regularly already. and who was he to just ask for more?

dean winchester did not ask for things. he wasn’t allowed. he’s done just fine up until now without the touch of another human being, so why couldn’t the ache in his chest go away after your fingers left his skin? after that night?

it felt pathetic, wanting to need it. and to make matters worse, dean wanted all of you. it was selfish. you didn’t deserve someone like him, he knew it. but then again, you never flirted with anyone at the bars, ever. even when you all first started hunting together. and when he’d asked you about it (not so casually), you shrugged and told him the truth, because you always did— that as crazy and stupid as it sounded, you’d wanted something, someone real.

and dean?

he wanted to be the one to give that to you.

that’s when he knew he was in trouble. 

because of too many things, really— what if you died, again? what if he died, again? and what happens when you ultimately rejected him, because if dean winchester was anything, it was unloveable.

but charlie said she loved him. sam told him once in a while, too— and you’d said it the first time you ‘died’, then came back. he never brought that up. neither did you. but he just wanted to hear you say it again. 

so he could say it back this time. 

dean hated the way he felt when the people he loved actually showed him that they maybe cared about him, too— like the way a person feels when an entire room is singing ‘happy birthday’ to them and they don’t know what to do with themselves.

and yet, time and time again, dean found himself desperate for it. and he didn’t even know what ‘it’ was half the time. 

but being around you when he felt like that helped. a lot.

dean didn’t know what it was, or when it even started, but he always gravitated towards you. always had to be around you, be near you. and you never once pointed it out. you just let him into your space, your bubble, even your hobbies— and sometimes, doing literally nothing at all. 

it was one of the reasons dean loved you. yeah, yeah, he said it, whatever. leave him alone. it seemed like any time you were near, he was more relaxed. not fully, of course— but his shoulders felt less tight and his jaw wasn’t sore from clenching it so hard.

he breathed easier. without realizing it, you helped dean take his mind off things (but of course you damn well knew that. why else would you have invited him to go to the post office with you?). 

and he craved it. 

if dean got captured by a jinn right now, you’d be there. you’re all he’s wanted. you, maybe a house— screw anything else, honestly. if you were there, so was he. but he’d definitely prefer you sitting on the hood of baby— yeah, his two girls. that was a little strange analogy though, because he’s thought about fucking you right on top of baby. or inside, on the seats. maybe even under—?

this djinn-fantasy thing was starting to sound a lot like just a sex dream. 

wouldn’t be the first time dean had one about you, though. 

besides. you were all he dreamed about, anyway. 

but this night, he was wishing he had a dream like that. no. tonight, he was having yet another goddamn nightmare. 

the barely-lit light on dean’s desk (he says he ‘accidentally’ leaves it on once in a while, but he really uses it as a makeshift night light. don’t tell anyone i told you that) cast soft dim glow on the concrete walls of his bedroom. the room was quiet, except for the occasional hum of machinery coming from somewhere in the bunker.

yet dean's mind? anything but peaceful. images, smells, sounds, and memories were piercing his mind— hell, purgatory, failed hunts, you name it. and the faces of people he’d lost, people he’d tortured were clear as day— the pain, the hurt, it was all there, as usual; but ten times worse tonight, it seemed. screams, snarls, gunshots, and his father’s voice echoed off of the traumas he was reliving. 

he doesn’t know when his eyes had snapped open. but now dean was sitting up pin-straight in his bed, his breathing more like choppy gasps as he held and pointed his gun at— nothing. and his throat hurt, why did his throat hurt—?

oh. 

it wasn’t just screams of other people.

it was his own this time. dean had screamed out loud. 

a few rooms away, you were also jolted awake by dean's scream. it was so loud that it had even carried through the thick concrete walls of the bunker that were separating you both. you shot up from your bed, years of instincts kicking in and legs moving before your sleepy mind could catch up— or think twice. 

because the only thing that was going through your freshly-awoken mind?

the absolute worst.

you made it to dean’s door in record time, swinging it wide open with your own gun at the ready to fight something— but the sight you were met with was not the one you had been expecting.

at all.

dean was still sitting up straight, but now barely-relaxed, rapidly blinking his eyes with his trembling hand still holding his gun, adjusting to the still-dim but brighter light flooding his room, to feeling damp in his clothes instead of all bloody and broken, to the echoes of screams being replaced with the white noise of the bunker– 

and to… you. 

yeah, you. standing in his doorway, hand on the edge of his door (you’d caught it as it bounced back from you essentially tearing it open), your own gun now at your side instead of drawn. your hair was all messy, clothes a little bunched up in places, breathing a little unevenly, yet not as much as him— but you still looked breathtaking, nightmare aside. 

dean didn’t know what the hell kind of water you were drinking to make you look like that. even being freshy pulled from sleep like him, you looked beautiful. pretty, gorgeous, stunning? dean couldn’t find a word, and he doesn’t think he ever will.

and him.

oh, him.

dean always looked good— to the point where it bordered on you wanting to rip your hair out, most days. and despite what de’d just gone through, he still looked good. kidding aside, you craved the times you were able to see him like this more than you cared to admit to yourself. 

not because he was in pain, or suffering the traumas of his less-than-peaceful life— but because it reminded you that even dean, for as everything that he was: a hero, larger than life, better than any hunter, still had moments like… this. when the memories became real life again. when the thoughts and his past actions echoed in his mind like taunts.

when you saw him like this: sweat all over, hair sticking up, eyes like they didn’t know what was real, you saw a piece of dean that few— or none at all had seen. most times, it felt like you were intruding on something private, sacred. and every realistically-thinking cell in your body screamed that you shouldn’t be here, seeing this. seeing dean. 

but that little voice in your head just wouldn’t listen. 

it never did. not when it told you that maybe dean didn’t touch you like he did everyone else— because hell. 

he never touched anyone else. only you. 

he’d do it all the time, so frequently and without a word that you weren’t sure he was aware he was actually doing it. dean sat so close to you what seemed like 24/7, like a magnet. in a booth, at a bar, wherever. you’d gotten so used to it, it had been unusual not to have the solid warmth of dean next to you when you’d gone off on your own to interview witnesses on a case. 

and you would catch him playing with your hair on more than one occasion. and while dean got all embarrassed, you just smiled a little, then went back to reading the old-ass book you’d been poured over (but not without first nonchalantly adjusting yourself so he got more access to your hair). 

dean would never forget it. 

because that’s who you were, essentially. taking all the pieces of him in tow with you. all the dirty, messed up, strewn-about shards of him, scattered like a discarded shattered vase on the floor— and just accepting it. 

and you never tried to ‘fix’ him, but in some way, you still somehow were. without really ever talking about it, or maybe even knowing. but when those times that only occurred on a rare occasion that dean would talk, the words spilling out and overflowing— but you never judged him. only listened. spoke when it was needed from you. 

it meant everything.

and more. 

dean would hug you almost every five minutes when he was too drunk to stand straight, you had learned one night early on in your friendship. when his ‘hey, maybe we shouldn’t do that’ voice in his head was silenced, he was kinda (a lot) all over you. because yes, he was much touchier when he was drunk, especially around you. 

even now, after years since it happened, you still remembered the way his broad, loose frame had crumpled against you— and you caught him.

just like now.

you’d snapped over whatever the hell just came over you— and you weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, but you hoped it wasn’t as long as you thought it to be, then slowly shut dean’s door behind you with a click, enveloping you both in the dim light this time. 

because no way in any world were you about to leave dean alone after seeing him like this.

you pad across his room like you’d done a million times before— but never in this way. this late in the night? sure, but not like now. 

you weren’t really thinking. because let’s be honest here: for every critical and rational thought you had, dean seemed to just… make them all disappear from your mind.

not in the survival sense, but in the ‘really, what’s stopping me from just kissing him’ viewpoint. so much so that you had to literally force yourself to not do anything. to not cross that line. you weren’t sure if he even knew that he was aware he was doing it to you, yet it still happened. a lot.

but back to now. back to dean’s room, to the light being returned to normal, and dean’s wondering why the hell is it so cold? he was still just a complete mess, his frayed and raw nerves only being held together by skin, blood and bones. he shut his eyes and kept them like that, trying to banish the memories from his mind, to just snap the hell out of it. he could hear this ringing in his ears, and it was so loud, he just wanted it to stop—

and suddenly, it did.

dean didn’t even realize you’d started holding him until the scent of you finally flooded his senses. until he felt how warm you were. until he felt your hair on the side of his face. until he felt and heard your breathing. 

during the aftermath, you’d somehow managed to gently pry dean’s gun out of his hand, setting yours and his on his desk before you’d gotten on his bed and sat with him, hugged him.

when his eyes finally opened, just for a split-second— the only sight he was met with wasn’t the pit, or purgatory, just the guns. the metal had glinted off of his desk light, his vision only slightly impaired by your hair.

your hair. why did it smell so good. and why was it so soft. the world may never know, dean thinks. well, he does know. you’d told him one night while putting something in your hair, and he had been walking past the doorway. he’d teased you about your ‘girly stuff’, but you didn’t even bat an eye. 

that was another thing he’d noticed about you. you didn’t change yourself based on other’s opinions. you were secure in who you were, and didn’t need approval from anyone else to feel your best. it was one of the things dean wished he could do for real and not just as a front, as a defense. 

you were confident, but you still asked him once in a while if you looked okay, more so in the most recent years.

and dean could never lie to you. he always said “‘course y’do”.

but that night, you’d shrugged, then just told him about whatever the hell you were putting on your head, explaining it in a way he’d understand if he’d been listening— but dean had been a little to focused on your lips moving and not enough on the words actually coming out of them. 

dean found himself burying his face into your hair now, half into your neck and chest, his breath coming out uneven and in short pants against your skin. he allowed his eyes to flutter shut again as he just let himself sink into you, resting his head on your shoulder, arms finding your waist. he felt the adrenaline wearing off, but his heart was still pounding in his chest, and he felt his shoulders trembling. his mind was starting to adjust, but he felt like he’d just gotten off a treadmill after running on it too fast. 

and dean felt so weak. even more so now than he ever had. a shell of himself, a whole grown-ass man crumpled into you like he was a little kid again, scared of the dark.

if his dad could see him now.

if sam saw him right now. oh, sam would finally see that his brother wasn’t the tower of light, safety he’d always viewed him as. he’d treat him differently, for sure. dean was no longer the protector, the one who watched over everyone and everything. too much had happened to sam, to the people he loved for that to be even a fraction of true anymore. 

what was true, though? 

dean was a failure.

in every sense of the word. he’d failed innocent people, family, friends— everyone more times than he could count.

but his mind remembered. 

and it reminded him every night. 

dean used to have the sense that he was at least doing something right, but as of late, everything he’d done so far was nothing short of one disappointment after the other. it was pitiful, really— he was a freakin’ hunter, for god’s sakes. you’d think he’d get a goddamn win once in a while. but not for a long time, it seemed. 

and this was just yet another failure, another thing he absolutely sucked at. dean couldn’t even get back to normal after a nightmare without someone being there to hold him. it was pathetic, humiliating— but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of you. 

somehow, that was his breaking point. the last straw. 

dean finally just… broke. 

you didn’t even realize what was happening until you heard the smallest strangled, trapped noise came out from the man you were essentially holding together, muffled against you— but you still heard it.

all it took for dean winchester to cry these days? 

a hug, apparently.

the tears had been welling up in dean’s eyes faster than he could will them away— and he just couldn’t do it anymore. couldn’t put up the front he’d always been able to. he tried, god he tried so hard, but he was still shaking, for christ’s sakes— and he’d just woken up. 

the more dean thought about it, the more your arms seemed like a good place to finally let it all out. you’d always treated him with kindness he didn’t deserve, so he just prayed that you wouldn’t push him away. that you would just let him have this. he doesn't think he could handle you rejecting him in this way right now.

and when you hear a slight sniff against you, you almost couldn’t believe it. dean didn’t cry. he got angry, upset, went non-verbal– but the one thing you hadn’t seen him do (at least in front of you) in all the years you’d known him, is cry.

but you weren’t leaving.

no, you just held him tighter, adjusting your grip and the way you were sitting so dean was more comfortable. you didn’t lay down, but you pulled him closer to you, running a hand up and down his back. 

it’s not like you could say anything. what the hell could you say?

well.

one thing did come to mind. 

so with your hand still gently rubbing dean’s back, you moved your head just a fraction so it could rest on his, whispering close to his ear.

“i got you.”

and that was it. 

dean’s eyes screwed further shut, lip wobbling as he gripped way harder onto you, like you were the only lifeboat left in a choppy sea. like you were going to keep him here, like he’d suddenly fall apart, die if he let go. 

and he let go—

figuratively.

you’d never heard a sob come out of dean before, but that night, you decided you never wanted to hear it after this. because it was physically hurting you to hear dean right now. 

but you didn’t dare let him go. you held dean in your arms, still running a hand on his back, and he cried into your chest like he was four years old again, his entire body trembling against yours with the force of how much his sobs were wracking through his form. 

this wasn’t just about dean’s nightmare. this was everything. the decades of holding things in, pushing them down, then moving on without ever unpacking it— it was all bursting through the floodgates, roaring in his ears, his senses.

broken sounds left his throat, almost choking on them. they were coming straight from the place dean dared not to ever touch in his heart. but he didn’t care how loud he was anymore, or how embarrassing this must be, how humiliating—

because you said that you had him.

and you wanted nothing more than to take every ounce, every inch of pain, heartbreak, suffering, and loss that made up the man you loved away from him so he didn’t have to deal with it.

dean didn’t deserve any of it. he deserved to be normal.

to have a life. 

and damn you wanted to give that to him, so badly.

but for now, you’d just hold him. give him a place to rest. to let everything go.

to be the solace he needed, he deserved.

neither you or dean knew how long he’d stayed like that, but you both didn’t say a word the entire time you held him— the only sounds that filled his room were his less-than-quiet sobs (god he hoped sam hadn’t made it home from elieen’s yet) and the faint rustle of his sheets. 

but at some point, with a final sniff, dean lifted his head from your shoulder, but didn’t meet your eyes. couldn’t.

he was so ashamed of himself, his actions. it didn’t matter that you guys had been friends however long, this was not supposed to be the side of him you saw. he’d seen you comfort dozens, maybe even hundreds of crying people on cases— because of lost loved ones, or because they had seen something too scary. 

dean just never thought he’d be one of them.

you didn’t say anything at first. dean, eyes and face still wet with tears, was looking down between you both, eyes fixed on your pyjama pants’ pattern. he was avoiding the obvious, the pill he had to swallow. he’d just cried like a baby into you.

he could see the wetness on your shirt from the corner of his eye, but he dared not look up all the way. god, this was humiliating. you’d probably move out of the bunker after this.

because no way does dean come back from a stunt like he just pulled. staying in your bed is one thing, but the fact that he just broke down in front of you? you’d never see him the same, never look at him the same– and even if there was any chance of it  before, no way in hell were you ever going to look at him in the way he wanted you to look at him.

he’d messed up big-time— again. the only thing he swore to never ruin, to never take away from himself, it all just unraveled because he was a goddamn crybaby. an idiot. why did he do that? just let himself? was he seriously that braindead that he couldn’t—

dean’s pulled out of the spiral of thoughts he’d conjured up for himself when he feels a hand under his jaw. 

your hand. 

dean’s breath was all out of whack, courtesy of crying— but his next inhale literally gets stuck somewhere when your free hand uses your fingers to wipe the tears off his face.

you hadn’t really registered the fact that you’d even started doing that until you see dean’s glassy and red-rimmed eyes meet yours in his barley-lit room. all you’d been thinking was that you wanted to see him. and when you saw all the wetness on his face, how ashamed he looked, you didn’t think. 

case in point: you never did.

not when it came to dean.

and dean just melts all over again. you could’ve teased him, poked fun, even just got up and left— but instead, your arms are still halfway around him. you’re leaning over by his nightstand, grabbing a tissue for the snot and larger tear tracks. 

he should feel embarrassed. at least a little gross. 

but he didn’t. 

he just felt you.

dean let his eyes flutter shut, because this had to be a dream now. he wasn’t expecting this from you, but damn if he didn’t need it. every gentle brush of your fingers on his face felt like pure gold. like you were putting him back together. 

dean’s still trembling under your gaze, under your touch. but seeing him react the way he did stirs at that feeling inside your tummy that always seemed to spike when dean was around. you toss that urge away, along with the tissue you’d used on his face.

but you don’t take your hand away. 

your hand was so warm, so soft was all dean could think, feel. you weren’t taking your hand away, so dean just melted like a pad of butter in a pan into your fingers that were cupping the side of his face, his eyes still shut. he could feel the slight burn of them from crying, along with the pressure in his face so high— but your thumb absentmindedly brushing on his cheek was starting to make him feel like he was floating instead.

and because he’s greedy, because he’s weak, dean’s own hand releases its hold from your shirt and finds your wrist, keeping your hand on his face. the one that used to be under his jaw had dropped when you knew that he wasn’t going to look down again.

no one’s shown dean care like this. your presence was like a blanket, like the warm, soft light of a candle. he couldn’t get enough. he never wanted it to end. 

dean doesn’t know how long he stays like that— could’ve been seconds or hours. but he finally breaks the silence with a quiet, raspy “thank you”. he doesn’t open his eyes yet.

because he’s afraid that you’ll be gone when he opens them. 

but you weren’t.

no, in fact? you did something much stupider.

you leaned forward and kissed dean on the cheek that your hand wasn’t currently holding.

dean’s eyes snap open in surprise at the contact if your soft lips on his skin, his trembling breaths getting stuck in his throat again— because holy hell. whatever he’d been guessing you’d do, it wasn’t even close to that.

like everyone knows now: you weren’t thinking.you just wanted him to feel better. you just didn’t know how to do that for him.

dean’s red-rimmed eyes were still wide as you leaned back, your hand on his face faltering when you see his expression, because that didn’t seem like he enjoyed it— but he didn’t drop his hand from your wrist. he wasn’t going to let you let go. you’d only kissed him on the cheek one other time, and that was when he was dying for the third, maybe fourth time? it was too long ago for him to remember, but honestly, he had been happy just dying like that, too. you’d kissed him, and that was what he needed. he didn’t want anything else from this world.

and you just did it again.

the only thing he said?

“do that again.”

now it was your turn for your breathing to stop working.

but you didn’t hesitate. 

you leaned forwards once more and pressed your lips on dean’s cheek again, lingering for a second too long before you reluctantly pulled away. because you wanted more. you wanted everything, honestly. but you’d never ask that of him. 

you don’t know how you’ve lasted this long, pretending not to want one of your closest friends for as long as you can remember. you can recall a time when you didn’t feel like this— back when dean winchester was just some hunter with his brother. you helped them out once in a while, since they were your age and seemed nice enough, but somewhere along the way, after an apocalypse or two, sam and dean were always kind of just… there. it was like you were on parallel paths, going in the same direction— and both had intersected at some point. 

now here you were. 

it was times like these you wished that dean would just pick a side. he never truly hit on you, only for a case once in a while— and he couldn’t even look at you after he did that. he never made a move, and honestly, you were fine with that, for a really long time. you’d deemed dean much too out of your league anyway, since he didn’t really flirt with you like he did every other woman that came across his path— and that was odd to you, because dean flirted with everyone.

just not… you. 

and while it stung, you just pushed through it. i mean, it’s not like you haven’t been let down before— but you couldn’t place why your heart felt like it was being shredded up in your chest when you’d met lisa for the first time.

but you knew. 

deep down, you knew exactly why. 

you knew why your gut twisted whenever he chatted up a waitress, or a witness. you knew why your friends gave up on talking to you about him, because you were a lost cause. 

because you were so stupidly in love with dean, it was almost humiliating. 

every single person, even some monsters you were literally hunting had called you out on it.

and you didn’t know what the hell to do. 

there were too many variables, too many outliers, and certainly not enough confidence to even consider the fact of telling him. of manning up and just taking what you wanted. because what would you even say? do? what happens after he rejects you? and what if—

your thoughts are interrupted by a warm hand on your face.

dean’s hand.

your hand was still on his cheek, one of his own still holding your wrist— but the other was now brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

and then it just… stayed there. on the side of your face. 

just like you were doing to him. 

you’re gonna die, you think. 

once again, you found yourself wanting dean to just do something. he’d been blurring the invisible line you’d drawn for yourself, the one you swore to never cross—

unless dean wanted you to. 

it was getting much harder to tell if he wanted you to or not, especially in the most recent months.

and it was killing you. slowly but surely.

“what’re you thinkin’ about?”

the words leave your mouth before you even have time to think, because dean’s hand is so warm, so big against your face and it’s really hard to focus when his own thumb is brushing on your cheek— 

“you.” 

the answer leaves dean’s mouth without hesitation, without another thought. it wasn’t a lie— because you were all he thought about.

dean didn’t deserve this. you. any of this. and yet, he couldn’t refuse it right now. not when you were so close to him, and your skin was so soft—

“are you—” the words get caught in dean’s throat. “are y’thinkin’ about me?”

oh, why did dean just say that. why on chuck’s green earth did he ever say that. how did he even sound more pathetic than he’d just been when he was crying in your arms? and his voice was so small, so unlike him— plus it was still raspy from his stunt he’d pulled earlier. he was an idiot. a fool. he sounded like an insecure freakin’ teenager. it was pathetic. he was pathetic—

“yeah.” 

dean’s eyes flicked back up to yours— and that was a mistake, because your hand was still mirroring his own on his face, and you were looking at him like you meant what you’d just said. like he meant something. 

“yeah?” the breath left dean’s mouth before he could stop it, and he hated how hopeful he sounded. he’d moved a fraction closer to you, but it felt like he just traveled a mile. 

“yeah,” you nodded, a little dazed, voice barely above a whisper. because dean was so close to you now, you could feel his breath on your face. you could barely think straight, because all you wanted to do was just lean in a little further— “i don’t really, uh… stop. thinkin’ about you.”

and dean’s gonna die. 

he is going to die, because you said that and you were looking down at his lips and you smelled so good and your hand was still on his face—

dean was a simple man. that’s all he’ll ever be. he’d never ask you to do something you didn’t want.

but god, he wanted you. 

so the words fell out of his mouth in another exhale—

“me, either.”

oh. 

oh. 

the way you were looking at him right now? after he said that in response?

you wanted him, too.

you’re both not sure who moved first, but your lips were on dean’s after you leaned in and he used his hand on your face to tug you to him, closing the remaining space between you both on his bed. 

the first thing you noticed?

dean tasted like home. 

you didn’t kiss him too fast. neither he with you. because you wanted to map out every inch you could, and because you were half-sure that this was some fantasy your mind had cooked up out of a state of delusion. your hand on dean’s face snaked deeper back, burying into his hair, and he groaned into your mouth at the action. 

that did something to you. the same thing happened when dean’s hand went into your hair, too— you made this little noise on his lips.

that did something to him.

kissing dean was actually gentle at first. not hesitant, but like you already knew how. but then after you’d both made those noises, it’s like a switch flipped. suddenly, there was way too much space in between you both— and you gripped onto the front of his shirt, tugging him towards you as you let your back hit his sheets, taking him down with you. 

this wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. no, this was going on a decade of wishing, wanting, hoping for something, anything to come of you and dean besides friendship. 

and dean? dean pressed right into you, one of his hands and barely bothered to keep himself upright. he needed to touch you, feel you. another groan escapes you and him involuntarily at the friction between you both— because you’d spread your thighs, his torso fitting right between you.

and it felt good. 

you couldn’t take a full breath anymore, but you didn’t dare take your lips off of dean’s. you just tugged him closer, hand still in his hair, the other on the back of one of his shoulders.

both your lips broke with a pop, you and dean taking in the same breath of air, his nose brushing against yours and eyes fluttering, because wow.

dean didn’t know he’d said that aloud until a smile tugged on your lips, eyes looking up at him like he still wasn’t real. like this wasn’t real. 

“you know how long i’ve been waitin’ to do that?” dean breathes against your lips, eyes threatening to shut again. 

your smile gets wider as your own eyelashes flutter at the closeness, relishing in the contact of feeling dean on top of you before you respond:

“you know how long i’ve been waiting for you to do that?”

──────────────────────── 𖤐

tags: @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @viarasvogue @tinas111 @0ccvltism @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @honeyyxxbee @harlekin705 + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3

[burningembers91]

The Beauty of Vulnerability - Choi Su Bong (Thanos) x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Follow up Piece to: Not Who I Want to Be

Synopsis: Thanos is ready to show who he really is

Warnings: Alcohol and drug misuse/addiction, p in v, oral, 18+ only!

Your phone buzzed once, twice, three times before you finally picked it up. Thanos had sent you a selfie of him posing on his balcony, the Seoul skyline in the background. He had his usual goofy expression on his face, his tattoos visible on his shirtless body. He’d followed the selfie up with several emojis and a plea to join him on his balcony. You couldn’t help but smile, couldn’t help but zoom in on his abs visible in the lower lefthand corner of the screen. It had been six weeks since your meeting in the nightclub, and as much as you’d tried to resist, he’d charmed his way into your life.

Thanos was unlike anyone you’d ever met. He was so vibrant, so full of life and yet so broken. His eyes were filled with such sadness, a sadness that never quite went away no matter how hard he laughed, or how many jokes he told. He was the classic class clown, always striving to make you laugh. You hadn’t believed him when he told you he was a famous rapper, not until you’d Googled him the next day. Your friends didn’t believe you’d met him either, not until you showed them the message you’d sent him. you’d listened to his music, and although it wasn’t entirely to your taste, there was no denying the man had talent.

You’d met a few times since then, mostly at Thanos’ apartment. You’d once made the mistake of heading to a restaurant for dinner and spent the entire time fighting off screaming girls armed with iPhones and killer glares in your direction. You hadn’t quite got a feel of who this man was, didn’t quite understand what made him tick. He was a wildcard, but there was an underlying sweetness about him.

While you were reserved with your feelings, Thanos was head over heels for you. You gave him a reason to wake up in the morning, gave him purpose on days that without you would have been filled with drugs and booze. He hadn’t quite managed to quit the narcotics, but a lifetime habit was hard to break. But you’d inspired him to write music again, had given him an entirely new lease on life. The day after he’d met you, he spent all day messaging you on Instagram. The next day, he removed the parasites from his apartment, the ones who only came round when they wanted to party, take drugs or cling to his coattails. He deep cleaned his apartment, tipping bottles of booze and pills down the toilet. He sat at his piano for the first time in years, penning a song that was so different to anything he’d written before. The music seemed to flow through him, the words coming so naturally. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d written something sober, the melody overwhelming him until he was reduced to tears. He’d spent so long pretending to be someone else, it was nice to have a piece of the real him shine through.

He understood you wanted to take things slow, and he’d be a fool to rush into this headfirst. That had always been his mistake. Thanos usually acted first and thought later, but he didn’t want to fuck up whatever this was that he had with you. There were a few times when he slipped back into his old habits, taking a pill when the world got a little too much, drinking himself to sleep when his racing thoughts wouldn’t let him rest. He hadn’t told you about his addictions, but you knew.

You saw it in his eyes, saw the ways his hands shook when he was starting to withdraw. You’d seen friends addicted in the past, and it hadn’t ended well. That’s why you were taking things slow; you were waiting for the moment Thanos would inevitably break your heart. Your head screamed at you to leave, but your heart told you this man was worth fighting for.

You joined him later that evening on his balcony, just as the sky turned candy floss pink as the sun began to set. He handed you a glass of champagne worth more than your monthly salary, kissing you softly on your cheek. His days were long and lonely without you, counting down the hours until he saw you again. You were the anchor that kept him grounded to the world, the woman who stopped him from floating away into the clouds. His fingernails were painted black today, the colour matching the thickly tattooed line that snaked from his middle finger to his neck. you liked to trace that line, smiling as he shivered against you. you hadn’t slept together yet, but every day you found it harder to find a reason not to. His lips skimmed your cheek again, making their way down to your lips. Thanos loved kissing you, loved the way your lips felt against his. You were impossibly soft, your tongue meeting his as you wrapped your arms around his neck, the glass of expensive champagne long forgotten.

“I wrote a song for you,” he whispered, playing with them hem of your skirt. “Can I play it for you?” You nodded, tilting your head back as his lips continued to kiss you, trailing across your jawline and down your neck. He was so crazy about you, so head over heels he felt like he might go insane. You made his entire body tingle, from his scalp to his toes, and he found himself constantly getting lost in your eyes.

Pulling you from the comfort of his outdoor sofa, he led you to his music room, offering you a seat on his plush leather stool. He sat at his piano, nerves wracking his body as he took a deep breath. Usually, he’d pop a pill to calm his nerves, or down a few shots of tequila. But not tonight. Tonight, he wanted to sit with those nerves, to show his vulnerability to you in a way he’d never shown anyone. As he began to play, his voice singing in perfect harmony with the notes, you watched in silence. Every inch of you was covered in goosebumps, the tune on the piano so beautifully encompassing his feelings towards you. Never had a man treated you the way Thanos had; he made you feel like a Goddess.

When the song was over, Thanos stayed at the piano, his bottom lip trembling. You watched him for a few moments, your heart aching as a lifetime of emotions bubbled to the surface. He was so tired of being someone he wasn’t, of surrounding himself with people who didn’t give a shit about him. Until 6 weeks ago, he had no one to call when he was lonely, no one to hug him when he was feeling sad. He’d had no one to turn to when the world got dark, but you were here now. Sitting across from him, your eyes brimming with tears, he didn’t know how to convey his feelings towards you other than through song.

Nothing about him was real; nothing was authentically him. His name wasn’t even real; he’d modelled it on a fucking purple CGI villain. A single tear fell from his eye, landing on the ivory keys with a splatter. A deep, wracking sob escaped him and his closed his eyes as he felt the darkness closing in. He longed for a release, longed to feel the numbness that came with the pills he popped like candy.

Your arms encircled him, pulling his shaking body into yours. You stood there for a while, stroking his shock of purple hair while he sobbed into your chest. He’d never cried in front of a woman before, had never shown any emotion other than unabashed confidence. “My name isn’t even Thanos,” he choked after a while. “I know,” you smiled, “I doubted your parents named you after a Marvel villain.” You wiped his tears away with the pad of your thumb, placing a soft kiss on each of his eyelids. He looked so fragile, so broken as his head slumped against your breasts, his body still shaking with the occasional sob. “What is your name?” He looked up at you. He hadn’t said he real name for years; Thanos had become his brand, the crutch he used almost as much as the drugs and alcohol. “Choi Su-Bong,” he whispered. “My name is Choi Su-Bong.”

You kissed him, pulling him down onto the soft carpet of his music room floor. “Choi Su-Bong,” you smiled, “My Choi Su-Bong.” He made love to you right there on the floor, the sounds of your moans melting into the sound-proof walls. Su-Bong had never felt like this with anyone before. He was usually completely numb when he fucked someone, if he remembered fucking them at all. But with you, he was sober, perhaps for the first time in his life. He felt every touch, every thrust so deeply. He let you take charge, straddling him as you lowered yourself onto him. Your fingers traced his abs, the sensation overwhelming him as your nails dragged gently across his skin, tracing the tattoos that littered his torso and chest. He’d never known something could feel this good, had never realised that your entire body could feel like it was on fire in the best way possible. He was desperate to touch every inch of you, to feel every part of your exposed skin. He guided your chest towards his mouth, his lips locking around your sensitive nipple as he took it gently between his teeth. Your moans were heavenly, more beautiful than any song he’d ever heard. He came with an earth-shattering groan, his fingers gripping the skin on your thighs as he finished inside of you. He carried you to his room after, laying you down on his silk sheets before drawing out your pleasure again and again. Your body shook for him, your breathy moans spurring him on. You tasted like heaven, your slickness coating his mouth and tongue as he devoured you again and again.

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep, waking up as the sun broke over the horizon. Thanos was gone, but Choi Su-Bong had replaced him. His arms cradled you as you watched the sun rise, his lips peppering kisses along your shoulder and neck. Finally rousing from bed, he padded through to the kitchen. He was no chef, but last night had worked up quite the appetite. He ordered breakfast from a local café, spreading out the food across his expansive kitchen. He wasn’t sure what your favourite was, so he ordered one of everything. You sat and ate together, smiling at each other over your coffee mugs.

There would be hard days ahead, but Choi Su-Bong was determined to start fresh. New music, new friends, a new perspective. He’d never had anything in life that made him want to be a better person. But now he had you, and you were worth fighting for.

[inklore]

the lake is for lovers.

— tyler owens x f!reader

premise: summer will always be your favorite, spending weeks at the lake house with the crew. drinking, good food, sneaking off with tyler, making love under the stars. what more could a girl ask for?

contents: unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, foreplay, coming inside, alcohol consumption, oral, weed mention, fluff, tyler’s favorite pet name is baby ok fight me, he’s also thick as hell | wc: 6k+

note: this fic started out as filth on a dock, which then turned into me making a getting d at the lake playlist, which only worsened my tyler brainrot and made me write these cluster of filthy blurbs.

There were many reasons for you to love summer. 

Picnics under a favored willow tree, ice cream shops coming out with outlandish sugary concoctions that could take down even the most rambunctious five year old. The days are longer, filled with more laughs and bonfires. Fireworks—as if that had a designated season to be let off, Boone would take on anyone who thought differently. 

Tornado season was over, which, depending on who you asked, was not a reason to love the overheated season.

But your favorite thing about summer was by far the weeks you and the crew spent at Dex’s lake house back in Arkansas. A lake house that had gone from his retirement home when he left a shitty corporate job to a summer sanctuary for the family he found doing what he truly loved.

So every summer, all of you loaded up Tyler’s truck, the van, and the motor home and headed to the private dwelling, where you would spend the rest of the summer swimming, napping on the dock, raiding Boone’s smoke stash, and finding the nearest field to stare up at the stars. 

Or your favorite: drinking until Tyler wrangled you into the house and into bed before you and Dani took the boat out for a joy ride, or you and Lilly had another incident of lighting said boat on fire with a miss trajectory of a firework that Boone gets scolded at for bringing out when everyone was three sheets to the wind by your wrangler.

As if he didn’t love it.

As if he had not convinced you all to jump into the lake naked one night. 

“Oh no,” The man himself shook his head. Placing his hand over yours, your fingers wrapped around the head of a bottle of tequila. The cart already filled with boxes of Miller and Budweiser.

“Oh yes.” Your fingers wrapped together around the bottle, pulling it halfway off the shelf before he actually used force to stop you—that force being lacing his fingers with yours and squeezing.

Moving his body so he was standing beside you, chest to chest. Your brows raise when you try to pull the bottle again, and he squeezes your fingers harder.

“Tyler.” 

“Baby.” 

You roll your eyes, “Boone wants it.”

“Yeah, Boone wants it!” 

You both can’t help laughing as you hear the man himself yelling from three shelves away. 

“Lilly wants it too!” 

“Don’t be a pussy,” Dani yells as if there aren’t other people in the store with you—Tyler leaning his head back with a sigh, his mouth pulled in a smile. 

If the shop owner wasn’t used to the group of you making a pit stop at the decently sized—rundown—off the road liquor store several times during the summer; you’re sure he would have kicked half of you out. 

“Yeah,” you say, giving him that teasing smile, turning your head to the side. Walking your free fingers up his chest. “Don’t be a pussy.” You whisper, looking up at him. His smile turns into a smirk as he leans down, his lips hovering above yours. 

“The last time ya’ll had Tequila Boone got stuck on the roof.” He is completely serious, but he says it in that voice that makes you want to melt into his hands and do whatever he wants. That stern undertone that made you want to listen and rebel—either outcome was always one you loved. 

You nod. “True, but.” Your palm flattens against his chest, moving up until your fingers play with the baby hairs at the back of his neck. “If I recall, you weren’t complaining when you were fucking me sober that night. So, if anything, I think it’s a win for all of us.” 

“Not for Boone.”

“Not for Boone.” You both smile before pressing your lips together, Tyler’s hand guiding the bottle into the cart, trapping you between him in the cart when his arms wrap around your middle. 

“Glad you could see it my way.” You bite your bottom lip, your stomach fluttering, as he gives you that sweet smirk when you grab the ball cap from his head and slip it on yours. Pulling out of his arms to walk down the aisle, “now hurry up, so we can revisit memory lane.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The first morning you’re there is when your worst hangovers occur. 

The first night of drinking is always the hardest you do, as if the steam of working for months wrangling and chasing storms has finally been let out. Decompressed of the pressures of having to worry about live streaming and fixing something on Ty’s truck.

It was a blessing that the nearest neighbor was at least five minutes away, with Tyler’s perfectly curated playlist blaring from the speakers that lined the aforementioned truck. Boone being louder than the aforementioned music, Dani and Lilly hollering when one of them loses whatever competitive thing they’re doing. Dex mixing up some concoction inside the house and insisting it’ll help with the hangover, even though you all know it won't, but damn, does it taste good. 

You and Tyler occupying yourselves around the fire, his hands on your hips, holding you close to him as you sway to the music. His lips at your neck, leaving small nips and kisses along your skin until you turn around to scowl at him. His hands slipping into the back pockets of your shorts. 

“You’re a bad dance partner.” 

“You’re even worse.” His hand wraps around yours to press to the front of his jeans, where he’s hard and straining against them. “Can’t focus on my moves when my girl’s causin’ such a distraction.”

You smile up at him, running your fingers along the outline of his dick. “Poor boy. Should your girl take you upstairs and fix this little problem?”

“Little?” His brows raise, giving you a look that makes you laugh at the amusement on his face. “Now we’re definitely going upstairs.” 

You’re laughing all the way up the stairs, Tyler grinning as he talks shit the entire way up, slapping your ass until it feels red and raw through your shorts. 

And when he has you naked and pressed to the mattress, your ass in the air, thighs coated in your own slick from him, bringing you right to the precipice of your orgasm, only to keep taking it away until you started whining and he gripped your hips and flipped you over. Pulling your hips up, his teeth biting into your ass cheek. 

The head of his cock runs through your folds, the wet noise that comes from him separating them to press at your entrance makes you whimper. 

When he pushes in slow, too fucking slow, your fingers dig into the quilt. Your legs shaking, your body wanting to pull away from the intrusion—no matter how stretched out you already are from his fingers and tongue, the burn from the stretch of his cock never compares to it. Always stretches you out until you feel too full, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

Tyler presses a kiss at your tailbone, his cock almost fully inside of your fluttering pussy. “Still think it’s little, baby?”

And after you’re coated in sweat and your throat is hoarse and raw, your legs jelly, your pussy feeling swollen and dripping from the several orgasms Tyler fucked out of you—and the come he fucked into you; wrapping your legs around his hips so there was nowhere for either of you to go while he did so; your body is limp against his chest. His fingers running along your spine. 

You feel completely spent and sedated, the liquor aiding in the job of lulling your body completely. But Tyler is all smiles and wide awake—after all these years together, you still have no idea what makes a tornado wrangler tired. 

He’s always raring to go, and it’s both hot and frustrating at the same time. 

You groan when he moves your body gently off of his, making a quick trip downstairs. A glass of water in his hand seconds later, demanding you sit up and drink half, even through your protests. A hand rubbing at your back. 

“Good girl,” he says, sweetly kissing your cheek and putting the glass on the nightstand. He’ll ask you if you want to shower because the both of you are covered in sweat and come and you’ll only reply by pulling him back down in bed with your face pressed to his chest. 

His chuckle shakes your cheek when he shuts the lamp off, pulls the quilt over your shoulders, and presses a kiss atop your head. 

But best believe he pulls your ass into the shower when the sun rises. Your head pounding from the shots you and Lilly threw back and from the beers you drained. Tyler’s fingers are gentle as he washes your hair. Gentle as he washes your body. He presses a kiss on each of your shoulders when he washes your back.

That space between your legs still feeling swollen from last night's activities, but his fingers still find their way between them. His palm on the shower wall as he stands behind you and rubs your clit until you’re coming. 

Teeth, lips, and tongue at the back of your neck coaching you through it, “that’s my girl.” He’ll praise you like you’ve just wrangled your own kind of storm. A storm he caused. 

A storm that always helps your pounding headache just a little more than the eggs Dexter places on your plate when you make your way downstairs. 

“I think I’m goin’ sober for the resta’ the summer.” Boone groans between his palms. Palms that are stopping his drooping head from falling into his eggs.

“Lilly’s making flamin’ peppers tonight.” Dani grins from the head of the table, chewing on a piece of bacon. It has the reaction you all expect, Boone picking up his head, perking up, and feigning excitement. 

“Really?” 

You all laugh together, regardless of how much it hurts your temples. 

“You’re supposed to be soaking up the heat, not staring, Owens.” 

You squint from the sun as you turn your head to him, the two of you lying out on the dock. Letting the sun dry you off from your swim in the water. Something that should be relaxing.

But Tyler clearly distracted himself by staring at you. 

“Can’t I do both?” He grins, lying on his side, his head propped up by his hand.

“You’re gonna have the worst farmer's tan.”

“Worth it for the view.” He kisses you, his finger and thumb lightly pinching your chin. 

It doesn’t take long for his kiss to progress from a sweet peck to something more as his tongue licks into your mouth. With the way his thumb circles your nipple through your swimsuit, his hand moves down your torso to the top of your bottoms, easily slipping past them. 

“Tyler,” you warn through a breath when his finger runs along your folds. 

“What?” He smiles against your neck, “it’s just us.”

“Dani and Dexter are literally out on the water.”

“They’re tryna catch dinner. They’re far gone.” The pad of his finger runs against your clit in a slow circle. Making you gasp, your hips chasing the touch. 

“Boone,” you swallow. Try to be the level headed one here, “Lilly.” 

“Store.” He says it simply. Teeth nipping at your ear, “let me make my girl come.” His finger adds pressure to your clit, making you moan. “Please,” he whispers against your ear. 

And if this man made you a sane woman, you’d pull his hand away and make him take you inside. But sanity has no room around Tyler. Sanity didn’t send you into a tornado with him. Didn’t have you riding him in the front seat of his truck after afternoons of chasing, the adrenaline still pumping through your veins.

No, being in love with Tyler Owens causes sanity to fly out the window. Made you throw caution to the wind. Made you chase that high. Made you ride it. 

Made you want and beg for more.

His love was soft and ever consuming. A gentleness that made up for the intensity of everything else. It’s why it was so easy for you to put your life in his hands every single day you went out into the storm.  

That’s why your legs bend and open for him, and why you let his fingers fuck you on the dock where you could easily get caught. His thumb rubbing your clit, your body burning, your pussy clenching and pulling his fingers in. 

“Don’t stop, baby, don’t stop.” He grunts in your ear as your hips move, fucking yourself down on his fingers when your orgasm gets closer and closer until you’re coming and his hand is in your hair, pulling your mouth to his so he can swallow your loud moan. Can hold you through the euphoric high that has your body shivering even with the sun shining down on it. 

His fingers slip from you wet and coated with your come. His eyes never leave yours when he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean before grinning, grabbing your jaw, and sharing the fruits of his labor. 

“Hey, lovebirds,” Lilly hollers as she slams the van door. “Come help us!” 

"Comin',” Tyler yells back, a smirk on his face as his eyes waggle at the double meaning. 

“You’re ridiculous.” You laugh, pushing at his chest as you stand and walk down the dock. Arms wrap around you, making you both waddle down the rest of the way. Tyler kissing your cheek. You can still feel his hardness against your ass—hardness that was just grinding itself against your hip. 

“I love you,” he says softly. 

“More?” 

“More than anything.” 

You lean your head back against his shoulder, smiling. “Infinitely.” 

“Unbound.” 

When you two step off the last wood plank of the dock, you stop, both turning your heads to kiss each other. Your hand lifts to run your fingers through the back of his hair. 

"Oh, don’t worry, we got it, ya’ll!” Lilly says sarcastically from the porch. 

You smile against Tyler’s lips. “I love you. But let's go help before she refuses to share the good snacks with us.”

“Damn right, I will!” She yells as she shakes a box of said snacks in her arms. 

Tyler laughs and presses one last kiss on your lips before he untangles himself from you and runs over to the van. 

“Ain’t no way!”

“Pick up the slack!”

“I’m doin’ my best here!” 

You and Tyler laugh as Dani and Boone argue as you both sink the white balls into their cups. Dani scowling as she downs her drink, and Boone raises his high with a frown as he does the same. 

When Boone misses and Dani gets one in their next turn, the way they cheer and high five warms something inside of you instead. Brings joy to the already loose buzzing that thumps through your veins from how many sips you’ve had tonight. Your cheeks are heated and hurting from all the laughing you’ve been doing. 

You grab the cup, ready to down its contents but Tyler puts his hand over the top, grabbing it from you and downing it in one gulp. Sending you a wink. Whispering in your ear when he leans over the table to put the now empty cup alongside the other ones, “I want to take you somewhere.” 

It’s all the explanation you need as to why he doesn’t want you too far gone. You hadn’t seen him drink anything tonight besides the few cups Dani and Boone—mostly Dani—landed their ball in. 

Some nights, he doesn’t drink at all.

Some nights he makes sure everyone goes to bed with something other than booze warming your stomachs—usually a frozen pizza he always burns at the bottom, or the infamous Ty Club Sandy, as Boone has deemed to call it. Filling you up until you are on the cusp of being sober and ready for your heads to hit your pillows. 

Tyler took his appointed mother hen role even further for the rest of the night until the aforementioned heads hit your pillows.

Sitting in the caravan with Boone for hours until he exhausted himself from talking about new ideas for the channel and one of his favorite subjects: pyrophilia. 

Or lounging on the couch and listening to Lilly and Dani talk about ways to make Kyro better, new elements to add for better views in the sky. 

Dexter always passes out before anyone, filling his gut and waving goodnight before disappearing down the hall.

Tyler making his way up to your bedroom after everyone had gone off to bed. Cleaning himself up and crawling under the sheets with you—having sent you up to bed hours ago with a pat on your ass and plans to be ready for him when he got up there, knowing full well you would fall asleep before an hour even passed.  

His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer to him, face pressed into the back of your neck. The two of you drifting off to sleep. You take it upon yourself to keep his plans of being ready for him when you wake him up with your mouth wrapped around his cock. 

His hips pushing up into your mouth, languid and sporadic, until he’s fully woken up. His jaw tightens before falling open when he looks down at you and watches you circle your tongue around his tip. 

“Morning,” you’ll say with a smile and he’ll groan softly. Matching your smile with a grin of his own, that look of lust and desire morphs his beautiful features into something needy.

He’ll try to speak, try to say something sweet or filthy, but the words never come out. Just heavy pants and his teeth swelling up his bottom lip as he watches you—as he throws his head back against the pillow and groans.

When you pull him out of your mouth and straddle his hips, you reach behind you to guide him through your wetness, keeping his eyes on yours the entire time. Mouth twitching when you slide down on him slowly. When your own eyes flutter closed from the burning stretch. 

You ride him slowly, leaving marks along his neck and chest from your lips and nails digging into his skin when he tries to buck his hips up—fuck you harder. Set the pace that he craves so much when you are on top of him like this. A pace he adores, from how lost you become in pleasure, from your tits bouncing in his face, to how beautiful you look taking the reins. 

But you stop your movements each time you feel his hips move. The look he gives you is pitiful and needy.

“Fuck, baby.” 

You smile, lean down, and kiss his chin as you start to move your hips again, just as slowly. “I’m just tryna make up for last night.”

“You’re killin’ me.” 

After the two of you have wiped the floor with Boone and Dani and they’re demanding Lilly and Dex go against them next because they know they’ll actually win this time; Tyler grabs your hand and walks you to his truck, opening the door for you to climb inside. 

“Is it safe for you to drive?”

“Would I put you in a situation where you weren’t safe?” He grabs your hand and kisses the top of it. 

You can always tell when he’s buzzed or drunk; his cheeks get flushed and his eyes squinting more than usual when he smiles or laughs. He’s sober. 

When you finally get to the spot, you turn to give Tyler a look. He’s all smiles as he drives through a field of tall grass, turning the wheel to back up his truck the rest of the way before coming to a stop once you reach a clearing that seems like nothing but marsh land. 

Until you’ve stepped out of the truck and walked around the back. Your eyes light up when you see a pond a little bigger than an EF3 filling the rest of the field. 

The moon and stars shine off the water, painting it in the darkest blue you’ve ever seen. Water lilies float along the top, with pickerelweed and cattails lining the edges. The crickets and lightning bugs add to the ambience of it all. 

“How did you find this?” You ask as he helps you climb up into the bed of the truck, where a blanket and pillows are already laid down. 

“Dex told me about it.” 

“You sap’s.” You say with a sweet smile, pulling him down to your lips. 

Tyler only further proves the sap allegations when he pulls out two of your favorite bags of snacks. His back leaned against the pillows, you leaning against him, his arms around you as you shared the salty and sweet treats. Your hand reaching back to feed him as you look up at the stars. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Tyler whispers against your lips when the snacks are gone, fingers licked clean, kisses pressed to lips, the mood changing until you’re naked and under him and his hips are thrusting slowly between your thighs. “So pretty,” he kisses you, runs his lips along your jaw, “perfect,” latch on the side of your neck, “my girl.” His words attenuated by his thrusts. 

His fingers are in your hair, at the back of your neck, and on your chest, playing with your nipples, squeezing a hand around them, and bringing his mouth to the pert bud. Teeth nipping at your collar bone, tongue licking between the space of your breasts, grunts against your ear. Fingers at your hip, against your clit—he’s everywhere. Consuming you. Pulling you apart, putting you together, slowly, gently, with a stroke, a touch, a kiss, a bite. 

Fucking you like it’s the first time. 

Fucking you like he has all the time in the world. 

Like he wants you to feel his love with every thrust. Every praise in your ear. 

Your fingers dig into his biceps, legs lifting and pressing against his sides, pushing him deeper inside you. Your breath heavy, your moans, sweet mewls, music to his ears. 

“Tyler,” you whimper against his shoulder. 

His arms bracket around your head, thrusts picking up when he feels your pussy tighten around his cock. “I know, baby.” His words are breathed into your ear, heavy and weak, letting you know he’s just as close. “Gonna come, you gonna take it like a good girl?” You nod, dig your nails into his back, reaching your peaks together. 

Tyler stays on top of you even after your breaths have evened out. His thumb runs along your cheek as he looks down at you. His smile is soft and filled with love. It makes your stomach flutter—something that hasn’t stopped since the day you met him. 

When he finally does pull out, neither of you move to right yourselves or head back. He covers you with another blanket he pulls from somewhere behind you. Your head against his chest as you look up at the sky. Tyler’s fingers playing with yours. A peaceful silence passes between you for what feels like forever, basking in each other. Listening to the bugs and frogs around the pond. 

“Marry me.” 

You chuckle softly, “your come hasn’t even dried inside me yet.” You joke. Don’t think twice about it; it hadn’t been the first time he had playfully asked you. Declared to the world that you would be his wife one day: in a tornado riding the high, saying he would make you his wife when you put your computer science degree to good use and ran better numbers than he could have come up with on his own. When you would have to travel home to visit family for a week and leave the crew behind, his arms squeezing you upon your return, saying the winds are dead, everything's dead when you’re not around, don’t leave again, marry me. 

So you don’t chalk it up to anything but that until you feel something cold slip onto your finger. Tyler brings your hand up so the moon is shining down on it, a pretty diamond twinkling in the moonlight. 

“Marry me.”

Your heart falling to the pit of your stomach as you rush to sit up. Your palm against your chest, your eyes wide, and staring down at your hand before whipping around to look at him. The smile on his face is to fucking die for. 

“Tyler.”

“Baby.” 

“Are you serious? Are you sure?” 

He laughs, reaches out for you, and pulls you into his lap. “I’ve been sure since the day I saw you.”

“That’s dramatic.” 

“Ask Boone,” he smiles. Stares down at the ring on your finger that you still have held up, “told him five months into us datin’ that I had a ring picked out.”

You chew on your bottom lip, try to hold back the tears that pool in your eyes. “That’s insane.” 

“If you want somethin’, you take it.” 

“You already got me.”

“And I ain’t ever letting go.” He grabs your hand, rubs his thumb against the ring on your finger. Looks at you with so much love that you think you could die from it and be just as happy as you are right now. “Will you marry me?” 

You don’t think you’ve ever wanted something more in your life. 

“Yes.”  

“Yes?” He asks as if he’s surprised, his smile and laugh filled with a childish joy and happiness. Like a child finally getting a gift he had always wished for.

“Yes!” 

He grabs your face, kissing you. Kissing you until you are both laughing and it’s all teeth and someone's crying, and you’re not sure if it’s him or you or who’s shaking or cheering. 

“I love you,” he says. You can feel his heart pumping against the palm on his chest. His palms are hot against your tear stained cheeks. Thumb swiping loose droplets away. 

“More?” 

“More than anything.” 

You can’t even finish your little rhyme before kissing him again. Whispering that you love him back against his lips. This man was going to be your husband. This man who has completely taken over your life and swirled it upside down since the first day you saw him. 

This man who has shown you a new world. Given you new meanings of life. Given you a love that puts storybooks to shame. Given you a family that will only grow if the two of you decide on it, but is already so perfect the way it is. 

You couldn’t imagine marrying anyone but Tyler Owens. 

The next day, you obviously have to celebrate. 

The entire crew cheered and rushed you when the two of you had come home, and Tyler lifted your hand to the sky like you just won something. 

“Yes!”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ bout!”

“That’s ma boy!”

“Bout time!”

Boone spins you, Lilly is already mapping out the perfect location for the nuptials, and Dani and Dex are hugging and clapping Tyler on the back. 

So the next day is one big celebratory day. 

Dex prepares a breakfast so large that you all groan and sprawl in the living room while watching movies you have all seen a dozen times, aiding in your hearty meal putting you to sleep. 

A nice nap that has you all waking up more rested than before and spending the rest of the afternoon out on the water. Tyler and Dex grill the fish you caught when you come home.

Your legs in Tyler’s lap, all of you sedated and full, and laughing around the table afterwards until Boone comes through the screen door with two bottles in his hand: tequila and whiskey. 

“Oh no,” Lilly says, laughing against her hand. 

“Absolutely not.”

“You never mix light and dark, comin’ Boone, you know this!”

"Guys, we’re celebratin’,” Boone ignores everyone’s protests and grabs the shot glasses he was keeping for safekeeping in his pockets, apparently. Filling them up with tequila when he asks the bride to be which she wants, a big smile on his face. 

He slides yours and Tyler’s over to you, Tyler shaking his head with amusement written all over his face when you frown playfully and say, “Happy wife, happy life?” 

He sighs and pinches your legs, teasing, and grabs the shot glass. “I’m not helpin’ you off the roof this time.” 

Boone makes a face, and everyone clinks their glasses together, throwing back the liquor.

It’s the first of many shots that has you hours later playing some kind of drinking game that you forget the rules of, which then leads into Boone and Tyler accusing you and Lilly of cheating. Which then leads to the four of you settling it by seeing who can shotgun a beer faster. 

“You got this!” Dani pat’s Lilly on the shoulder like a fighter about to get into the cage. 

Tyler smirks down at you, “you sure ‘bout this, baby?” 

“Don’t call me that. You’re the enemy!” You put your hands on your hips and step up to him. Staring up at him in the most intimidating way you can, even though he could throw you over his shoulder easily in seconds. Your voice low enough for only him to hear you say, “we both know I’m really good with my mouth.” 

His teeth sink into his bottom lip. “Won’t argue with you there.” His thumb comes up and runs against your jaw, “let’s make a bet, alright? You win, I’ll show you how good my mouth is, and if I win, you show me.” 

You smirk, “deal.” 

Once the beers are handed out and the bottoms have been punctured, your thumb presses against the slit, and a glare shot over at Tyler. His grin never leaves his face, even when Dex and Dani yell go, and all of you are putting the bottoms of your beers in your mouths. 

Your gaze locks on his the entire time. Your mouth almost slips when his hand comes up to hold your can to your mouth better, his fingers squeezing, making you swallow faster. Finish faster. You and Lilly cheering when you win. 

A win that Tyler clearly aided in. 

A win he was more than happy to give you. 

And if you didn’t love having his mouth on your pussy, you would probably fight harder against him letting you win. But it’s hard to be mad when later he’s between your thighs, fingers spreading your pussy to give him even more access to your throbbing clit. 

Your hips guide his mouth where you want it, where you need it, and how you want his tongue to move against your clit. How you want his lips to suction against you. Tyler always listening to your body. 

Your fingers are messing up his hair, “why did you let me win?” 

He smiles around your clit, “I think I won.” He bites your thigh before turning his attention back to the part of your body he is fucking his tongue against, eliciting whimpers and moans from your lungs. Your back arching up from the mattress. 

Some nights are chiller than others. 

Some nights, you give your livers a break and hangout around the fire for hours. Dex telling stories, Dani and Lilly rolling Boone’s stash into tight blunts they share amongst those who want it. Boone lying in the grass, listening intently to Dex. You sat in Tyler’s lap, his fingers running along your legs. 

His fingers sometimes find the ring on yours, twisting it around. Making sure it’s still there. He smiles over at you and leans in for a kiss. 

The night is filled with a lot more laughs when three out of the six of you are baked and bring out the s’mores kit’s Lilly bought for each of you. 

“Six is a bit much.” 

“Uh, have you seen the way Boone eats?” 

“She’s got ya there.” Boone agrees as he tears into a burnt marshmallow on the stick in his hand. 

Tyler roasts you one, holds the stick while you happily eat the melted sugar. “Want some?” You ask, his answer comes in the form of placing his mouth over yours and kissing you until your mouth parts and his tongue runs along your bottom lip and into your mouth. 

“When you guys get married, will we see less of this?”

“More probably.”

“Less. They’ll have their own place by then.” 

“Ah, what? We won’t all be shackin’ up together?”

“Boone, they’ll be married.”

“They’re basically married now!” 

You laugh against Tyler’s lips, “ya’ll are losing your invites real fast.” He says turning towards them. 

“What did I do?” Dex asks innocently around a marshmallow. 

Some nights, it gets so hot that not even the cold from the lake can be whipped through the windows by the breeze. The trees still. The humidity heavy and sticky, making you wake up with sweat glistening on your skin.

The two fans blowing towards the bed useless. 

“Tyler.” You whine softly as you push his arm from your midsection. Can’t stand to feel the warm heat of his chest pressing to your back, mixed with the humidity filling the room. 

“Baby,” he says groggily. Putting his arm back around  your waist and pulling you close again.

“You’re going to give me heatstroke. How are you not dying?” You groan, freeing yourself from his grip long enough to remove your tank top and shorts before he grabs you again. More awake now than before. 

“The fans are goin’,” he says softly into your neck.

“They’re useless.” 

He chuckles, “want to go jump in the lake?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He hums, kisses your shoulder, doesn’t care that your body is coated in a sheen of sweat as his lips move to your neck, his hand cupping your cheek. He turns your head back to his. “I can distract you,” he smirks. Hips moving against your ass, his dick hard. 

“You’ll only make it worse,” you breathe when he bites the skin just below your ear. 

“Ya sure?” His other hand slips between the two of you, pushing your panties to the side and pulling himself from his briefs. “I don’t gotta put it in, baby.” He positions his cock so it’s rubbing through your folds, his tip moving against your clit, making you moan into his mouth. 

Ass pushing back against him, “I can make you forget all ‘bout the heat and focus on coming along, my cock.” When the slide of his cock becomes more slick from your pussy growing wetter, he grunts against your mouth. “See, your body has already forgotten about it. It needs somethin’ else.” You whine, wrap your fingers around his wrist. Moan in his mouth, “what’s it need, baby?” The tip of his cock teases with the slightest pressure against your entrance, your body bracing, craving the stretch, only for him to take it again. “What do you need, baby?”

“You,” you breathe. Look at him with hooded eyes, chin wobbling. 

“Say it again,” he grunts.

“I need you, Tyler.” His mouth twitches when he slides inside of you, his eyes watching as your eyes close in ecstasy. Nails digging into his wrist from the stretch of his cock. 

“It’s all yours,” he kisses you. Says your name when he lets out that shaky groan when he’s bottomed out. When your body shudders while trying to adjust. His voice a mumble against your skin when he asks you if you’re ready for him to move, if you can take it, if you want to take it, knows you can take it. Be a good girl, and take what you want, what you need; it’s yours.

He’s yours.

Infinitely. 

Unbound.

Always.

His.

[loycos]

this season we got to see a whole new side to caitlyn's fighting: close counters. something that she used to be so, SO terrible at.

This season, not only did we see her physically fighting twice, but she also went against the 2 most badass fucking terrifying butches on the show: Sevika and Ambessa. and in both times, she WON.

how does that make any sense? is she now an amazing crazy brawler who can kick anyone's ass??? hardly. of course there are factors at play that helped her achieve this other than raw strength (the hextech malfunction and mel's magic, respectively). but just how the hell did she even hold on her own in physical fights with these beasts of women without them literally flattening her in less that 5 seconds?

that's where a whole side of Caitlyn that i don't see discussed often comes in: respect. or at least, lack thereof. Caitlyn is one of the least respected characters in the show, by other characters. i've addressed it in a post before with Jinx, who doesn't want to acknowledge Caitlyn as a human, for many reasons, but it can definitely come across as disrespect. we saw it with Salo on 2 different occasions. Singed did not give a fuck about Caitlyn's threats and basically called her an impatient baby. she is referred to as a "child" or a "girl" more than fucking Isha. if we go back to season 1, seems like her own parents struggled seeing her as an adult that can make her own choices. her coworkers make fun of her dedication. Marcus thought she was an entitled brat. when they first met, VI didn't respect Caitlyn at ALL.

the 3 characters who know Caitlyn and respect her are: Vi, Jayce, and Mel. that's so fucking sad. Caitlyn wants to be acknowledged for who she is and her capabilities, yet she has to fight harder for it than anyone else around, despite her privilege. or maybe because of it. notice how it's something Maddie preys on: "Piltover looks up to you. i look up to you". she knows Caitlyn desperately wants be taken seriously.

back to fighting: if you notice, Sevika and Ambessa are doing the exact same thing here.

during their fight, Sevika looked like she was mostly just pushing Caitlyn around, trying to hold her off, while Cailtyn was fighting for her life.

we know how ruthless Sevika can be when she actually puts effort into fighting, but in this case it looks like she was playing with her food for just a little too long, and then the hextech weapons started freaking out. and that cost her the fight.

with Ambessa it's even clearer. yes, in a way she sees Caitlyn almost like a surrogate daughter, but does she? notice how she calls Mel by her name. she addresses Caitlyn as "child", and she's not even HER child. it's belittling. Ambessa mostly tries to mold her, and she clearly did not expect Caitlyn to be intelligent enough to pick up on it.

the whole fight in episode 9. Ambessa letting the mole she planted in Caitlyn's bed to execute her? not even doing it herself? disrespect. mocking her for being desperate? disrespect.

when they actually fight, Ambessa shows the exact same symptoms Sevika did. maybe its a Noxian ritual or something, to torture your victim before u publicly execute them, but in certain points in the fight she couldve had Caitlyn killed and just chose not to. it's especially noticeable after she gauges Caitlyn's eye, and Caitlyn rests defenseless on the floor, bleeding on 2 fronts. what does Ambessa say? "you fought well, child." if that's not the disrespect of the century i don't know what is. and AGAIN, this cost Ambessa the fight. and her life, in this case.

the saddest part of it all is that Caitlyn is the character that shows respect the most, to almost everyone she meets. regardless of how they treat her.

[bitchy-craft]

PICK A CARD: Uplifting messages from your spirit guides

Hello and welcome to this pick a card! In here I will give you some uplifting messages from your spirit guides. I hope you guys enjoy and find this interesting!

masterpost > paid readings > patreon masterlist

The extended version of this reading is found on my Patreon, the link of which is here.

Pile 1:

There is no one in the world who is as funny and intelligent as you.

People who complain about your personality simply have none of their own.

It is okay to be upset and to be influenced by others’ their words, even if they’re nonsense.

You are going to make it very far in life, we can see it all.

You need to give yourself more credit because you’ve grown so much over the years, god knows why you don’t see it yet.

Slow progress is still progress; no one shoots up and continues to do so for the rest of their lives.

You’ve survived so many bad days so far, it is proof that you are strong and resilient.

It is okay to rest and not be productive every single day. You are no machine.

You are allowed to be proud of yourself for things others might consider normal or unimpressive; they’re impressive for you.

You’ve got a softness the world needs, but at the same time a softness that is too good for this world.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 2:

You do not owe anyone an explanation about your (mental) health.

Crying and feeling emotions don’t make you weak, it makes you real.

Your progress doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s, you are unique so you have unique progress.

Just because you are struggling doesn’t mean you are failing.

You’re allowed to start over as much as you want; eventually you’ll get it.

You make a difference in people’s lives; you help people enjoy life.

You are too much of a perfectionist, be kind to yourself.

It’s okay if you aren’t who you were before, everyone grows and changes. You get shaped by experiences, and the older you get the more you have.

There is still light and hope inside of you; you’re not gone yet, you’re still fighting in there. Keep going.

You don’t have to be productive in order to be of value.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 3:

You don’t owe anyone a version of you that makes them comfortable if it isn’t authentically you.

It’s not all in your head; you’re onto something.

You’re more powerful than you think, stop doubting yourself.

Being soft in a hard world is brave.

You don’t need permission to take care of yourself and listen to your body; do what you need to do.

It is okay to want more. One can be grateful but still wish for more than the bare minimum.

You weren’t made to please everyone around you.

Not all energies are meant to align; sometimes you just don’t get along with others for no reason, and that is alright.

It’s okay to change your mind; it is normal and natural.

You’re not annoying for reassurance, it is human. Voice your needs.

extended reading > paid readings

[loving-barnes]

LOGAN HOWLETT - ANNUAL GALA

A/N: A new smutty one-shot. I tried. I don't think it's good. But let me know what you think.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Avenger female reader

Warning: smut

My stories are written for mature audiences - 18+!

Words: 4200+

Important note: Hugh Jackman!Wolverine (which means he's tall as fuck!)

FULL MASTERLIST | LOGAN HOWLETT MASTERLIST

LOGAN HOWLETT - ANNUAL GALA

Tony Stark had invited Charles Xavier and his X-men to an annual gala he held in New York. There were many reasons for that. The Avengers and X-men worked together during difficult missions and unexpected alien threats. Also, he wanted to prove to regular citizens and high-profile politicians that mutants were not the enemy. This was the perfect opportunity for both groups to strengthen their bonds and work relationships. 

That’s how Logan had found himself, in a fancy all-black tux, standing at the bar with a drink in his hand. His glare could kill anyone who rubbed him the wrong way. He wasn’t fond of these gatherings, and yet here he was. His eyes were searching for any threat, ready to fight anyone who would seem too suspicious to him.

“You didn’t have to come here, you know,” Hank chuckled when he approached Logan at the bar. “Nobody forced you to come here.”

Logan rolled his eyes and sipped on his whisky. “I know how important these things are,” he growled. “Charles wanted me to be here, so I’m here.” 

“Uh-huh,” Hank rolled his eyes. He ordered a drink. When the bartender had given him the drink with shaking hands, he had to chuckle. Some people were spooked by his blue fur and beasty look. “Isn’t it because you are waiting for a certain someone?” 

Logan sighed, defeated. Hank knew damn well that his friend had built some connection with a certain female Avenger. There was no denying he was waiting for her. “You really wanna go there, furball?” He tried to avoid the question. 

“Oh, come on, Logan. Everyone can see how you are smitten with that woman,” he chuckled. “It’s kinda nice.”

“I am not smitten,” he denied. Fuck, but even Charles constantly made comments and teased him about it. “By the way, shut your mouth, McCoy. I don’t want to hear shit from you. You’ve been eyeing that reporter from News 1.” 

That made Hank roar with laughter. He sipped his drink and turned to the crowd, watching people mingle around, talk and drink. “I’m not denying that. She’s pretty, we like to talk about science. You, on the other hand, keep denying everything. But we are not blind.”

Logan wanted to throw the drink at Hank. He would, if they’d be back in the mansion. He opened his mouth to snap back at him. But the energy shifted to the grand stairs. Logan’s eyes travelled there, wanting to know what the fuss was about.

Yelena Belova and Y/N Y/L/N walked down the stairs with linked arms. Both looked beautiful in their evening gowns and perfect hair. Yelena had a green satin dress. Y/N chose a sparkling black dress that hugged her figure perfectly, with a slit on her left thigh. 

Oh, if he could, Logan would drool like a dog. It was one thing when she wore that damn tight suit during missions, but this made him hard instantly. Fuck. Maybe this was the day he would have a heart attack. And she’d be the cause of it.

His blood started to boil when many men gave her attention. Once the women left the stairs, they were surrounded by testosterone. Yelena was a pretty lady, too. He had to admit that. Y/N was something different. She felt like a dream, a secret naughty fantasy that he wanted to come to life. 

“Close your mouth or you’ll swallow a fly,” Hank said. 

Logan drank the rest of the whisky in one go, eyes never leaving Y/N’s figure on the main floor. Hell, even her teammates danced around her. Where did this jealousy come from? 

He thought about the day they met. It was an accidental mission, where the Avengers were also present. While Charles and Captain Amerika talked after the finished mission, Logan’s eyes were focused on the woman who caught his attention. 

Their first interaction was amusing. Y/N tried to save his ass when a group of soldiers surrounded him. Logan was on the ground, guns pointed at every piece of his body when she came out of nowhere, shooting down the soldiers, snapping their necks with bare hands. Her kicks were strong, her punches were deadly. 

Once the threat was eliminated, she turned and looked down at Logan. “Are you done napping?” she asked him with a grin. 

He huffed. “I had it under control,” he huffed. He got up on his legs, the adamantium claws had already retracted back to his skin. Y/N watched it happen like a hawk but didn’t comment on it. 

“Of course. You almost got killed by ten men. Yeah, you had it under control.” 

“I can’t die, princess,” he squinted at her. “It wouldn’t be the first time a firing squad would try to kill me. In the end, it would always just tickle.”

Y/N tilted her head. A smile played on her lips. “Well, if you are done bragging, let’s move. There is still more to come and I would like to be in bed with a book in my hand by ten.” 

That was just their first interaction. And with that, something bloomed between them. Friendship? Or was it something more? Every mission became exciting. He couldn’t keep the dumb smile on his face once he saw her in the field.

Logan ordered another whisky. A grin spread on his lips when he thought back to their first meeting. He learnt her name later. First, it was just her last name. Rogers barked orders when he said it. Her first name came at a different time when they all shared the same coms for better communication. 

“She’s coming here,” Hank warned him, which brought Logan back to reality. 

With every step, he could notice more details about her. The material of the dress, how deep her cleavage was, how her breasts popped out, the red lips, the earrings, the fact that she was like a fucking angel. All she needed was wings. And, she was coming to him alone. Fucking finally. 

“Wolverine,” she purred his name. “I can’t believe you are here. Who put a gun to your head and forced you to attend this magical evening?” There was a teasing smile on her lips. 

Don’t look at her tits, he thought. Don’t look at the tits that want to spill out of that dress. Fuck!

“I heard there was an open bar,” he said. “So I decided to come and drink Stark’s liquor.” 

She licked her lips, suppressing her chuckle. “No other reason?” I raised a brow. “See your friends, swoon ladies or play pool with the boys?”

See me?

He kicked in the rest of the drink and put the glass on the bar. His eyes noticed the crowd gathering in the middle of the hall. A slow music started to play, inviting everyone to dance. Logan’s hand reached forward. It was now or never. “Or I came here to dance with ya, princess.” 

One second and her hand slipped into his. “Oh, so you dance, you say? Lead the way.” 

Logan proudly walked her into the crowd of dancing people. One hand rested on her lower back, other held her right hand. He knew what he was doing. After all, this was the first dance of his life. Y/N was impressed by that. They started to dance to the string music. 

He sniffed her sweet perfume, the shampoo she used. That woman would be the death of him, Logan was sure of it. They kept dancing, not talking. His eyes were on her, locked in a gaze. He had been close to her before but not like this. She was like a magnet, pulling him closer to her. Her lips inviting, her touch soft. 

The more he looked at her, the more he wanted to spill out what was going through his mind. “You look beautiful tonight,” he admitted. “Fuck, you look beautiful every time I see ya.”

She chuckled. “Even in my suit during a fight?” she raised a brow. 

“Hell yes,” he nodded eagerly. “Princess, when you walk to the field in that suit, fighting fearlessly, I have trouble focusing. Once you did a trick with your thighs, choking an enemy with them, I almost lost it there.” 

Y/N’s hand left his. She brushed it up his arm and rested it on his shoulder. “Oh, so that’s the effect I have on you, eh?” she teased the Canadian. “Care to say more?”

Logan’s hand joined the other on her lower back. He pressed her closer to his body. The height difference was evident between them. Even with her high heels, she was shorter than him. “Fishing for compliments?” 

“From you? Yes,” she smiled. 

He moved closer to her, leaning. In his mind, he was ready to press his lips against her. He needed to kiss her like he needed to breathe. This was his chance to taste her.

A third hand landed on Y/N’s shoulder. “Y/N, Logan,” they heard someone say their names. The moment was ruined. He wasn’t able to kiss her like he wanted. On the other hand, he wanted to slash anyone who interrupted them.

With a growl, he pushed away, eyes finding Captain Rogers, accompanied by Hank. “What?” he asked them grumpily. He didn’t care it was rude. They ruined something special. 

“We need you in the conference room,” said Steve. “We have a situation.” 

Y/N sighed, stepping away from Logan’s hold. “What’s going on?” she switched to a work mode. She gave Hank a polite smile to acknowledge his presence. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerted us about Trash industries,” said Steve. “Come, we’ll show you.” 

“Charles?” Logan’s eyes shifted to Hank. 

“Already with Stark,” he said. 

All four of them walked together from the grand hall. Yelena and Sam joined them on the stairs. The blonde woman was yapping about being taken away from a cute woman and a fine drink. 

“I just fucking got here. Already some shit is happening,” she kept cursing under her nose.

Logan kept close to Y/N. He missed her body being so close to his. He hoped they'd be able to continue. The conversation was intriguing. He remained by her side while walking through the hallway and to the upper levels of the compound. 

Her fingers brushed against his hand. It wasn’t an accident. No. Her fingers purposefully stroked the top of his hand. Instantly, his fingers moved. His pinkie hooked around hers for a second. It was a mutual sign. 

The group entered the conference room, meeting the rest of the Avengers and Charles. One by one they took a seat except Logan. He stayed on his feet, a step away from Y/N’s seat. A hologram appeared in the middle of the table. 

“We got a new location on Trask Industries, but this time, these fuckers had decided to work with some Hydra scums,” Tony started to talk, showing footage they managed to get from satellites. “Or so it appears. we are not quite sure.” 

“The public wouldn’t like that,” Charles commented. “They try to present themselves as a serious robotic corporation. Why would they jeopardise their public status if they start working with a public enemy?”

“That is trying to hunt down mutants and annihilate them,” Y/N commented. “Don’t want to imagine what’s going on behind closed doors. It can’t be nice.”

“Is it really Hydra?” Natasha asked. 

“It appears,” Steve chimed in. “Or something adjacent.” 

“So what? We’re just gonna sit here and wait for more details?” Logan scoffed. “The longer we wait, the more work they get done. I say to strike and kill them all.” 

Y/N licked her lower lip and grinned under her nose.

“We need a strategy, Logan,” said Charles.

“Not everyone can get sliced and heal with a snap of fingers,” Tony added sarcastically. “Chill, wolvie. Besides, we’ve sent Vision to have a look at the place. He’s a droid, a powerful one made out of vibranium.” 

Y/N turned her head to Tony. “That doesn’t mean he’s indestructible in this world,” she frowned. “New weapons are being developed every day to destroy mutants, to stop the Avengers. I hope Wanda went with him. They are stronger together.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Of course, she’s with him. Do you think I’d be able to stop her? I’m not crazy.” 

“Trask Industries are still working on the damn sentinel program,” Hank stepped into the conversation. “With Hydra’s help, who knows what they’ll be able to create together. The thought alone is scary.” 

Tony ended the hologram. Steve took the word. “I know we are supposed to be here at the gala, but I suggest a good night's sleep and be ready. If you’d like, we have spare rooms in here for you. You can stay here for the night if we need to leave.” 

When Steve said that, Y/N gently turned her head to the side, wondering what Logan would say to that. 

“I’ll gladly accept the offer,” Hank smiled. “At least I’d get to talk to Bruce for a little while and have a look at his labs. I’ll also alert the others at school.” 

“Howlett?” Tony raised a brow. 

Logan’s eyes moved from Y/N’s exposed shoulders to Hank and then to Tony. “Sure, why not? At least I don’t have to drive from place to place.” 

“I guess we are staying,” Charles smiled. “Thank you for your accommodation.” 

The meeting ended. Natasha and Yelena went back to the gala. Y/N talked to Hank for a few more minutes while he was waiting for Bruce. Steve and Tony took Charles back to the grand hall. Logan waited outside the conference room. Because no one was present, he took a cigar out of his jacket and lit it up. Three puffs later Y/N stepped out of the conference room with Hank. 

“Already smoking?” Hank sighed. 

“So what? Got a problem with that, bub?” 

“Always the charmer,” Hank shook his head. “Nice evening, Y/N. I’ll see you later,” he said once he saw Banner approaching the group. 

The moment Logan and Y/N were alone, they faced one another. “Are you heading back to the gala?” Logan asked. 

She hummed, thinking about it. “I’m not feeling like going back there. Honestly, those fancy parties are not my cup of tea. Wanna grab a drink in our lounge room? Stark has the fanciest shit there. You’re gonna love it.” 

Logan smiled at her. “Lead the way, princess.”

. . .

The lights were dimmed in the lounge room. Logan was nursing an expensive drink Y/N poured him. He made faces, eyed the liquid, humming and nodding. “This is some good shit,” said after a while. “Wealthy people can afford stuff like this. Also, Charles prohibited any alcohol at school.” 

Y/N chuckled, sitting in an armchair with her drink. “It makes sense. It’s a school. Of course, he doesn’t want any alcohol there. Does he let you smoke?” 

He huffed. “That he ain’t gonna do shit about it. No matter how much he threatens to turn me into a six-year-old girl.” 

“Aw, that’s adorable. I’d like to see that,” she put a wide smile on her face as she sipped her drink. “Maybe I’d brush your hair, put pink ribbons in it.”

Logan kicked the drink in and stood up from the couch. His eyes noticed a few photos around the place - from parties and group shots to professional photos of the team. They were like a family. What mostly caught his attention was Y/N. She was an Avenger, part of a superhero team. He huffed. Fuck, she was a damn Avenger. 

“What?” she questioned. A second later, she was by his side, eyes on the same photo of the team. “That was after Ultron almost annihilated the whole world. We celebrated our survival. Stark puked into his helmet,” she laughed. 

“Disgusting,” he frowned. “I must say, you look like one happy family,” he commented. 

Y/N hummed. “Maybe,” she shrugged. “I love them all to death.”

“But?” he raised a brow. 

She shrugged. “Will I sound ungrateful if I say I hate being in the spotlight?” she made a face. “I can’t do photoshoots, the damn galas and shit forever. I hate attention. I’d rather be like you.”

“Me?”

She nodded. “Teaching mutant kids, living life out of the spotlight. Even though it’s not easy, in my eyes, it’s simpler. Not have to deal with this shitshow.” 

Logan’s fingers found her hair. He brushed them away from her face. His mouth opened, ready to say something - anything - but instead, he grabbed her by the neck, pulled her closer to his body and crashed his lips against her. It was like an invincible string, pulling them together. He couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t slow, gentle. Quite the opposite. Logan’s tongue explored her mouth, tasting every corner he could reach. It was hungry, possessive. One hand held her tightly around her waist while the other slipped from her neck, down her back until it reached her ass, taking as much of her cheek into his palm. 

Both arms wrapped around his neck. A moan escaped her lips when the kisses moved to her jaw and down to her exposed neck. 

“I need to have you,” Logan growled between the kisses. “Fuck, pretty baby.” 

“My room,” she sighed. “We can’t give Stark or Rogers a heart attack if we do it here. Although, it would be funny.” 

Logan pushed away, staring into her eyes. He went back for her lips, only to bite her lower lip, pulling at it. “Lead the way, princess,” he growled. “And hurry, or I will take you here, where anyone can see us.”

Y/N grabbed him by the hand, taking him away from the lounge room. Logan moved her to his side and kept a hand on her smaller back. He needed to feel her, to be sure she was real and not a damn dream.

It took them a good three minutes to get to her room on the upper levels. The moment she closed the door, her hands were on Logan’s jacket, taking it off, letting it fall on the floor. Both of them stepped on it, not caring. His lips smashed against hers, all tongue and teeth. Grunts and moans echoed around them as they moved closer to the bed. 

“I wanna rip this dress off,” he said, hands grabbing both of her covered breasts into his palms, squeezing them. 

Y/N undid his tie. “No,” she chuckled, unbuttoning his white shirt. “Too fucking expensive. Here,” her fingers quickly found the zipper on her left side. She pulled it down and the dress loosened. That was Logan’s sign to pull down on it. 

“Fuck, princess,” his eyes rolled when she stood there in nothing but a black lacy thong. Her breasts were on full display, nipples stiff, just for his eyes. “Fucking perfect.” 

Before he could latch onto her hardened nipples, she forced the white button-up down off his body, hand grabbing onto his muscles, fingers brushing over some of the hair on his chest. She stood on her tiptoes to find his lips in another hungry kiss. 

His tongue dove into her mouth, caressing hers in the process. He felt her hands moving down to his belt, unfastening it. “Impatient?” his voice hoarse.

She pushed him onto her bed. He fell with a loud thud. The adamantium bones almost broke it in the process. “Shit, sorry,” she gasped, forgetting about his weight. But instantly, she climbed on top of him. Y/N pressed her breasts onto his chest as she needed to kiss him again and again. 

Logan switched it up, rolling them so she was under his body. “Now, let me ravish you before I give you my cock,” he said, lips already trailing kissed down her chest, over her breasts. His mouth took a nipple into his mouth, sucking on it, biting it. Her other nipple was teased by his thumb and index finger. 

“Fuck, Logan,” she whimpered. 

His mouth then travelled south. His tongue left a wet trail down her stomach to the hem of her thong. He kneeled on the edge of the bed, taking her leg up in the air, kissing it from the thigh up to her ankle. “I should leave these heels on, darlin’. So fucking sexy. Fuck, and I will.” 

Y/N huffed. “Logan, please, I want your mouth on me.” 

“Ah, already begging. I love it,” he grinned. He put her leg on his shoulder. His fingers brushed down down her leg to her clothed pussy. With two fingers he brushed her over her hidden folds and clit. She practically purred. “Pretty sound.” 

“Come on, Logan, do something.” Y/N was becoming frustrated. He kept teasing her, rubbing circles over her clit. “Don’t be a fucking tease. Not now.” 

A dark laughter escaped his throat. “Patience, darlin’.” He moved the thong to the side, exposing her pussy to the cold air. He saw her clench around nothing. “What a pretty pussy, princess. So wet and ready for me.” And he buried two fingers inside her heat. 

Y/N moaned once his two thick fingers penetrated her. “Shit. Ah.” 

He pulled them out and put them straight into his mouth, tasting her. “Delicious,” hummed. “I’m gonna feast on you. Not now. Now, I need to feel you around my cock, princess.” 

Logan grabbed her thong and pulled it off her legs, leaving her completely exposed to his eyes. He made sure to leave those heels on. “Fucking gorgeous.” He stood up to get rid of his pants. 

The moment he unzipped them, she knew he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. “Shit, Logan, commando?” she raised a brow. His length was already hard, ready for attention. The tip of his cock was angry red, already leaking precum. 

She was ready to reach for him, take his cock into her mouth and guide it into her mouth. Logan was faster. He pushed her back on the bed, shaking his head. “No, no, darlin’. I’m gonna fuck you now. And next time, I will let you have a taste of me.” 

“Next time?” she smiled. 

Logan leaned closer, his head above hers. “You think this a one-time thing? Oh, pretty girl. No, no.” He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. 

“Good,” she gave him a bright smile. 

He pumped his length a few times before he positioned his cock to her opening. Slowly, he pushed inside until her hungry pussy took him all in. He cursed, groaned when her walls clenched around him. Once he was buried to the hilt, Y/N sank her nails into his chest, leaving red trails down to his belly button. They immediately disappeared, healed.

“Feel so good, princess. So tight,” he moaned as he started to move. At first slow, enjoying every stroke, watching her face like a hawk. He loved how her eyes rolled, how she gasped for air with each thrust or how she squeezed her breasts. She was fucking perfect. 

His thrusts fastened. He watched her breasts bounce as she kept fucking her. His grunts were louder, more vocal. Logan’s right hand found her neck. He wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing it. And that move made her clench hard around his cock. “Shit, Y/N,” he called her name. “Keep doing that and I will fucking cum inside you.”

Logan’s other hand sneaked between their bodies and found her clit. He started to rub it slowly, changing the movements. 

“P-please,” she gasped. “I need to cum, Logan.”

He smiled. “Yeah, pretty girl? Gonna cum around my cock?”

Y/N nodded, moaning and shaking under him. “Please, please,” she begged. 

“Come on, princess. Cum around my cock. Squeeze me with your sweet pussy,” he demanded. “Wanna feel you when you cum. Shit… Ah… Fuck…”

A few more flickers of his finger was what she needed to reach her peak. Her mouth formed a perfect O, her voice suddenly gone when the wave of pleasure hit her body like a train. Her back arched as he helped her through her orgasm. 

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he grunted. “Milk me dry.” 

A few more thrusts and he spilt inside her. His hot cum painted her walls. He growled like an animal, trying to prolong his climax with every movement. His body shook and then he stopped, panting. 

His eyes found hers. There was a post-orgasmic haze in them. A smile played on her lips. She was perfect, beautiful. Logan quickly leaned down and stole a kiss from her.

“Damn, princess,” he chuckled. “Such a good girl.” 

Those words made her clench around his length again. He grinned. “You like it when I call ya a good girl? Good to know.” Slowly, he pulled her semi-hard cock out of her and rolled next to her, catching his breath. 

Y/N rolled to him, resting her leg over his body. Her fingers drew patterns on his chest, moving through the hair delicately. “This was fun,” she smiled. “It’s been a while since I had a good orgasm.” 

He raised a brow. “Next time, I’ll make you cum on my fingers,” he grabbed her hand and pressed his lips on her fingers. “Then on my tongue and around my cock,” he hummed. “I will fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

She grinned. “Is that a promise?” 

“Fuck yeah, princess.” 

[ocularose]

no surgery/surgeries trans men are real men. And they're actually stronger than diamonds for putting up with:

dehumanizing sexualization/objectification (ie ppl that say 'i love men's tits and boypussy' but doesn't fight for our rights/fight against disrespect and bullying directed at trans men)

ppl implying having 'female parts = not REAL men', treating them like their lack of transition goals is 'just a phase' or straight up bad- somehow- for any reason (thats transphobia)

homophobia coming from all sides. oh they like fem people? labelled a lesbian without their consent. they like mascs? 'dont go around TRICKING REAL gay men into being straight!!1' ace or aro? well unfortunately typical ace and arophobia thats still normalized.

And of course having to deal with REAL LIFE BIGOTS as well as internet trans(andro)phobes, some of them potentially being people they thought they could trust. Being misgendered likely often or/and othered, bullied, harassed and worse, especially if they're people of color. And on top of it all, being driven away from the queer community and safe spaces because they're men.

And so, SO much more things that, yes, many other trans people experience obviously! but it's less talked about and personally, ive never seen transfems attacking other transfems, while ive seen the contrary happen! SEVERAL times! This shouldn't happen to anyone, anytime, ever! Transidentity is about acceptance, of oneself and others- including ones different than you! Basic human decency!!

[timmydraker]

Tim hates Damian, but not for the reasons people think.

It did start as him thinking of Damian as rude, violent and unworthy of something as bright and joyful as the mantle of Robin. Tim might be better than most rich folk can be, but he’s still human and was very clearly ignorant of Damian’s lifestyle and culture, and I don’t just mean being an Assassin.

There’s no arguing against the arrogant way he sometimes talks about Damian and the League even if later adaptations are lighter with it, and the only reason it’s not a big thing is that he actually learns and pulls his head out.

Tim is an asshole but he’s not stupid, he’ll learn even when he doesn’t want to, it just takes some time.

But once he started to try and see Damian differently, around the time the younger Robin started to grow more into his role and adapt to the American world, Tim was confronted by something that make him almost insecure.

Because while Tim had to overcome some of his faults, Damian did something so mind numbingly difficult.

He overcame his entire childhood and taught nature.

Tim once used Damian’s blatant disregard for victims comfort as a reason he shouldn’t be Robin, and now as Damian is becoming an adult he’s going out of his way to learn how to help people and not shut save them.

Tim would often point out how Damian never trusted anyone no matter how much proof they gave to earn it, only really putting full faith in Dick and Bruce, but then he’s putting himself I situations that make him squirm just to give people a chance. But then it’s Tim who has the most contingency plans because he firmly believes even your most trusted allies can betray you.

Tim hated how Damian was so arrogant and self centred and then he’s catching himself lying to partners just because he doesn’t think he did anything wrong even though they are clearly upset.

Tim had to work against his own body to be able to fight, changing his untrained body into a tool to be used, but Damian didn’t have to do that because his body was ready to fight from the moment he was made.

Damian grows, he becomes someone dangerous and threatening but someone equally as kind and compassionate, strange ways of showing it be damned. Damian wants to be a doctor, wants to help people o ur side of the suit, which just doesn’t make sense because Tim said at the start that all Damian will ever be is violence and cruelty and yet-

Tim is admittedly jealous.

He wants to say he’s someone great and strong, and he is really, but Damian…

Damian is more of a Robin than Tim.

They both still did good, great things and Tim will always be a good Robin, it’s just that Damian has done so much more in regards to himself. He’s grown and changed and went from being someone Tim saw as just bad to someone more patient and willing to do the hard work big for the good and it just doesn’t make sense because Tim-

Tim has become bitter and angry and every internal monologue he has is filled with venomous words and irritation. He’s making plans he claims he won’t act on, but who thinks up so many ways to permanently stop someone with violent, unethical and just inhumane means without batting an eye?

Tim isn’t hesitating when making ‘world had ended’ plans, when making last ditch plans that involve killing people and he’s stop pulling punches with certain groups because they come back to life anyway so who cares if they die in a fight?

And it’s so ironic, because for a time when he was first introduced to the family, Damian saw Tim as the goal. It was Tim who was most trusted by Batman, who was allied with pretty much every hero team, who was given free reign and his own cases, and it was Tim who his mother warned him would be in his way of Robin.

But Damian stopped being so eager to replace and started to want to be his own person. His own Robin and eventually, his own everything entirely.

And now it’s Tim who is being told to calm down, to stand down, to not be so defensive.

It’s Damian whose defying Bruce now, whose moving on from Robin and spreading a whole new pair of wings when even Tim can’t let go be cause he has to do better, right? Because if Damian, cold blooded and aggravating Damian, can become someone else and good then he should be too.

Yet even with good friends and a good rep, he feels like something lesser.

And doesn’t that just suck.